by Violet Blue
I grinned at him, satisfied with what we’d done. “You see—you shouldn’t be afraid of your bad-boy side. I had a good time.” I wiped my sore mouth with the corner of the bedsheets.
“That wasn’t my bad side.” He yanked me up roughly. “You haven’t seen my bad side, baby. But it’s coming.” Ken kissed me, tasting his own spunk as our tongues met. I looked into dilated eyes that still twinkled with naughtiness. “Don’t even think I’m done with you.” He shoved me down to sit on the edge of the bed. He fumbled on the floor, rummaging around in his jacket pocket. To my surprise, he produced a small knife. It was a little thing that could easily be mistaken for a comb in the right light. Ken squeezed my big tits together. “I seem to remember you saying something about these.” I held my body still as he ran the flat of the blade over my left nipple and then my right. The cold tingle of the metal traveled straight down to my cunt. I was aware that my breathing had almost stopped. I was dripping wet, hungry for more sensation than I could bear.
Ken squashed both my breasts together so that my nipples were almost touching. “Wow,” he said with awe. “You can’t do this with skinny girls.” His mouth returned to my tits, biting and sucking me hard. “You really are more than a handful aren’t you?” In a sudden movement he placed the knife to my throat. Time stopped dead. The room disappeared. My world only held two things: the glint of the blade and the hard constant pulse of my clit. I felt the press of metal beneath my chin, and with that I started to come. My movements were restrained by the threat of blood, but nothing could hold back the orgasm that tore through me. Ken paused, watched me quake, and then continued to swirl the knife all over with just enough pressure to scratch, but not enough to pierce my skin. I felt as if he were painting a portrait on my body with the deadly tip. The light in my hotel room must have been perfect, or maybe it was my orgasm that affected my vision, because that knife looked as big as a machete. Just the thought of it made my breath escape in one slow stream as I finally came back down to earth. When the blade returned to my throat once more it was no longer cold and lethal. The knife felt like a part of him. It felt good.
Ken dropped the blade and held me tight in his arms. We kissed. I had no air in my lungs, but somehow I was still alive, gripping him equally hard. Finally our mouths popped apart. I collapsed back on to the bed, gasping. I could suddenly hear music from the disco again, loud in my ears.
“That was intense,” I murmured sleepily. “I was petrified.”
Ken looked at me for a long moment before speaking. “You want to know something really weird?” he asked. I nodded once. “I get petrified of stuff too, but it doesn’t turn me on. It just makes me want to run like hell.” I held my arms open to him. He curled up beside me. “I guess I’m just a poor soul who’s scared of intimacy.”
“Don’t bullshit me.” I hit him weakly. “You’re a bloody liar.”
Ken started shaking with laughter. “You can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?” He nipped at my earlobe, sparking a little thrill. “I’d hate for this to be a once-only event. And you’d get tired of my bad-boy persona eventually.”
“Never. As long as you don’t use a line like that again, you’re welcome in my bed anytime.”
Ken’s smile was radiant. “I’d like that.” He snuggled against my breasts, kissed along the lines and swirls he’d made. In time his kisses turned to bites. I felt the tingle return, chasing my drowsiness away. I ran my fingernails over Ken’s shoulder, smiling as I listened to him hiss. It was going to be a long night, but my bad boy was definitely worth losing sleep over.
THE SKIN DOCTOR
Tsaurah Litzky
One morning I wake up and the little mole on my lower back is itching. It itches all day and that night it itches so much I have trouble sleeping. The next day it itches even more. I call up the skin doctor and make an appointment for the following week. A decent independent press has just published my poetry book to great reviews. How foolish, how futile it would be to be carried away by something smaller than a birth control pill, now that I may be entering the big time, now that I may be nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.
