He ventured downwards.
His fingers slid over her mound and slid between her cunt lips and she cried aloud, shocking herself. In one quick motion his fingers were inside her, thrusting deep. His skin was hot, nearly burning, and his touch seemed to brand her from the inside out. The molten sensation seemed the perfect complement to the greater experience she was living. His freshness, his honesty, were changing her – indelibly engraving the changes that the day had made deep within her body.
Leonie’s thoughts, only peripherally lucid in the maelstrom of the moment, took the changes that were being burnt into her even further back, to that sunny day when she’d met Jenny that first time.
But Hallie was lost in sensation, and barely acknowledged the existential musings of her alter ego. All she could think of was the man who lay with her, whose name she didn’t know, whose face she’d never seen.
The sensations that flooded her with his touch blinded her to everything. All Hallie knew was that her body was aflame and that all too soon she was going to erupt.
Then his mouth brushed against the softness of her mound and his fingers found her clit and pleasure swept through her body.
Slowly she came back to the world and became aware of his lips settling soft, almost loving kisses against her clit and folds, of his fingers massaging her thighs and her hips, easing her way to earth. But while she would have expected that languor would have infused her after such an intense orgasm, instead Hallie found herself enthused by his gentle touches, new arousal moving through her, subtle this time but no less powerful.
All too aware that her lover hadn’t come, Hallie found his penis and slid her hand over it. Pre-come wet her palm and she used it to lubricate her motions. He throbbed in her fingers and she grinned to have him in her power. She wasn’t a bad hand with such manipulation, or so she’d been told, but it still surprised her when her mystery lover began to arch into her touch and his mouth clenched tight.
She bent forward once more to taste him, and this time when his hands settled on her shoulders he didn’t push her away. His fingers dug into her flesh, the tight grip pleasing her and egging her on. She lathed the head of his cock slowly, gently with her tongue, tasting him, then swept her tongue around him before closing her mouth over him.
He groaned. The sound sent shivers across her, as did the increasing pinch of his grip on her shoulders. She would wear the badges of his passion later, a reminder, and yet another brand of sorts.
Then he lost patience, his hands moving and turning her, taking control.
“Are you ready?” he asked, poised over her.
Gentlemanly. Polite.
Alien feelings to the state Hallie found herself in.
She spread her legs wide. “Please. Now!”
He complied, sliding into her wetness without a motion lost. She was dripping so much that he had no trouble entering her fully, and then he began a rhythm that set Hallie’s heart racing. Thrust after thrust, his mouth peppering her chin and lips and sharing kiss after kiss. One hand slid down to her knee and Hallie opened her legs even more, taking him in deeper, as deep as she could. Their eyes met, she gazed into the darkness of his pupils, so large they seemed to take up the entirety of his eye.
He grunted, and a bead of sweat fell on her lip, and then she was coming again, wave after wave of pleasure rocking her.
Her orgasm seemed to spur him on. In his enthusiasm his mask slipped slightly, one cheekbone revealing itself, a trickle of sweat rolling down. She looked away from the unexpected nakedness and pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat, savouring the power and pressure of him over and inside her.
At first she didn’t realize that he was coming, that he’d slowed in his thrusts. His body clenched against hers and his breath whooshed in her ear and then he slowly fell against her, boneless and heavy for a long moment before he slid off her and to the sweat-streaked purple sheets.
Eyes tracing the contours of his body, Hallie realized that the experience she’d had in her mystery man’s arms was one she would never, ever forget.
And she didn’t know whether to be scared, or elated.
“So,” she turned against his arm and looked up at him, feeling languid and beautiful and genuinely rumpled. “Do I get to know your name?”
He seemed just as mysterious, the mask still in place, even though they’d been so naked before each other – both physically and, Hallie liked to think, somehow beyond that. And, looking at him, she somehow knew that that mystery was part of his freedom, and something that he wasn’t going to give up.
“No,” he said, confirming her conviction.
