Feeling me respond to him made her hotter. She answered my moan, though I felt it vibrate in my lips and tongue more than I heard it, for my mouth was still on hers, my fingers teasing her nipples. Her hands did not stay in one place for more than a few seconds at a time; she scratched softly at my chest, tugged my hair, clutched my arms as her arousal heightened.
I broke the kiss when I felt his absence, and looked over my shoulder to find him rooting around in one of their bags. “Accoutrements,” she said, and in a minute he was back, smiling hugely, and rolled a condom on to me and one on to himself – his erection, by now, making him look more like Priapus than a cherub. And took my cock into his mouth.
And sucked, near-perfectly. Like an angel. It was just right, and I moaned again, couldn’t help it. He was jacking himself off as he sucked – I could tell he was keeping us both at the same rhythm, too slow to come, our hearts probably beating in tandem, too. His eyes were closed in concentration and bliss.
Hers were open wide, watching like a cat as the shaft vanished into, then slid out of, the tight circle of his lips. Each time the glans hit the back of his throat, I shuddered with pleasure, and she saw that, too. My fingers had moved to part her labia, slipped inside her sweetly slick cunt, and she sighed and spread her legs to me, but didn’t take her eyes off her lover, lost to his cock sucking.
“Do you like this? Do you like watching him suck me?” I whispered. I began a slow thrust into her cunt, pushing into her at the same pace he was devouring me, all hearts beating together now.
He heard me, came back to earth a little. Still squeezing my cock, he motioned me to my knees and moved up to her; she saw what he was doing, spread her legs to him and reached for the lube, and I watched as his rubber-covered dick disappeared into her. Once in, he turned back to me, mouth ready for my cock again. His sucking wasn’t quite so perfect now – he had more than one task to concentrate on – but that was more than made up for by the pleasure of watching him fuck her. She met his strokes, thrusting up, still raptly watching the cock-and-mouth dance, sighing and murmuring and moaning softly, and I watched the pink mist of her sex flush spread across her breasts and up her throat, watched her eyes widen and flutter closed as he stopped sucking me and began to fuck her seriously, harder and faster as her orgasm neared. Poised above both of them, I thrust against him, following his rhythm, imagining we were both inside her, our cocks rubbing together, held so tightly by the silky, wet muscles of her cunt. Maybe she imagined the same thing; she’d licked her fingers to moisten them and was making fast, purposeful circles on her clit; she was climbing, obviously climbing. I stopped my pretend fuck and reached between their spread legs, forming a V at the entry to her cunt, adding to the pressure on her labia, and giving him more tightness to push through. Her shut eyes opened wide for a second, acknowledging the extra sensation, and then she reached the top of her climb and rocked and released into orgasm, crying pretty cries. When she was done, I was there to kiss her.
He began his own climb after rolling her on her side, one leg drawn up to her chest, fucking her even faster, and she knew the signal, for she began a whispered litany as he tensed and bucked: “Yes, honey, oh yeah, come on, come on, baby . . .” And in a soundless orgasm he collapsed on to us, grabbing for my cock again as soon as he could move, kissing both of us at once, which made her laugh.
He rolled off us, and she squirmed more firmly underneath me. At a glance from her, he pulled off the rubber he’d dressed me in before and slid on a fresh one. Then he took my cock and began to slide it up and down her cunt lips, across her clit (I could feel it hard against my sensitive glans), teasing us both by putting it in just a little way and then, just as we began to thrust, pulling out. But he could feel how badly we wanted the fuck; he didn’t toy with us for long. She moaned when I entered her, slowly, thrusting deeply in, maintaining the low song until I began to withdraw, resuming when I pushed in again. She wrapped her legs around my waist, arching up to meet me, wanting to be filled. She reached behind her head to grasp my wrists, leaned up to kiss me, hard, and the look she gave me, articulate as any words, said: Fuck me!
Slowly, to tease us both, but I wanted her hard. I could feel her nails imprinting the skin on my wrists; I shifted so that I held her wrists, and she caught her breath, moaning, “Ohhh, man . . .”
