Big, Bad Wolf

by Essex, Bridget

  What I’d imagined, and built up in my head was nothing compared to the actual moment. I’d built a fantasy that I thought too impressive, too great, and yet now, as I experienced it, there was no way I could have ever know how wonderful she could be.

  Waves of pleasure moved through me as she touched me and licked first gently, then almost savagely with her tongue, tracing it down and into me, and then back to my clit again that was small and hard with need against her tongue. I rocked my hips against her mouth, her lips, her tongue as she wrapped her arms around my legs, pinning me into place.

  It felt so good, blossoms of electricity beginning low in my belly, and all my veins seemed alive with it, blood pulsing and pounding, as I arched back, making incoherent, almost animalistic growls. It felt so good, these waves of pleasure that began to pound through me and as I cried out, as the release came, I moved against her, and she moved over me and in me, and in that perfect moment, we were one and the same.

  In the darkness, her nails traced over my leg, sharp and drawing scratches as I moved through the orgasm, but it all felt too good to notice that before and after sex, her nails were short and well trimmed.

  She came up beside me to kiss me, her mouth wet and salty as we moved together in the dark. She grinned against my mouth, her palms against my breasts, every inch of her warm skin pressing against mine.

  I turned her over, climbing on top of her exquisite hips, and began to learn her in the dark.

  ---

  I woke with a start, thick slices of sunshine pooling across my bed. It was late.

  The sheets were tousled, and I still smelled sex on me, my fingers and my lips. I sat up, bewildered. Kara was not in the bed.

  I stood, then, stood on wobbly legs still somewhat held in the dream realm. I made my way, naked, to the bathroom. She wasn't there.

  And then, to the kitchen. There was a note on the table. “Went to pick up some stuff for breakfast,” it was signed with a heart. As I stared down at it, still not understanding, my own heart gave a different set of beats, and I had to swallow. She'd signed the note with a heart.

  Warmth and happiness moved through me as I closed my eyes, pressing the note to my own heart. I knew I was grinning stupidly, and the grin widened as I put the note back down on the table and realized I wanted a shower, more than anything. She’d be back soon. With stuff to make breakfast.

  So I took a shower.

  I recalled each second of last night as I washed my hair, soaped my body, scrubbing vigorously at my breasts and arms and legs until they were red. I wanted to taste her, touch her...journey every last inch of her again and become familiar with it, familiar like an old book in my hands, soft leather and sweet pages.

  I closed my eyes and let the water sluice over my head and face. I held my breath, let the heat of the water run over me so that it felt like last night again…

  “I'm back!” I heard the door close with a bang, and I heard her voice. It sounded happy, euphoric.

  I was so excited that I dropped the bar of soap so that it banged against the side of the tub, and then almost slipped on it, getting out of the shower. “I'm here!” I called out, as if she couldn't figure it out on her own. I wrapped the towel a little self-consciously around me as I heard her feet on the floorboards outside the door, and then she was there, opening the door wide, smiling at me with a toothy grin that was almost wolfish.

  “I got stuff to make pancakes,” she said, staring pointedly at the towel with her head to the side, her eyes dancing merrily. She stepped forward, curling her fingers around the side of my waist. My entire body responded to her nearness, but she only brushed her lips against the curve of my neck and shoulder and stepped back, putting her hands in her pockets, grinning mischievously. “Do you want me to make you some pancakes?”

  “Yes?” I replied, my hair dripping onto the linoleum as I stared at her with longing. But she didn’t tease me long. Instead, she stepped forward and kissed me.

  Fireworks again. In spite of myself, still dripping on the floor, I leaned forward and put my arms about her neck, leaned forward and enjoyed every last second of it.

  The towel had fallen to the floor, and her hands were on my back, feeling me, caressing the skin of my back, cupping my ass with sure fingers. I shivered against her.

  “You,” she whispered, breaking away, laughing a little. She kissed my nose as I stood on my tiptoes, trying to reach her lips once more. She evaded me. “Do you want pancakes or not, missy?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, and then she kissed me one last time and turned back toward the kitchen.

