by Violet Blue
He is watching her curl those lips into a half smile to the side of her mouth, which is a bleached pink, and how somehow this makes her cheeks glow. He watches her undress him with her eyes, lazily exotic in a way that is impossibly beautiful.
Lolita is terribly attracted to the man sitting opposite her. He is nearly twice her age and they are both excruciatingly aware of this. He is unbearably good-looking and is making her feel slightly light-headed and dizzy, and so she just keeps talking and eating and occasionally stops to drown him in languid, sleepy smiles.
They end up in a teahouse, where he is counting the number of sugar cubes she is using to drink her chai. She is up to six and hasn’t seemed to notice.
“You’ve got nice feet.”
She has taken off her socks and shoes that were both dripping from the snow, and her toes are cold and almost purple. He reaches out to touch them.
She looks at him in bemusement through smoke rings from the qualyan and turns up the corner of her mouth. This is the first time he has touched her and she hears her breathing splutter. She sucks hard on her sugar cube and feels her teeth rotting.
“Thanks.”
“I love the color you’ve got on your toes…” He gives an affectionate wink.
She laughs at his contrived charm. Her nails are black, with remnants of a dirty aqua underneath.
She puts her hand on his thigh under the tablecloth. He pretends not to notice, and watches her, all cold toes and dreamy smiles. He just wants to hold her. Instead he drowns her with the sensation that she is sinking through ice.
Giddy and giggling like a couple of school kids, they are handing over rials for the room. By now it is nighttime, and they have accidentally spent the entire day together, both so magnetized that they forgot to leave.
As they stagger into the hostel she is strangely kaleidoscopic. He is watching her shoelaces trawl in the dirt and her wiping her hands on her pants, decorated with pink and yellow safety pins.
He puts her money away.
“It’s all right, I’ve got it….”
And then, “I’ve got more money than you,” as if it was an afterthought.
“Nah, I have almost a thousand bucks.”
She grins.
He looks at her out of the bottom of his eyes in the most condescending but ultimately sexy way, and she grins. She knows that he probably has a house somewhere around the world; she knows he has been working for the last twenty years. She knows that they both know this; she knows that the conversation has only served to remind them that she is but a dandelion in the mouth of a tiger.
“I’ve got it.”
She lets herself be persuaded, and they make up a story about how they are engaged and have been together for years, despite having met for the first time yesterday. Thank god they didn’t ask for a marriage certificate, she thinks. Just in case, she twists one of her rings over to her left hand and suddenly feels uncomfortably ashamed of what they’re doing, in this beautiful country that’s not their own.
She can no longer look the hostel staff in the eye. The scenario is so ludicrous and perverse that she can feel herself blushing. Then he bumps her shoulder with his as if she is his younger sister. This makes her smile continuously for the next ten minutes.
Now he is watching the way she sits cross-legged on the bed but lying down so her head is hanging off the edge, bluntly and vulnerably exposed. He is watching her aqua and black nails and how she speaks to him upside down in the mirror. She can feel him watching her play with her hair.
He wants to open her up and extract from her all the kinds of idiosyncrasies you find out after sex. He wants to open her up, like a flower, like an oyster, like the pretty little thing she is, and just have her. He wants to flip her over and over again like a pancake and devour her. He wants to grab that neck and strangle it in some kind of predatory urge while he fucks her hard up the arse.
This is no secret to her.
She turns onto her side and looks at him, the pillow between her cheek and the back of her hand. He listens to the sound of her throat sucking in air. He looks at her, and she blinks in slow motion. In that blink is the sensation of her ruthlessly and impulsively squeezing his balls and kissing him firmly on the mouth. She blinks again. He waits for each blink as if it is the biggest come-on you could ever imagine.
She’s young enough to be my daughter, he thinks.
He’s old enough to be my father, she thinks. Just.
Both are not sure whether to be disturbed or turned on by these libidinous thoughts that seem strangely and inescapably and mind-bendingly arousing.
She is lying now with her head in his armpit, and he is finding the most wonderful pleasure from watching her shiver and recoil and nuzzle into him, achingly cold and feline. He is calling her “sweets” and things that make her feel delicate, and stroking her fingers with his thumb, wondering if she notices. She does. Of course she does. Her breathing is tortured because of it.
He looks at her through half-shut lids. The way this looks is incredibly perverse in the best kind of way. The way she looks at him is up through the top of her eyes with her lids wide like butterflies, and the way this looks is innocent and greedy and lasciviously suggestive, as if she is daring and begging him to have her at the same time.
Every now and then she slides her hand underneath his shirt and into the belt of his pants and feels that muscle at the base of the spine and the top of the butt. She can feel his belt buckle hard against her left hip bone and in this there is a novel intimacy that is almost unnerving. This sexy, cocky guy whose ego she knows how to please, and tease—she is tracing her nails down his side, she is waiting for him to flinch, grow ticklish; she is waiting to feel his breathing stop.
Men are singing and giggling and yelling in Farsi in the kitchen upstairs. There are prison bars on the windows. The bed is squeaking and rattling all at once. They are dizzily spun out from the kerosene heater.