Hallie lay back, digesting the blithe refusal. She smiled. This man clearly had no shame in his flat refusal to name himself, no hesitation. Seeing his blunt honesty, where outside in the “real” world social niceties would have dictated his response, struck a chord of longing she’d never acknowledged. She wanted that honesty, wanted to be able to rely on society’s polite lies – or not, as she felt moved to do so. Realization that she could as much as he did crashed on her heels and sent a thrill of eagerness through her.
He moved, dislodging her gently.
“My time will be up shortly.” He pulled on his pants, dark and sleek, and his matching front-closure shirt.
Following his lead, Hallie dressed swiftly, pulling her dress up around her shoulders. She glanced around the enclosure, found nothing reflective to check her make-up in, and abandoned the idea.
“I don’t know what to say now,” Hallie said.
He smiled. “You don’t have to say anything. We had a good time.” Her fingers brushed her wrist, and Hallie watched his mouth tighten momentarily.
Eyeing her, he cocked his head and smiled. “You never know, maybe there will be another meeting in our future.”
“I’d like that,” she said, tasting the flavour of the truth on her lips.
He stepped between the screens and disappeared, leaving Hallie alone in the silence of the enclosure. With a breath, and a final look at the silken covers scattered on the low-lying bed, she followed him out.
Raine found her some time later. She’d explored nooks and crannies, glimpsed things she’d never have thought of under other circumstances, and generally enjoyed herself.
“It’s time,” Raine said.
“Already?” Hallie reluctantly tore her eyes from a singular group of people unabashed in their sexual enjoyment.
The walk back through the stairwells was like the old fairy tale of falling through the rabbit hole, but instead of falling into wonder she was emerging from it. The realization made each step painful, and the closing of the hotel-room door behind them echoed in the silence, accentuating the sudden funereal atmosphere. The mirror over the dresser reflected limp feathers and smeared make-up. It felt more authentic to be Hallie than to contemplate becoming that other woman once again. She slid her hands down the slick fabric of her skirt, touched the crunch of lace that edged it.
“Do I just put her in a box now?”
“Yes. For a time.”
Raine watched as she stripped off the trappings of Hallie’s existence, then whisked the clothing efficiently away. She paused, seeming to consider, then spoke. “I knew Jenny very well.”
Leonie turned swiftly, eyes probing, but Raine watched her steadily. Whatever may have happened between Raine and Jenny, it was between them, and it was going to stay that way.
“She was herself with you. You may have only known her in the strictures of the interface, but she did want more.”
Dressing automatically, Leonie processed Raine’s words. “Thank you,” she said finally.
As she slid the last button of her jacket into its buttonhole, she felt a tingle in her arm, and then a sting. Her hand flew to the spot, but it wasn’t an itch to be scratched or a topical burn that could be soothed with a touch.
“It will hurt,” Raine said. “Just as it does when it’s blocked. But it’s fast.”
Even as she s
poke, tongues of fire licked across Leonie’s body, and then the interface was back.
“So what do I do now?” Leonie finally asked.
“Go home,” Raine said. “Go back to your life and live it. And one day you’ll get an invitation. Or rather, Hallie will.”
Excitement soared through her. Her hands shook. “And then?”
“That’s it,” Raine said simply. “You’ll come.” She smiled. “We all do.”
And Leonie knew that she would.
Raine walked to the door, opened it for Leonie in a clear gesture.
Leonie stepped unwillingly out. She went to the elevator, rode down the floors to the hotel lobby, seeing none of the city’s lights sprawled before her. Then she stepped into the mix of people – of signals and notifications – that only a day before had been her whole world. Now it seemed like so much noise she had to navigate through, so much information to be sorted, so much personal detail to be absorbed or rejected.
Her breath caught in her throat as she caught sight of a pair of dark eyes, and the familiar curve of a smile. The man winked with a tiny, almost infinitesimal motion.