  I put on socks and underwear and an old nightshirt as she mixed up batter in my one mixing bowl, the much abused glass one my grandmother had given me. I chose a pair of jeans, but ignored a bra, laying on top of my neatly folded socks. I felt, well, sexy, as I brushed my hair and put on a touch of makeup. Where was I going? Into the kitchen. But that mattered.

  I came in, just as the first splash of batter hit the frying pan. The delightful scent of oil and frying food hit my nose, and I sat down at the table, perfectly content to watch Kara work her magic.

  “How did you sleep?” she asked, flipping the pancake. The satisfying sizzle was so comforting. I watched it cook.

  “I slept well.”

  “Any dreams?”

  “Not really. Just silly ones,” I drew up my legs as I perched on the chair. I considered her back as she flipped the pancake again. A small thing had been bothering me—I’d never seen her in town before, and it was a pretty small town. “Kara, how long have you been in town?”

  She counted numbers off on her fingers. “I guess about two weeks now, give or take”

  I opened my mouth and shut it. Only two weeks? “Oh. Well, why did you come here? Why are you here?”

  “Pretty existential questions for breakfast.” She winked back at me. I noticed just then that she didn't have a plate in front of her, wasn't eating. “I could tell you the story, but it'd be a lot easier if I showed you.”

  “Show me what?” The pancakes were delicious, and the maple syrup dripped off the sides, glowing bright in the sunshine.

  “Where I live, what I do. Seeing it would be easier, I think.” She propped her elbows up on the table and gave me a devilish smile. “If you don't mind my taking you back to my place tonight.”

  I grinned. “That’d be wonderful.”

  “I have a few things to take care of today,” she stood, kissed me on the forehead. She smelled of musk and skin, and I wanted to taste her again. “I'll pick you up here tonight,” she said, with a smile. “Did you like breakfast?”

  “I loved it.”

  “Good,” she said, her lips against my skin.

  And then she was gone.

  ---

  I made the bed, but not before dropping to my hands and knees and stretching on the wrinkled sheets with a soft smile. I could smell her everywhere.

  There were many things in my closet, but none of them seemed suitable for visiting Kara’s place. I went through my shirt drawer, my skirt drawer, tossing dresses on the floor closely followed by socks and slips. There was nothing good enough. This was a special occasion, and I wanted it to be perfect.

  The perfectionism would consume me one day, Gramma had warned, putting calloused hands around mugs of green tea, pressing them between my own fingers, as I’d cried about something I couldn’t get exactly right. I'd cried so many times over little things that I couldn’t quite make perfect...little things that I apparently had no control over…like my art.

  My art. I had a black dress in my hands, now, the soft satin of it pooling out of my fingers and sliding to the floor. Kara had asked about my art, once.

  It was strange to think about it in those terms, and I didn't understand why my head or heart had brought it up now. It was about three o'clock on a lazy day, but I needed and wanted to get ready.

  But now it was completely insistent.

  When was the last time I'd made a piece of
art?

  The drive now was very single minded. I felt a magnet, the pull of the earth drowned out logic and thought, and I realized I wanted a pencil in my hand, not a dress. Mystified by these feelings, I let the dress fall completely to the floor, and then I was wandering into the kitchen. To get myself a glass of water, I convinced myself, because I was thirsty.

  But I didn't reach for a glass. I dug around in the junk drawer, until near the bottom and the back, I found what I was looking for. A small, thin plastic case, well battered and beaten with age and use. I took it out, now, opened it with a small smile. Inside were my drawing pencils.

  I’d had occasion to reach for them recently as I measured the space on my wall to hang a frame, and penciled in lines. I remembered, at the time, that it had felt pretty weird to be using my drawing pencils for something so mundane. These had been used to make art, and I was now using them…to hang pictures. It’d felt a little sad to me, but then I’d put them right back in their case, and reburied them in the junk drawer where they stayed.