“Romantic room, huh?”
She is playing with his earlobes and has her legs wrapped high around his chest. He is thinking that maybe she is flexible and that could come in handy.
“Do you do yoga?”
“Mm…yeah… Why?”
“Just thought you were the type.”
“The type…”
She closes her eyes, and lets him build up some yogic schoolgirl fantasy of her back home.
He holds her head, sunken into his shoulder cavity, with his whole hand. His fingers rake up the back of her neck and he cradles her skull as if he were holding up the head of a newborn baby. He is wrapping her hair around his fingers in a way that she can never be sure that he won’t pull her head to the side and let his teeth sink into her neck. He is craving her in a way that is all at once protectively paternal, instinctively territorial and fantastically erotic.
She is tracing her finger down the vein that runs fat through his bicep.
“What, so you’ve never been fucked up the arse?”
His eyes are incredulous, and she can swear his mouth is watering.
“You’ve never tried the back-door thing?”
She just smiles like a kitten.
“I was always up for it.” Casual.
He nearly chokes. Then he grins as if all his Christmases had come at once.
“Really?”
By now his voice is almost growling with temptation. She just smiles darlingly like some innocent kid, crippled by his lust for her—that savage, wordless lust. She just lies there and smiles, and fantasizes about being violently corrupted.
She is conscious of her slightness underneath him, conscious of her youth beside him. She indulges in it like it is her ace of spades. She is holding his bicep in her hand like a football, pawing at his neck with her nails like a panda bear, and sneaking bites at the lobes of his ears. His chest hair smells of soap and she knows he probably washed himself thinking of her, like she did when she let that water stream into her cunt so she would be sweet and tasty.
&nbs
p; He is leaning over her now and looking at her. He has his hands on her stockings and she is thinking how she would give up everything she owned if only he would rip them off her. And all she does is blink again, with that loose, amorous smile.
And so he kisses her. Because he knows she wants it. And of course she does.
He touches her, and she is humming like an engine. She is purring like a motor. She can feel his breath in her ear, and before she knows it he is pressing her against the wall in a way that makes her body freeze and melt simultaneously. When he kisses her she feels dumbly serene, and she just keeps grabbing him by his hair and pulling him into her and impulsively kissing him hard and wet on the mouth and telling him that he is very, very sexy. He likes this.
“Your pussy’s really warm.”
“Hmm… ”
“So you’re really only twenty?” He grins.
She laughs at the progression of his thoughts. Kisses him. And shrugs. “Older guys do it for me.”
He kisses her back: wet, impassioned.
“Well, I usually go for older women but I guess I’ll make an exception for you.”
She scoffs and then laughs. Like he was doing her a favor.
They are struggling in the single bed with a dirty hostel blanket and a sleeping bag that keeps sliding off toward the heater.
“Fuck. I’ve melted a hole in your sleeping bag. Sorry.”
Her head is full of the scent of him, and prurient, wanton thoughts, and all she can feel is a burning in her womb and the sensation of her unchaste hands all over his moist skin. She can hear his breath quickening in fierce arousal and the thrill she gets from this is incredible.
Suddenly they are pushing two single beds together, and she is climbing on top of him like a dominatrix; she wants to watch him in tantalizing torment underneath her. He is bemused by the spectacle of her seducing him, wonderfully turned on by the spectacle of her seducing him: this small, young, hungry sexual deviant. She wants him to lust after her like she’s a schoolgirl. And of course he does.
She is up to her neck in his body.
He is telling her how fabulous her black nails look around his cock, and in her dumbly happy state she is absorbing him like some kind of drug.
Soon he is standing at the foot of the bed in all his nakedness with a hard-on and that Amazonian fish-tail necklace. For a moment he looks like he’s just stepped out of maximum security, walked into the bedroom and been handed a condom.
She is being taken to the beds and laid down diagonally across them, like a patient, and explored. He is strong enough to just lift her up or onto him at his whim, like a little fuck doll. The kicks she gets from this are indescribable. She is glued to the image of his head buried inside her, and his tongue tormenting her. All she can think is, I love that mirror.
The window is locked ajar with his shoe, and the breeze is making her nipples erect. So he kisses them with heavy, hot kisses. The breeze is giving her goose bumps down her navel and down her thighs. And so he kisses them with heavy, hot kisses. But this just makes her shiver even more. He has laid her flat on her stomach and has her wrists trapped beneath his calloused, iron hands.
Her earthy, vegan, hippy self has learned to miraculously—momentarily, at least—dispel the fact that he is a meat-hungry hunter, whose politics she protests against back at home. Desire crosses all boundaries, it would seem.
He bites her neck. He bites her neck again, and again. He bites her neck slowly and just hard enough that it makes her wince. His mouth is open wide enough to almost suction her whole neck. And every time she winces she feels her body contract, waiting for his teeth to break her skin, and then she melts. She breaks into a smile and waits for him to bite again; wet, lusciously. With each bite is the tickling of his heavy breath, and his spiky stubble and his soft pillowy lips. She is laughing and wincing and melting in harmonious succession. And in between each bite she cannot breathe at all.