The day of my appointment with the dermatologist arrives and the itch in the mole on my back is acting like a fickle lover; it comes and goes. As I start to dress, I take great care choosing my panties because I know they are all I will be wearing during the examination. I am eager to see this skin doctor; I have seen him before and he is a very hot skin doctor. He looks like a man of experience, like Clark Gable in The Misfits, with the same little moustache above his upper lip, the same solid build and strong powerful haunches. I imagine that little moustache tickling my clit, as he teases it with a practiced tongue.
During my last visit, the skin doctor lifted and cupped my left breast gently with one hand while he used his other hand to deftly cut out a mole on my rib cage. His hand lingered, his fingers pressing my breast a few moments more than necessary.
“How are we doing?” he said with a sweet little squeeze as he let go.
I pull on my new, pink silk, French-cut panties. I stole them from Lord & Taylor a month ago because it excites me sexually to steal. I have a drawer full of purloined panties and I only steal from the best stores. All the way home on the subway I was so wet I wondered if the other passengers could smell me. I can see myself pirouetting in front of the skin doctor naked except for the panties. I know I won’t be able to stop myself from blushing and creaming just a little bit on the fresh satin crotch. I wonder how much of my eagerness to see the sexy dermatologist has to do with the fact that I haven’t gotten laid for six months.
The dermatologist’s office is crowded. I sit on a brown leather chair and take my poetry book, which I carry with me everywhere, out of my purse. I make a show of opening it; hold it in front of me, pretending to read.
I hope someone will get curious about the beautiful cover and ask about it, but no one seems to notice. The skinny matron sitting across from me appears occupied by her own concerns. She chews her lower lip, twists her gold wedding band round and round on her finger. I wonder if she is worried about an errant husband or maybe she is nervous because she has forgotten to wear any panties under her floral print dress. I imagine her pale pudendum is hairless, surprisingly rosy and plump.
Next to her sits a teen boy with a bad case of acne. He is staring into her lap; maybe he has X-ray vision and is fascinated by her bald cooch. I decide that under his baggy pants he has a slinky purple cock that looks like a gecko lizard. I wonder if his lizard cock will creep down the leg of his pants, crawl up over the arm of his chair toward her and then dart down under her skirt and up between her thighs. Perhaps she will leap to her feet, screaming, or maybe she will just sit still and enjoy it. That’s what I would do. I’m so starved for cock.
Just then a nurse comes into the waiting room and calls my name.
I follow her into an ultramodern examining room. The steel instruments arranged in trays on the cabinet are polished, gleaming. The walls are so stark and white they hurt my eyes. I put my backpack on the floor and I perch on a stool with a plastic seat. I open my book, which is still in my hand. I want to impress the dermatologist with my book just as I want him to like my body in my pink panties.
I am reading the “Vagina Blessing Poem”—celebrate the words for vagina that are supposed to be dirty but are not… cunt, clit, pussy, hole, snatch twat—when the door opens and the skin doctor steps into the room.
“Hello,” he says, “it’s been a while,” and he extends his fine, large hand. The moustache seems fuller, bushier. He is even more handsome then I remembered. Once he told me he was born in Marseilles, and he has a faint French accent. I put my hand in his and he raises my fingers to his lips. His glance falls on my book.
“What is this?” he asks. “What are you reading?” I try not to simper as I answer, “It’s my book, my new poetry book.”
“Congratulations. Let me see,” he says. He reaches down and grabs the book out of my h
and. His gaze focuses on the open page. I see his brow furrow and the corners of his mouth turn down as he reads.
He sighs, “Writing about one’s private parts and in the most explicit language is very popular nowadays,” he says, and he shakes his head. “You must write like this because you want to sell books.” I can’t believe it; can this man who has seen thousands of tits and thighs and asscracks actually be a prude? I feel my temperature rising. What does he think skin is for anyhow?
“Sex is part of being human; it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I hear myself say defiantly. “It’s nature.” He does not reply, instead he thrusts the book back into my hand. I put it back in my backpack as if protecting it from him.