  Now, I set the case on the kitchen table and went to the living room. There was the overstuffed bookshelf, leaning dangerously to one side. Along with all the art books on the bottom was a tall, thin binding of paper. I pulled it out, brought it to the table.

  Paper and pencil. There they were, side by side. Fresh memories flooded my senses, and I was suddenly eleven again, sprawled on my belly with sticky jam fingers, floorboards creaking as I made wide gestures with pencil gripped between thumb and forefinger. I was sketching out my sandwich, because I’d sketched everything. The jelly spilled out of the side onto the floor, and I made splotches on the paper for the seeds. It looked good enough on paper, though a little black and white, to eat.

  Now here I was again, with a pencil in my hand. What was I going to draw? It felt as natural as breathing, holding the pencil like I used to, and as the graphite pressed against the paper, the familiar scratching sound assaulted my ears, and I could smell the paper, and I smiled in spite of myself as a feminine curve came out of the pencil tip, down on the creamy smoothness of the paper.

  I drew a woman. She was faceless, nameless, but her body was familiar, the delicate swell of breasts that cupped, just so, along the floor where she lay. Straight lines, and then I was drawing her arms in repose, her hips, rolling curves that made “swish” sounds with pencil, and I licked my lips as her body took form beneath my hand. There was the perfect curve of her thighs and her knees. She looked real, for all the marks of graphite and smudges. I paused in my efforts and looked at her, really looked at her.

  There were things wrong. Of course there were things wrong--I hadn't drawn in years.

  But somehow, I'd captured Kara in the image.

  I stared for a long moment, then chuckled, so nervous about the fact that after years and years I’d made art that I set down the pencil against the paper as I stared down at it.

  It was an imperfect sketch, of course. It’d been a long time since I’d made one. But it was beautiful, I knew, because it was Kara.

  I put the pencil back in its case, then the case back in the drawer, and the book back on the shelf. I went to my bedroom and picked up the little black dress, and as I tried it on, I breathed out, glanced at myself in the mirror.

  Her body was so beautiful. It was art, I knew. But as I looked at myself in the mirror, I thought of how she’d looked at me last night. She had thought this imperfect body, my body, beautiful. She had traced its curves with her fingers and tongue, worshiped my skin, my form, and had found every inch to be lovely.

  I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, watching my curves as they moved in the dress, wiping off the graphite smudges from my fingers that had found every inch of her to be perfect, too.

  It was at that moment that I knew I was falling in love with her.

  Chapter 5

  She arrived promptly at seven, looking a little ruffled. She still smiled easily, but her physical appearance was shabby. She was wearing a sports jersey that was too big for her, and her hair stood out in odd directions like she’d been wrestling with someone. Her jeans were stained.

  “Hey, Megan,” she said, and kissed me, tasting of coffee. Then she looked me up and down, brows arched, eyes perplexed.

  “Do you like it?” I asked. I was wearing the little black dress, and I’d actually curled my hair.

  “You look lovely,” she breathed, and again, she was kissing me. But now my neck. Now her lips were against bare skin, and her arms were around my waist, and somewhere in all of this I’d forgotten to breathe.

  She stopped and looked at me, really looked, locking nose to nose as she bent down and brushed her lips against me there, pecking me as she pressed her forehead to mine. “You look lovely,” she repeated, voice thick, “but…you can't wear that.”

  “What?” I hadn’t expected this. I felt aroused and strangely messy, her hands had roamed all over my body, disturbing how the dress had lain. I wanted it off, I realize, then. I wanted it on the floor, with nothing between us but warmth.

  “You need to wear much more than this, Megan,” she was backing away now, leaving me cold. I followed her, perplexed, into my bedroom. She knew her way around the apartment as if she'd lived her whole life here. With me.

  “Here,” she withdrew from my drawer a thick sweater the color of mud that my grandmother had knit for me a long time ago. I couldn’t help but stare at it, one brow up.

  “I wear that when I hike,” I said, shaking my head, confused. “When I hike up in the mountains.”

