We’re back to him carrying me over his shoulder. We’re only a few steps away from entering a house where two other professors will fuck me. His wallet is a hard leather, not the soft kind that costs more, but a cheap leather and every time he takes a step it presses into my lips, hurting them a bit. His boots are ridden with dirt. He is dirty and I like it that he’s not smelling of cologne, but of a natural odour instead. I can smell his sweat through his jeans while knowing that remnants of my shit are still on his dick. As he carries me in the dark, up a flight of stairs, my head dangling upside down, I hear a man say, “You brought her here? You crazy?” It’s a cowardly voice. I can hear a high-pitched whine in it and begin to think of how students probably make fun of him because of it. I know that he’ll be fucking me too, maybe not up the arse, but he’ll be trashing me out in his own style. I am their entertainment. I am their trip back to their fraternity years. I am their wild girl, willing to do anything asked of me and I will do it willingly. “Put her on the couch.” There’s three men all together, one for each hole. I sit naked on the couch. A man with long hair for his age hands me a glass of water. I reach out to take it then he pulls it away and says, “For a little suck, a little sip.” I unzip his pants, take out a rather pencil thin, but long penis, and begin sucking. “That’s good.” He pulls away and hands me the water, “Where’d ya find this one, Boss? She’s submissive as hell.” I swig it back then sit the empty glass on the floor, waiting for my next order. The whiny voiced man walks over and tells me he wants time alone with me. I stand up and say to him with my eyes that I’m eager to please him. He takes my hand and leads me to a bedroom, but my arse-fucker professor shouts out, “Not so quick there, she’s for all of us to share. You want a romance, you can go home to your old lady. Bring ‘er back here.” We turn around and join the other two in the living room again. I am pleased my ass fucker is territorial.
The long-haired professor walks over to me, takes my hand away from the whiny guy then tells me to lie down on the card table. I walk over to it then lie back on its cold surface. He climbs on top and jams his thin prick into me. “You like this, little lady?” he asks while pumping me. I answer with a quiet, “Yes.” My arse-fucker walks up and puts his dick into my mouth. I have Pencil Dick in my hole, Arse-Fucker in my mouth and Whiny Boy looking at us from across the room while jacking himself off. “Tell me how much you like having two cocks inside of you,” Arse-fucker says.
“I love having two cocks inside of me,” I say it with a warbled voice, with his dick still in my mouth. “Prove it,” he says as he plunges to the back of my throat.
“Tell me you love it like you mean it,” he demands, plunging deeper in the back of my throat as he says the word “mean”, making me wetter than I’ve ever been before.
With as much sense as I can muster up I say, “I love having two cocks and would love it even more if I had all three of you inside of me.” Arse-Fucker is pleased. “D’ya hear that, get over here.” He motions for Whiny to join us. He walks over to the card table, still whacking his meat, then the long-haired man gets off of me, turns me over like a Rotisserie chicken, or a hog on a stick, while Arse-Fucker’s cock is still in my mouth. I’m slurping while climbing onto all fours so that every hole is accessible. Whiny asks to get on the bottom. He gets underneath me. I slip his short chubby dick into my pussy, still sucking on Arse-Fucker’s woody, only seconds before Pencil Dick pushes his thin prick into my sore arsehole. I keep sucking. I’m being fucked in my mouth, in my arse and my pussy while on a card table.
“Will it break before we’re done?” Whiny asks.
We move to the floor. We slide off of the table, but my territorial arse-fucker won’t let me take his cock out of my mouth. He has claimed his spot and I love sucking on him, so I keep blowing him while the other two men find their way back into my holes.
Arse-Fucker says, “Tell me you’re a whore, tell me.”
“I’m a whore,” I say.
“Say it again, I wanna hear it again.”
“I’m a whore, I’m a whore,” I say as clearly as I can with his cock still in my mouth, while the three professors pump quicker and harder into me.
“You coming, baby?” Arse-Fucker asks me.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” I moan.
“I’m close,” Whiny adds.
“Ahhhh, Theeerrrre,” Pencil Dick says while grabbing onto my hips, while coming into my ass.