And she remembered his words, “maybe another meeting”. Hugging the possibility to her – hugging the night to her, even though it had been lived through Hallie’s shoes and not her own – Leonie headed towards the main doors, and went out into the night.
Rooftop Hunger
Aimee Herman
As an accountant at a semi-profitable advertising company, I see everything in numbers: from the distance between moon to star formation to the percentage of time I think about having sex with Claira divided by the times she humours me. We met on the second day of the third week of the ninth month of the year at a fall solstice party. I generally don’t go to things like that – themed parties. It’s enough to just offer beer and an avalanche of chips and dip. However, at the last minute I decided to go. I noticed Claira soon after arriving, with her dark blonde, messy hair and lips all red like medium-rare steak. She was wearing what every woman in New York wears nowadays: black. Black stockings with a short black skirt, black shirt with about one-and-three-quarter inches of cleavage, and black heels, which she wound up taking off sometime during our flirtations.
After asking the quintessential getting-to-know-you questions such as what do you do and what neighbourhood do you live in, we walked up one flight of stairs to the rooftop, which was surprisingly empty. In the seventeen steps from the stairs to the door leading onto the roof, we independently and silently decided to fuck. That night, Claira and I fucked in a way I never have with any girl. It was messy like her hair. We didn’t ask permission or hold back; we barely kissed. It was primal.
The air was warm enough not to interfere with Claira’s blatant disrobing of black. Her breasts were larger than I had approximated, but small enough to fit inside my mouth. The moon was off-kilter, so a summary of her nipples: colour, diameter, length when erect could not be seen. Once completely nude, she began to pull, lift, unbutton, push everything off me, leaving me just as bare. Then, we slammed into each other like drunken automobiles into brick walls. (There was a reason I had bruises on my body the next morning.)
I reached towards my pants, pulled out a condom and quickly put it on. Everything was sped up. My dick in her hands, which she led towards and into her pussy. Her breasts in my mouth, sucked and lathered. Her hips rocking from side to side, to invisible music or anticipation. We balanced against the weight of each other, standing sometimes on one leg or on our knees. I remember lifting her up with her thighs wrapped around me, ankles crossed behind my back. I was as far inside her as I could be and yet she kept whispering, go in, keep pushing in. Then we fell.
I didn’t feel the impact until the morning, of course. In that moment, we were acrobats with the concrete roof floor acting as our trampoline. I think my dick may have remained inside her even after the impact of our fall, or maybe my dick frighteningly fell out. She pulled off the condom without any sense of delicateness or caution. Then, she dived down, her body curving into my crotch. Claira sucked at my dick, one hand offering her balance, the other massaging my inner thighs and over my balls. She may have even grown a third hand because there was a moment she was almost inside my anus, fingering and playing with its known sensitivity. Her teeth were well-mannered and careful not to scrape away my length or ability to enjoy myself. She swirled her tongue all around me, behind, beneath, on the sides, and when my dick was pounding, practically exercising a full-blown erection, she moved onto my balls that were swollen and grateful for her attention.
Claira had the energy of a speed addict; she never lost momentum or focus. As she sucked and licked, my fingers pulled at her hair, pressed down on her head, and sometimes reached below to pinch a nipple or squeeze a breast. Without notice, she leapt off my dick and threw it inside her again. Much later on in our relationship, she told me that she never had unprotected sex and that maybe a part of her knew we’d be together. When she told me this, I remained completely silent, knowing I had been unsheathed many times before.
At this point, I may have been on top of her or maybe we twisted, taking turns being on top or writhing from the side. I wrapped around her from behind; she put her hands on the floor and did something like a handstand with legs in the air and pussy reaching up to my hips. It’s like we were doing a photo shoot for some Kama Sutra book. I only wish someone had been up there on that rooftop hiding, watching, because we deserved the applause.