If she had anything more to say, I didn’t hear it; my mouth was on hers again, and she sucked my tongue like he had sucked my cock, and her eyes didn’t leave mine. I read her arousal in them like a meter as I took her the way I wanted her: as hard, as fast as I could without shooting too soon. We were electric, thrusting into each other wildly and eyes not parting, and I wanted it to last, freezing time with our heat.
I slowed down long enough to release her wrists and raise her legs to rest on my shoulders. She took my whole weight – and the length of my cock – as deep into her as I could plunge, and she was not silent for an instant now, crying out at a particularly hard thrust, moaning and sighing, saying, “Yes, oh, oh, yes, oh man, fuck me, fuck me . . .”
She slid her right leg off my shoulder so she could reach her clit; she climbed fast. I slowed my stroke a little to make it last. “Ohhh! Oh baby, don’t stop, don’t, don’t . . .” Of course I didn’t, and, deep inside her, I felt her cunt begin its fast, hard squeeze. She whimpered, clawing my shoulder, and I didn’t slow, thrusting through the hard contractions, seeing her eyes register the pleasure of the first stroke after orgasm, as she began to climb again immediately, gasping and then crying out. I rode her through three comes before I lost control and shot, holding her tightly and feeling her cunt throb around me like a tight, wet fist.
He lounged next to us on the bed, jacking off. The spectacle had gotten him hard again.
Acting on a decision I didn’t know I’d made, I reached for a condom. I hadn’t had a cock in my mouth since middle school; I suppose I hadn’t given much thought to whether I ever would again. But I was clearly embarked on the sort of erotic adventure with these two that I could never have foreseen and, what’s more, I trusted them. What had she said? A casual, experimental attitude?
“Use an unlubed one,” she said when she saw what I was up to, and I managed to get the rubber on him while she watched, that cat-on-the-hunt look coming into her eyes again; I heard her sharp intake of breath when my lips touched his cockhead. I didn’t much like the taste of the latex – had a moment of regret for the loss of naked cock skin, even as long as it had been since I’d tasted it – but my mouth slid down the length of it, and I concentrated on the sensations, his cock so hard and hot against my lips. I glanced up; his head was thrown back and he was breathing deeply; she was absorbed in the vision, her fingers almost absently slipping up and down the length of her cunt lips. My cock was starting to stiffen again already; it responded to the look in her eyes as she watched me. How keenly I felt the heat of her arousal under my own skin. Energy built between us even as I felt on my lips his fast pulse beat.
He reached for my cock. I reached for her, pulled her down to join me. Together we ran our tongues up and down his shaft, kissing around him, trading our attentions from cock to balls. I played with her breasts, tugging on the nipples, feeling her response. He jacked me off with long, slow strokes.
He wanted to fuck her again. So did I, but I could wait. This time I watched for a while, hand on my dick to keep it as hard as he had left it (I wanted to be in the minute he was out). I took advantage of the lull to change condoms. When I saw her hand move towards her clit, I slipped a finger into her cunt, still thinking of both of us in her at once. So hot and tight, wet with sweet, salty cream. She got tighter when I put a second finger in her, then a third. When I began to move them in and out, her cunt stretched with his cock and my fingers. She began her whispered orgasm song again, arched up in a perfect Reichian curve, climbing, climbing. I wanted her full, fucked like she’d never been, this tattooed little sex priestess. She held her breath, mouth open in an inaudible cry, until she came, b
ut nodded, eyes wide and on me. “Yes, yes . . .”
And came hugely, once, twice, not enough, and then he stiffened with pre-orgasmic tension; I felt him slow his thrusting the instant before he came.
The minute he pulled out, I was on her, in her, enfolded. And we fucked slowly, tight in each other’s arms, soul-kissing, soul-fucking, a long time, a long time.
I rolled her over so she was astride me, and I could watch as my cock slid out of her pussy, and she thrust down on it again. She braced her hands on my chest and rode me, my hands cupping her ass. Then I had her on her back again, closer, faster, to finish.