With a half whisper caught between silence and screaming I repeatedly say, “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” until Whiny and Pencil Dick explode into me. The two fill me up with their jism, but Arse-Fucker pulls out of my mouth then takes his cock into his hands and continues to stroke it in front of my face.
“You want a little bling bling, Baby? Say you do, cause here it comes.” I get his cream in my mouth, on my lips, cheek and hair. I’m soiled with sex juice. I swallow everything that lands on my tongue. When I stand up it’s dripping out of me like individual pearls falling off a string. The men’s juice drains down my thighs, drops onto the floor, then Arse-Fucker tells me to lick it all up. I get back down on all fours and begin to lick the come drops off of the carpet then scoop up the rest with my hands and lick my fingers clean as if I were starving and this were the only thing I had to eat.
“I’ve got to piss, baby.” Arse-Fucker walks over to me. I’m still on all fours. I open my mouth and he begins urinating into it. I let the piss fill my mouth till it begins to overflow then I swallow it. The other two Professors laugh and hum and haw about how Arse-Fucker’s gone too far. I smile at them and shake my head, no, because I’m willing, totally willing to please, to be the object of their desire, at their disposal, because I want to know in every fibre of my being what it means to be lesser, what it feels like to be trashed, reviled, completely undone, completely woman.
Arse-Fucker brings me my clothes and asks if I want to shower.
I say, “No. Thank you, but thanks for the offer.” I don’t want to wash the experience away so quickly. I want to wear their come home with me like a badge of honour. I want to feel them dry up inside me, on my thighs to where I see a clear layer of their come sticking to my body as if I were a child again playing with glue and watching it dry, peeling it only when I’m ready, liking the way it feels as I unpeel it from my skin.
“Can I drive you to your car?” Arse-Fucker asks.
I smile, then burst into laughter, remembering that that was how the night began. He smiles, asks me for a hug, asks if I’m all right.
I answer, “I’m perfectly fine,” and as I say that to him I begin to feel it happening, all the “equal opportunity” bullshit that hovers over the psyche of men these days and how awfully accommodating they’ve become towards women. I think for a second about how men probably truly feel and about how awful it is that they can’t be their complete desirous flirtatious selves anymore. I become saddened when I think about how much honesty is lost inside of the whirl and twirl of “political correctness”. I think of him and his politeness, his offers and how dry it all feels in comparison to the juiciness of his dominating ways. I begin missing Arse-Fucker’s madness. I want to feel like a sexual being, not shunned, to feel that sense of sexuality alive and kicking in every pulse I walk by. I mean, why not? So I embrace the fantasy world, forgetting the graces of men, their smooth safe talk. I tell him, “I don’t want you to ask me for a hug, if I want a ride or a shower. I want you to force me into letting you fuck me up the arse again even though I’m sore. I want you to make me hum patriotic songs with your dick in my mouth.”
So with that, my fantasy ends with me humming, “Oh, Beautiful,” with Arse-Fucker’s cock in my mouth. “Hmm, Hmm, Hmm, Hmm . . .” He smiles, liking the music that’s being played with his penis while Whiny and Pencil Dick pop beers and wait their turn.
Unicorn’s Ravine
Catriona (Caledon, Canada)
This is my movie. I direct it and form it. I am the cast and the writer and the producer. It is
all mine.
My life, how should I say? Leaves a lot to be desired. In fact, it could be called dull, boring and not fulfilled. Usually I paint but this time I am painting a movie in my mind.
This is what I need.
Frame 1: See the unicorn, his head hanging low and his body close to the ground. Tiredness numbs every cell of his body. Instead of doing the many useful, constructive things needing to be done by busy unicorns, he sits heavily, rests his head in the smooth warm hollow of his favourite rock and basks in a circle of sun. Light dapples the dense black of his coat. A blue jay beside him screeches, raucous and wide-awake. His is the Canadian forest. He is king and I am about to be queen.
Frame 2: He rubs his horn against the bark of an elm and scratches at the earth, digging with his hoof, until, as if bored, he looks up at the sky and yawns.