Claira and I have been together now for one year, four months and thirteen days. Our escapades on that rooftop seem like a mythical tale now. That one night was exactly that: one night. It’s not like we haven’t had sex since; our sex life is healthy in comparison to my friends’. We fuck once a week, sometimes more, rarely less. Unfortunately, our sex is so demure, it could be turned into a children’s book with illustrations and pop-ups. I think about that rooftop more often than I should. I compare. I mourn. It remains as fodder for my own masturbatory lacklustre adventures.
“I’m picking up some last-minute things for the party,” Claira says.
It is the last day of the year, and we decided about a month ago to have some friends over to celebrate. Again, I hate themed parties, and New Year’s Eve definitely ranks up there. People start boasting drunken gratitude letters, the midnight kiss, and that ridiculous champagne toast. Claira is taking control over most of the night’s necessities, which includes booze and miniature food meant to curb nauseous drunk bellies.
“Anything else you want to add to my list?”
I shake my head and kiss her absent-mindedly. Kisses are like breaths at this stage of our relationship; they are often, but barely conscious.
“Hey, wait,” I interrupt. I grab Claira’s waist and pull her onto my lap. I begin kissing her neck and sucking her.
“What are you doing? I’ve got so much to do right now, Peter. People are coming in like, three hours.”
I let go of her and for a brief second, an image from the rooftop splatters against my mind: I am on my back, leaning up to watch her suck me off and she crawls up towards my face with her whole body, stopping just above my mouth. Her crotch lined up perfectly to my gasping mouth. Then, she slowly lowered herself down and I licked and lathered away at her sweaty, turned-on pussy.
“OK if I use your metro card?” she asks, while simultaneously removing it from my wallet. “I should be back in about an hour.”
It is thirty-five minutes past the tenth hour of the last day of this year. I am not as drunk as I’d like to be and we are slowly running out of good booze. Harry left to pick up more from the bodega a block down. Claira is across the room throwing her head back with laughter and I am pretending to enjoy a conversation about the anticipation of Super Bowl.
“. . . doesn’t even matter who plays nowadays, but I’m hoping the Broncos make it. What’d you think about the plays from . . .”
And I’m lost.
“You drunk yet?” Claira is sudden
ly beside me. Her customary blanched cheeks are now light pink in colour.
“No,” I smile. “Or yes. Hard to say. Not drunk enough to be interested in this,” I whisper, gesturing to my boys.
“Everyone seems to be having a good time, don’t you think?”
“Uh-huh. Are you?”
She nods. “Well, we made it through another year.” Claira kisses me gently as though I am her grandfather with fragile skin. Then, she is off towards the short-skirted bunch of women in the corner.
In my brief interlude with Claira, the conversation has switched from football to resolutions.
“Every year I say I’m gonna become a runner,” says Greg.
“I’m hoping to get laid more,” Kyle pipes in.
“I’m OK with the amount of sex I’m getting,” I say. “I just wish it were slightly more adventurous.”
“Whatcha sayin’, man? Claira not rooftop sexing anymore?”
In my close circle of friends, the term “rooftop sex” has become like a verb. It translates as any kind of sex that goes beyond the traditional mount, thrust and come. Location doesn’t matter, but it is almost impossible to rooftop sex on a bed or even in a bedroom. Among our group, it has occurred in a few bar/restaurant bathrooms, a teacher’s lounge, a university library, and a movie theatre. None of those locations had anything to do with me or Claira. I may have been the originator of rooftop sex, but my role unfortunately ended there.
“You guys know how much I love Claira.”
“She’s awesome, man,” says Silvio.
“We just don’t—”
“Kate barely sucks me off anymore,” slurs Kyle. “How ’bout we toast to our women rooftop sexing us in the new year?”
Our bottles clink and we shove them towards our mouths, slinging back room-temperature beer.
The music suddenly gets turned up and I notice Claira pushing her hips aggressively from left to right. The first time I watched her dance, I got an immediate hard-on. Tonight is no different.
“I fucking love this song!” Claira screams.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 11 Page 39