Have I only just met her? I thought. She, silent and intense, gazed at me, engaged in her own wonderings.
They did this all the time, he told me as we all lay in each other’s arms, talking, letting the intensity ebb in preparation for my getting up, going out of the room, leaving them.
She had me understand it had been another calibre of experience this time, that it did not always feel like this. Her fingers stayed tangled in the fur on my chest, just over my heart.
Would I leave my number with them, he asked. Could we all meet again?
Of course.
Anyway, it was only Sunday night. We were all staying until Tuesday. Time to play like slick fish in the effervescent water of the warm pool, to meet under the shine of the stars, to talk, catch up in words to this deep knowing. In each other’s arms, in the arms of the holy mountain.
Don’t Be Mad at Me
Adriana V. López
I don’t usually come on to authors I interview. But the baby-fine hair peeking out of the young Spanish writer’s open collar was breaking my concentration.
I had devoured his book in one lonely weekend. It was a sophisticated exploration of alienation in contemporary Barcelona. At the novel’s centre is an unsuccessful young author who’s hired by an enigmatic older woman to write her life story.
When I finished it, I stared at his author photo, looking for the depth in his welcoming eyes that had led to this work. I had to see him in person. I researched the controversial underground Barcelona literary journal he and his cohorts founded named Crack, and I found my angle. I decided he would make a good feature on the Spanish avant-garde for Publisher’s Forum.
David Canetti happened to be in New York for a few months on a writing scholarship. He responded to my email immediately. This is what I love about being the international editor at the book review magazine. It’s “meet the author” all the time.
David and I were sitting below a Moroccan-style ceiling fan struggling through the leaden humidity of a mid-August night. I told him to meet me in the Lower East Side at a café bar called the Red Pony. Seven p.m. I’d be the girl carrying an emerald-green book tote that said “Reading is Radical”. I told him I was tall, with short black hair, and would be wearing a sleeveless turtleneck dress.
After our initial Spanish two-cheek hello kiss and some nervous prattle about the similarities between New York and Barcelona, I got down to business. I asked him about his sales. I could see the creases taking centre stage on his smooth forehead.
I focused on his large, hazel eyes as he attempted to save face. They were encased in a thick set of dark lashes that made him appear as if he were wearing chocolate-coloured eyeliner. I furrowed my brow a little and nodded, feigning concentration.
“Few people actually read the novel today,” he lamented in strained English.
“Yes, it’s a problem for all authors. It’s tough to keep up with the shorter attention spans.”
Like a Modigliani painting, his face and nose were long. His fingers were long, too; he had them wrapped around a short glass filled with the amber-coloured whiskey we’d both ordered.
I was as drawn to him as I am to unreadable books.
His eyes remained glued to mine. He took a sip of his whiskey and sat back in his chair and grinned at me.
“So you’re family is Latin American?”
“Yes. My mother is Colombian, and my father is a Spaniard. But I was born here.” My delivery was flat. I’ve been told that I can come off as cold, a little arrogant.
“Aha! I thought you were too attractive to be just American. Do you prefer English?”
“Spanish is fine. I need to practice.”
“You have a slight accent to your Spanish. It’s very cute.”
“Thanks,” I said, tensing at the dig.
“But it’s much better than my English. Nobody in Spain worries about their English.”
Of course he had the linguistic advantage. I only got to practise my Spanish with my parents and a bunch of stiffs in my prep school classes on the Upper East Side. Or on the dreaded occasions my parents dragged me to visit my humiliatingly snobbish families in Bogotá and Madrid.
“OK then, Spanish it is,” I said in the tongues of our mothers. The r’s rolling from my tongue gave me a whole new sexy persona. I felt like I had tapped into that dormant nineteenth-century maja I had in my veins.
“Bueno,” he concluded.
My cell phone was sitting on our table. I pretended to check it. I needed to divert my eyes from his intensity. I acted as if I didn’t see him staring at me.
“I’m expecting a call from the office,” I mumbled. “A never-ending edit I’ve been trapped in all week.”