The best part of spring is the pink trillium. He loves to put his nose right into the trumpet and breathe in the Ontarioness of the flower.
He has walked through a carpet of camomile and the air is full of the bitter-sweet smell of the herb.
He curses the world, and spring, and pink miliums and this strange sweet and bitter smell. He ambles to the stream, kneels into the soft sand and laps the clear, babbling water. Grazes for a while then eats a few miliums, though generally he never eats them.
All round him a bad aura touches everything. It is in my purples, mustards and navys; it is in the way my shapes are square and sharp and hard. People ask me what the shapes and the lines and the colours mean. Why should a painting have a meaning? It means whatever they want it to mean. It is a feeling. This one is the feeling of a unicorn and the ravine and the miliums and the shapes and colours in my paintings are the life of the unicorn and my own breath in him. My paintings are the flowers my grandmother scattered here and the herbs she grew and the spring of camomile under my feet.
The ravine is mine. It had been my mother’s and her mother’s. All mine and I love it. It’s as if I have to hold it and take it into me, just as woman has to take the body of a man she loves into her.
Frame 3. Alan and I amble down the gentle path leading to the bottom of the ravine. It’s easier to walk here than to walk down the path of this marriage. Three children make it important to keep on the path. I rub the rough, hard barks of the walnuts; finger the tips of the yellow-green sprouting plants and soak in the thin spring sunshine which shines through the bare branches.
This is also a picture painted by me: Alan is forty, tall and thin as one of the bare poplars, stooped, with a halo of fair blonde hair. He always gives the impression of being deep in thought. That kind of glazed expression most men have as they are about to come. I’m younger than Alan but not much. And so short I barely reach his shoulders. One of the things he liked about me was my size. His “little dwarf he used to call me affectionately and I called him my “gentle giant”. We used to be quite the cliched couple.
My bad habit of putting every situation and every experience into a picture.
“What do you think?” I say.
“About what?”
“You know . . . about widening the path so we can take a garden tractor down and bring up fire-wood. If we could bring up the dead and useless wood it would improve the health of the remaining trees.”
“Come on, you’ve been reading too many leaflets put out by the Department of Agri. You sound like one of them. You know as well as I do the work of making a proper path wouldn’t be justified. Not worth the cost of any wood we may, or may not, use.”
“Not just for the wood – for fun too. It would be nice to come down and smell the herbs and . . .”
“Your kind of fun, I don’t need,” he says, his face still blank. “And as for your herbs! Look where all that rubbish got your mother. Ended up in the nut-house.”
“What about me? I’m not my mother. Come on . . .” Smile. Paint a picture of a smiling woman. He walks ahead. Keep smiling.
“We shouldn’t be too long,” he says over his shoulder.
“Why hurry?”
“Have to be in the city by four.”
“Forgot.”
“Oh, you had a lot to think about.” He laughs, an insincere, dry laugh. “What do you, of all people, have to think about? Oh, yes, you have to make sure you have some paint, the odd canvas and as long as you have a couple of hours a day dabbling you’re happy. The artist, the great artist, is then satisfied.”
“I am an artist. I do sell my paintings and I almost keep myself by my work. I make a contribution.”
“You whine too much.” My immediate subjects are gallows, firing squads and electric chairs. What is wrong with him? We box in shadows. For some months I have suspected the colours of another woman round him and then brushed them off as a reflection of my own overabundant shade of green. Yet . . . we hardly make love now and when we do it’s a mechanical run to the end, not a process in itself. Images of men with soft hands and tender lips and armpits smelling of sweat.
Move past him and stop to face him. “Odd, isn’t it, that after all this time, you still think my painting is some kind of game?”
“Don’t get on that high horse again. Making a point, that’s all. Some of us have to be in certain places at certain times; some of us have to do certain things, though we don’t want to do them. You don’t have to do anything.”
“I see. I have nothing to do, I have nothing to think about?”
Once upon a life this used to be my magic place; a place where nothing could hurt me.
We walk on in angry silence until we reach the stream. He stops, clasps his hands behind his back, stoops as he says, “The great artist. Ha!”