“Now,” he asks sternly. “What is on your mind?” I want to say, I was having a fantasy about wanting to fuck you, but you’re too square for me. Instead I tell him about the mole.
“Let’s have a look,” he says. “Take off all your things except your panties.” He drags the word panties out, giving it an ominous sound like hysterectomy. “And put on the surgical gown behind you on the examining table.” He leaves the room, slamming the door.
This unpleasant exchange has made me feel sad and rejected. I want to dash from the examining room back out to my beloved, New York summer streets. I’ll run across Tenth Street to Broadway, then down Broadway to the Brooklyn Bridge and walk across. The view from the bridge, the sight of the graceful river below and the Statue of Liberty, will lift my spirits. Then the mole on my back starts to itch again; it reminds me how important it is that I take care of myself.
I strip except for my lovely pink panties, which now look silly and cheap. I place my clothes on the stool, don the surgical gown and perch on the corner of the examining table. I wrap my arms around my chest and hug myself. It’s cold in the room, so cold; maybe I should get up and light a fire like in that Jack London story, or I’ll freeze to death. I can use my book for kindling—but suddenly I have no energy. I hug myself tighter, close my eyes. I’m very tired; I feel like I’m falling asleep.
A warm breeze wakes me and I hear the door open and shut. I open my eyes to see the skin doctor standing above me. He has put on a pair of thick glasses and is now wearing surgical gloves.
“Turn your back to me and take off your gown,” he says. “I’ll look at that little mole you’re talking about, then check your other beauty marks and moles.”
I follow his instructions and then I hear him stepping up behind me. “So this is it,” he says and I feel the cool rubber of his fingers tapping the mole. “Any pain now?” he asks. “No,” I say, “not at all.” I feel him kneading and pulling the skin beneath his fingers “How about this, any pain?” he queries. “Nothing,” I answer.
He steps even closer, and I feel something warm and wet in the middle of my back. It’s his tongue! He is tonguing my skin! His tongue finds my mole, presses against it.
“What about this, any discomfort now?” he whispers. I am too shocked to say anything as his tongue continues to progress down my spine. Slowly it teases its way beneath the elastic of my panties. It feels delicious, but aren’t there rules about this? Should I turn around, yell, Wait a minute, what are you doing? This is not professional, but I like what he is doing too much and I already feel a warmth, a loosening between my legs.
Maybe he can read my mind, because he gives me a chance to protest. He stops his tonguing long enough to say, “Tell me, are you at all uncomfortable? Shall I continue?” I take a giant step across the chasm of fear and loneliness that has encircled my life for far too long. My skin needs skin and I want it. I want it now!
“No,” I say faintly and then more firmly, “No, I’m not uncomfortable at all.”
He whispers into the small of my back, “Well, then,” and his tongue slips beneath my panties again. He uses it to caress the bottom of my spine, finds my Kundalini spot. He kisses there; he sucks with a hot, moist mouth and a blissful wave of heat spreads all the way up my spine and out through my body. My nipples perk up, my clit swells with longing.
His wily tongue strikes out for territory farther south. It slides into my asscrack with a sleek kissing sound. The tight little bud there opens; he has found out my secret pleasure as he diddles me with his slick tongue. In and out, in and out it goes. His rhythm is so steady and practiced I wonder if this is part of the curriculum in dermatology school. His fingers on my buttcheeks pull them wider so his tongue goes deeper and deeper within. My pelvis starts to move. I know I can come like this but then he stops and pulls his magic tongue out. He steps back, leaving my anus hungry and open and me dangling on the sharp edge of desire.
“We must not hurry the examination,” he says. “It is important to be thorough. Are you all right?” he asks. I manage to gasp out, “Fine.” My panties have fallen to my ankles. “Now step out of your panties,” he instructs me. I do and then, “Turn around,” he says.
The first thing I notice is that his glasses are all fogged up. He takes them off. He picks up my panties from the floor and sniffs the crotch. “Ah, Chanel Number Five,” he says with a little smile. Then he polishes his glasses with my panties and puts the glasses back on. I am so excited that my breath is coming in little puffs like the locomotive of a toy train.