My face was getting hot. I have the kind of skin that easily red dens in the heat or when I get nervous or excited.
I downed my whiskey too fast.
“So what are you reading now?” he asked.
“Well,” I began hesitantly, “I just finished reading you.”
“Thank you, that makes a whole ten people.”
I smiled. If ten had read his last novel, that meant less than five poor souls in the New York literary world would have read my own pathetic attempt at experimental fiction a few years back.
“Did you hear about Samuel Reverte-Ferrante’s latest novel?” I blurted, without pausing to think about the book’s racy subject matter.
“About the Italian talk-show host who goes to bathhouses to fuck adolescent boys?”
He said the word “fuck” in Spanish. I was surprised at how my nipples hardened with the release of that single word. Follar. Just to pronounce it forces one to clench one’s teeth and snarl.
“Did you read it?” I asked.
“No. Read about it. It’s caused quite a stir, no? Everyone thinks Reverte-Ferrante is gay now, though he’s happily married to some big-shot editor.”
“Everyone is thinking: How could someone write about it and describe it so well if he hadn’t done it himself?”
“Men have been writing about the female orgasm for centuries, Anna. What do they know?”
It was the first time he addressed me by my first name, so soon after saying fuck. Ah-na. He pronounced it softly, as if he were stroking the back of my neck with his words.
“Too true,” I said.
“I say good for Samuel!” David said suddenly. “What’s the big deal really if he screwed some guy in the name of good research? Flesh is flesh, no?”
“Sure.” I shrugged, though I didn’t really agree. I decided to give him a taste of my New Yorker attitude. “But screwing your wife’s brother is crossing the line, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. But haven’t you ever crossed the line in a close relation ship?” he asked.
“Of course, but . . .” I replied, wondering how I could change the subject.
We were coasting quickly into unchartered waters for your standard Publisher’s Forum interview.
“Really?” he said playfully. “What, with a friend or something?”
He was as excited as I was, hanging on every careless word that flew out of my mouth. David was sitting up straight, resting his hands placidly on the tops of his spread thighs. His head was tilted low and slightly to the side. He was my captive audience.
I took a breath and told him about my room-mate at Vassar, even though I couldn’t believe what I was saying. I
remembered the drunken night when things went too far with Natasha for the first time. The smell of Johnson’s baby powder exuded from her belly button as I pulled down her panties.
Our friendship had reached that point of overwhelming curiosity. She asked if she could kiss me. I couldn’t say no to a girlfriend. We were both each other’s first, and we took it seriously. We left our usual fits of cackling laughter out of it.
I was larger breasted than Natasha, but just as malnourished. We both lived on cigarettes and Diet Coke. We rolled around my twin dorm bed kissing. I told David that her small pointy breasts and bony hips barely touched mine. I said that Natasha moaned too loudly and overdramatically for what I was doing beneath her perfectly manicured landing strip of a bush. (Mine in comparison was an untidy patch of overgrown ivy.)
Shocked at how dirty I was talking, I stopped myself. His face had turned red.
“This conversation has gone way past any chance of professional ism, hasn’t it?” I told him. But I relished the macho bravado of my words.
“I’m enjoying myself immensely,” he said with an earnest smile. “Do you still talk to this Natasha?”
“No, her husband doesn’t like me much.”
“Fool.” He tsk’d.
“So, what about you?” I shot back, downing another gulp of whiskey for support.
“My turn, huh?” he said.
“Come on. I just revealed a little too much information to you. Offer me something as good. None of this will be published, I swear.”
He let out a tinny laugh. I couldn’t tell if it was nervous.
“OK then. You’ve heard of Sergi Canetti, right? The writer who wrote the historical novel about Hadrian, the Roman emperor?”
“Yes, you and he and some friends started Crack. You two related?”
“By father. We grew up together. Our father had moved us to Paris when we were boys. He was just opening his bookshop at the time. We were lonely, awkward looking and had no friends. Our French was poor, and we felt like outsiders in that city. We spent a lot of time alone together. One day we just decided to experiment on each other.”
The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes Page 51
