The Composition Book

by Jones, E. B.

  “What did you have in mind?” I say.

  I watch as he pulls out his cock. It bursts into full view. The object of my desire. His hand slowly curls around the head, and he moves his hand up and down the shaft excruciatingly slowly. His technique fascinates me. The deliberate nature. Like traversing a narrow mountain ledge one careful step at a time. Coming close to the brink without falling into the abyss. I never see my husband masturbate. It's something we hide from one another. I know that he does it, but I try not to think about his fantasies. His porn. His hurried movements behind the bathroom door.

  “Please, touch your clit,” he says. “Do it the same way you do it when no one is watching at home. When it's late at night and you're by yourself on the couch in the living room, feeling the warmth of the wood stove and getting lost in your fantasies.”

  I take one finger and place it gently between my legs. Soon another finger joins it in its dance, moving to a secret and silent symphony. Rising and falling in time. Largo. I close my eyes and exhale, my breath heavy like fog. Block out the classroom. Focus only on his voice.

  “Fuck your sloppy wet cunt with your other hand,” he says.

  I willingly take his direction. Accept the additional vulgarity for what it is. An increase in voltage. A transition to something more raw. I put two fingers up my cunt. I feel the muscles clench around them. I want him inside me.

  “Look at me,” he says. His voice firm. No hesitation.

  I open my eyes and watch as he strokes himself. Pre-come glistens on the head of his cock. My fingers continue their journey. Now moving in small rapid movements. Putting in motion a nuclear chain reaction of self-perpetuating arousal. My breath moves in small gasps. My body reaching forth, stuttering, in discrete requests for air.

  “You're doing so very well with our lesson today, professor,” he says. “I'm going to ask for your assistance now. Please, come closer.”

  I pull my wet fingers away from my pussy and walk to him. My heels make it difficult to balance in my present state. My gait is hesitant. As though I were traversing the slickness of sheer melting ice.

  “Let me taste you,” he says.

  “How?”

  “Your fingers, the ones that were inside you.”

  I offer a wet finger to his lips. He sucks it into his mouth and savors the juices, closing his eyes as if to catalogue the taste in his own taxonomy of pussy. I feel his hands reach for my dark hair. Cup my head gently. More gently than I had expected given his earlier tone of voice. He guides me down toward his cock. Another betrayal as I swallow him. Saliva drips from my mouth, adheres to his cock, makes a lazy path down to his balls, as a river might divide a landscape. I wrap my lips around him tightly, use my tongue to elicit vocalizations of pleasure as he guides my head in its motions.

  Another request. More urgency in his tone. The train of choice and consequence running ever faster, picking up speed as it nears a curve in the tracks. Careening out of control.

  “Touch your clit,” he says. “Touch yourself.”

  When my finger finds my clit I feel a shudder as my world comes to a standstill. A gap in the fabric of time where I lock away my pleasure. I keep sucking on his cock until I feel his body tense. His hands grip my head, keeping my mouth in its position, and we remain still except for the convulsions of his hips.

  My eyes open. The light in the living room is dim. All that's left is the orange glow of embers in the wood stove. A small side lamp casting a meager light. How long had I been dreaming? My tea is cold. Everyone in the house is still asleep. I take out my journal, a simple composition notebook. The kind where the pages are a bitch to tear out. I begin to write, the words falling on the page like orchid petals. I feel the wetness in my pussy and set aside the notebook. My hand reaches for the lamp and I turn off the light.