“I see no irregularity so far,” he says, “but there is still a spot that must be examined, one quite difficult to reach. For this, I will have to use a special instrument.”
He unbuttons the lower button of his white coat and lifts it high. He undoes the buckle of his belt and pulls it off. His unzips his fly and inserts his hand to pull out a thick, red cock coiled like a rope. He pulls his huge red balls out too. The cock uncurls in front of me; points right to my heart of hearts.
He takes a step closer. “Sometimes it is necessary to examine the breast orally,” he says, and he bends his face and sucks my nipple into his mouth. He nurses with vigor, sucks me roughly just the way I like it, while his cock keeps brushing against my leg. I can’t stop myself from pushing closer to him, grinding my pelvis against his, the long lariat of his cock pressed between us.
He steps back, releasing my nipple. “Stay calm, ma petite,” he cautions. He lifts me and sits me down on the examining table.
“Now,” he says, “I prepare my instrument.” He opens a drawer in one of the cabinets along the wall. He takes out a long transparent rubber tube that he pulls onto his cock. He steps closer, “Now, turn over and get on your hands and knees with your bottom facing me” he says. “You are a literate woman,” he says. “I am sure you know this is called doggie position. Now, lift your bottom up and spread your knees.”
He slips a hand between my legs and pulls open my nether lips.
“Bien, bien,” he murmurs. He slips his fingers into me, testing my heat, “You are ready, very ready.” He pulls his fingers out and then I feel his tool slowly probing inside me, expanding into every crevice as he moves deeper into my flesh. I find myself embracing his miraculous instrument with my whole body, pulling him into my center. He moves faster, his heavy balls spanking my bottom. I start to come, moving my hips so with such vigor I hit him in the chin with my ass. This seems to excite him even move. He grabs my hips to hold me steady and as he pounds into me we climax together.
“Merci, merci,” he cries out as he comes. He falls onto my body. I feel his moustache tickle me then he gently bites my shoulder and kisses my neck. I am exhausted but so happy and I’m not itching anywhere. I close my eyes. I’m dozing, falling into a dream.
I am on the stage in a big, crowded auditorium. Rows and rows of expectant faces look up at me. The dermatologist is seated in the front row gazing at me adoringly. I am reading from my book, from the “Vagina Blessing Poem.” I finish to tumultuous applause. The applause grows louder and louder; the audience stands up clapping, whistling, cheering. The noise is deafening. I open my eyes to find myself staring at the pristine white ceiling of the examining room, the glaring, fluorescent light. I am alone. What I hear is not applause, b
ut a loud insistent knocking, the sound of a fist on wood.
“Are you ready in there yet?” the skin doctor calls though the door. “Hurry, please, I have other patients waiting.”
I pull myself up into a sitting position. The gown is still tied tight around me. “I’m ready now,” I say.
PAGODA
Sommer Marsden
“It’s a full moon,” Bruce tells me.
Before I can fully process the words, a shiver runs up my back like some small invisible creature planting little footprints of anticipation along the track of my spine. My only answer is, “Tonight?”
“If it doesn’t rain.” He gets in the shower and leaves me to suffer.
The skies all day are pregnant with potential rainfall. They hover close—low over us in varying shades of gunmetal gray. I have never wished so hard for clear skies and dry ground.
In fall the twilight settles down like a hastily thrown wool blanket. One moment the sky is dusky with nightfall the next it is full-on dark: a shroud suddenly tossed over the world.
“Time to go. You lucked out, Maisy.”
I’m just thankful the moon is there for our full-moon tradition. We walk there. It’s that close. It’s only blocks to the garishly painted yellow and red pagoda a few streets over. In our neighborhood the small structure stands out like a grand building in the midst of a trailer park. It just doesn’t make sense, and that’s why the viewer is instinctively drawn to it.