Will not react. Paint a picture of a unicorn hanging by its hooves, blood dripping from his mouth. In the cavity I will put Alan.
Cress grows lush and appetizing. It is the first of the plants I harvest in the ravine. Salad tonight. Perhaps a cold cress soup. Pick an armful. There should be some nasturtiums at the fence which separates this land from McLaren’s. A hoofprint.
“Look, there’s been a horse here. Imagine! A horse drinking at our stream.” Trace the mark with my finger just as if I was drawing it in the form classes in art school.
He doesn’t look at the print. “Probably one of McLaren’s horses broke through the fence.”
“Never! This couldn’t be one of those ugly, scraggly, great mulching-bags of riding-school horses; it has to be the print of a gentle stallion, full-maned, flowing tail, nostrils flared and breath billowing before it like a tunnel of steam. Yes, that’s how I see the horse which made this print.” Giggle in spite of my mood. Romantic idiot. He ignores this, or he didn’t hear. Just as well.
Bunch my cress with some dead grass. No, the nasturtiums are too small for picking. We walk back to the house in silence. The day is yellow and bitter. It has the taste of overcooked meat.
Frame 4. Another week on this damned unicorn. It’s solid. Dead. No magic, a mundane glibness.
So, take a walk, girl, go and find the magic in your special place. Look at the rocks, feel the humid damp, wallow in the rotting leaves and stick your nose into a damned trillium. Pink or white.
One colour, one movement, one shape, and it could make everything come alive. Sure it could.
Find the spot where the cress grows. Funny, the cress has all gone. See a unicorn eating my cress and he’s welcome to it. Set up my easel, spread my blanket and line up the paints. The ground is spotted with camomile flowers. I lean against an elm and meditate, clear my mind, become the forest. Float. Huron woman waits for her man to welcome him onto a bed of fine moss; early settler picks ripe tomatoes from her vine as the bread rises; farmer disappears into the heavy corn to see if it’s ready for picking.
Clear morning light changes to midday hazy softness as I paint. Colours swirl round me. Forms join and separate.
Need a rest. Bend down to the stream for a drink. More prints in the soft mud. Touch them. They are fresh. What horse this?
Frame 5: D
eep inside the forest the unicorn blends into the dappled shadows and vibrating leaves and spotted rocks. He’s behind the elm where I work. His breath brushes my bare shoulders, no more than a breeze. He strokes me with his nose. Yes, this shining black horse with the fine turned horn which explodes out of the bone of his skull. Reach out and stroke the horn – dry, hard, rough. Fondle his hot, furry nose. Curl my fingers round the nostrils and with the other hand rub the tip of the horn.
“I can see you’re friendly.”
He nuzzles my cheek with his mouth.
“You are a silly old horse. I think that you could be almost human.” Keep my hand on his neck and the touch of him is as comfortable as the touch of a child. His breath on my face. Lean against the tree. He rubs my face with the side of his horn. Now his head is in the angle between my head and shoulder. I hold his head in my hands; his breath is fresh, like grass. This gentle, huge animal. This silky, warm animal. Nothing in this world but the heavenly darkness of this animal. Lovely darkness.
He licks me clean. Kisses me all over my face and brushes my lips with his horn. He tidies the rug and I sleep.
Later I notice he’s left the tip of his horn embedded in the bark of the tree.
Frame 6. Alan does not like the painting. Says it’s rubbish. Says I’m getting more and more off the wall. Who says artists had to be accessible – whatever that means?
Frame 7. July, and I float on the heat. Hate summer. Love fall and spring. At times hate my life. It is certain that the colours of another woman blot out his own colours. I don’t know the man I married. He is scarlet. All scarlet, an angry frantic scarlet. I pretend blindness, deafness and no sense of smell.
We again walk down to the ravine. We have company tonight and I need some cress. At least at midday the mosquitoes should be sleeping. I hope. The house is too hot to bear. We walk silently for a while; eventually, as if he’s been waiting for the right time, he says, “Been thinking: we may as well sell and move into the city.”
The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies Page 5