Now all she can feel is his hand around her neck like a noose, clamped, from behind. She can feel this and his fingers pulsating and squeezing and the sensation of her hands out to her sides and pressed flat against the bed. The way she feels is like a blindfolded doll.
The way she feels is like a naked prisoner forced against a wall. The way she feels is violently submissive. This sensation of helplessness is erotic like you would not believe. Her face is pressed hard against the bed as if against glass and this makes it hard to breathe. She is almost blue and yet she wants to drown under that hand, she wants to dissolve beneath it. She wants him to suffocate her.
There is mascara all over the pillow.
She wishes she’d cleaned her ears in that cold shower this morning, as he seduces them with his tongue.
Her undies are being pulled aside with one finger, and for a moment she thinks she is going to be fucked like that, and then they are yanked down around her ankles with his feet. She is undone by this, utterly and totally and irreversibly undone.
He has his finger lubed with spit and tracing up toward her arse.
“Are you into this?”
She is being flooded with all the urges of her sexual being and is surprised she can articulate anything intelligible.
“I’m into you.”
So now he has his cock deep inside her arse and two fingers up her cunt and she feels lavishly open like she would let him have her body in any way he wanted. She is being molded like a piece of putty and she wants to scream but all she can manage are random guttural releases. She can hear his breathy male growl that sounds as if he’s been holding his breath up until now and that makes her feel wonderfully delirious.
He has lifted her and positioned her and bent her over backward in so many different ways that she is beginning to feel like an elastic Barbie doll. She reaches up and pulls him into her and she can feel him, sticky with sweat, his collarbones bumping against hers.
And all she can think is, Spank me. She can hear the words over and over in her head like a gasping metronome.
Then they are lying on the bed and the breeze from the window is drying their sweat. She has her head in his armpit again but this time so she can inhale him and smell how she has made him sweat down the ravines of his body. She is peeling off flakes of her black nail polish and sprinkling them over his chest. Just to be annoying.
With her head to the side, through one eye, and through her hair, she can just see their silhouettes in the mirror. She is lying, small, vulnerable, cold toed and beautiful. Her jewelry is lost somewhere under their clothes—her hair elastic, her underwear, his jeans from Brazil with their pockets weighed down with a million things and looking as though they should have a Crocodile Dundee knife attached to the belt—or somewhere under the bed.
They have bitten each other’s lips so many times that she is sure she can taste blood in her mouth.
She smiles and thinks of strawberry fields and bruises.
THE GOURMET
Chaparrita
Bella went to Mexico for rest and relaxation yet ended up spending most of her time sucking cock.
Bella was a world traveler with a gourmet palate. She was a petite and vivacious dark blonde with a winning smile, sharp green eyes and round natural breasts and hips that made men drool. She was curious, an adventurer with her bag slung over her shoulder and a camera perched in front of her face to capture the gorgeous scenery. She was the kind of woman who was most happy with a man fucking her pretty little mouth.
Day One
Bella staked out a spot on the beach by ten a.m., just as the sun crested the mountain and hit the slice of sand in front of her hotel. Her winter skin was as pale as milk against her cherry-red bikini, the one with little black polka dots, the one that barely covered her breasts. She lolled in a beach chair, slave to the rays; big, glamorous-looking sunglasses covering her eyes and a huge straw hat shielding her head. Bella smiled at the young Mexican who’d brought the beach chair out for her. He perched on a rock about thirty feet away, acting indifferent when i
t was crystal clear that he just couldn’t take his eyes off her curvalicious body. His brown-eyed stare played over her like the sound of waves on the shore: light, happy and sensual. Bella inhaled the smell of salt, her fruity sunscreen, the young man’s attention.
Then the damn kitchen came to mind. She’d finally taken time off. It had been a year since her last vacation. She was the executive chef at an upscale bistro in New York, which was a pressure cooker—pun intended—of a job. Bella managed two sous-chefs and a team of prep cooks, dishwashers and other cooking minions, mostly men. It was hot, sweaty work and she presided over the kitchen like a self-assured queen at court, not because she was a bitch but because when people ate at her bistro, they expected the best. And that’s what she was. She’d worked her way up starting as a teen, proving herself in the urgent kingdoms of talented yet egomaniacal male chefs who’d treated her as if she were a little girl who couldn’t handle the knives and fire. Now when she entered the kitchen in the morning, activity stopped. Her team grew instantly silent and everyone would turn, saying, “Good day, Chef!” She had cookbooks, TV spots, and she was known by just one name: Bella. She could more than handle it.
Bella’s thoughts stayed pleasingly culinary as she mused about the recent lamb-tasting menu her bistro had featured. Lamb chops, lamb medallions, lamb-stuffed ravioli. She imagined herself gnawing a leg of lamb the way she liked it: large, gamey and with the bone in.
Bella softened, melting into the shimmering heat. Finally the images of the kitchen slipped away like so much seaweed on the surf. She took a thirsty sip of mango soda, wiggled her toes and turned to the pages of a steamy read she’d brought along for fun, something she’d picked up on a whim one afternoon in Brooklyn.