  “Where we're going, it's going to be as cold as the mountains, and I don't want you to catch a chill.” Out of my drawers, she drew tights and yoga pants and jeans, and then a thermal top and a turtle neck and that knitted sweater completed the pile of clothes that now covered my bed. “Change into these,” she gestured.

  “I thought we were going to your place,” I said weakly.

  “You'll see.” Her smile was impish, warm. Though I didn’t understand exactly what was going on, her smile melted everything else away. I felt a little awkward after last night and this morning doing something so mundane and unsexy (if you change into a bunch of clothes, it’s decidedly unsexy), but I undressed in front of her, and swathed my body in those layers. It felt like I was going skiing.

  “Are you warm?” she hazarded as we made our way back to the door.

  “Yes,” I said, then shook my head as she got my gloves and hat and coat and scarf, a good, thick scarf that my grandmother had knitted for me too. The wool always made me itch.

  “Put these on,” she said. “You'll need them.”

  “I wish you'd let me know what this was about.”

  “You'll see,” she repeated, mysterious, beautiful. She didn't wear much herself, those faded jeans with several holes, and sports jersey shirt untucked at the waist band. I offered her my second coat, but she refused it, holding the door open for me like a gentleman. I didn’t resemble much of a lady as I waddled out of the apartment, into the hallway, feeling ridiculously overdressed.

  Kara didn’t have a car, so when we reached the ground level and let ourselves out into the snow, I wondered if she'd bundled me up because we would be walking a ways. I offered to drive, but Kara waved it away. “It's not very far,” she said, impish smile wide and bright, and: “wait and see!” she added, when I tried to protest.

  We found the sidewalk despite the snow and ice, and briskly began to walk down it toward the direction of the large Lutheran church on my apartment building’s street. We passed the church and made a left hand turn, and then another turn, and another. After awhile, I forgot the lefts and rights, because I was paying attention mostly to the fact that we were heading for the bad part of town.

  We were a small town, nothing like the big cities with their skids and projects, but there was still a “bad part,” a part that was incredibly poor, that had been industrial, back in the day, but had become a ghost town, over time. There were small, run-down houses along the
edges that held two families each and countless children. Dirty, half-starved dogs wandered the streets, growling at people who passed by, and, somehow, the snow looked impossibly gray.

  “Don't worry, you're safe with me,” murmured Kara, looping an arm around my waist. This declaration put me at ease a little, but I still couldn’t help thinking that the wandering dogs, no matter how I tried to imagine them otherwise, reminded me of wolves, and I could hear babies screaming from behind thin walls. We walked along, and as we did, snow began to fall.

  Kara drew her shirt closer about her frame and dug thin hands into pockets. As we walked along, I drifted closer and closer to her in the half-light. We turned another corner, and we'd left the occupied places, and had journeyed into the industrial side--the abandoned side.

  Well, “abandoned” would be almost a lie. It was “abandoned” on tax documents and on official papers, but not in truth. People lived here, people made their lives within the walls of abandoned factories, lighting fires that they desperately needed to stay warm, fires that sometimes went out of control. Some of the town churches took bibles to the homeless, urged them out of the buildings, offered warm meals and rooms, when they could. But often as not, there was no place for them to go.

  “Are you all right?” Kara asked now, as a realization began to dawn in me.

  “Yeah.” I glanced sidelong at her with wide eyes, cleared my throat. “Kara, do you live here?”

  “Yes,” she answered simply, flashing that easy smile at me.

  I had no idea what to say as I tried to process that.

  We walked in silence a little further, and then Kara stopped. I stopped, too, but suddenly, almost tripping on the slushy sidewalk. There were potholes that I had to keep eyes firmly down to avoid. I glanced at her questioningly.

  “We're home.” She waved to the large factory that towered over us both. It was three stories of abandoned stone and brick that might once have been great. I could imagine smoke billowing out of the stacks that boasted a 70's italic cursive. “Jameson” it read, with a chipped cheerfulness, “Fine Metal Parts.”