The Wrath of Dimple

by Lucy Woodhull

  “Do you need another MRI of your head?”

  “Be quiet. I’m trying to enjoy this big-busted, open-minded Norwegian lady.”

  She said something in Norwegian.

  “No subtitles? How am I to enjoy the story?” I asked. My only response was the hand on my butt burrowing under my shorts. Ah—that’s how I’m supposed to enjoy the story.

  We decided to name the Norwegian woman Ingrid. Ingrid said more things, felt up her bounteous boobs, and lifted a giant cleaver to hack up her fish.

  At which point the fish began talking in a deep, sonorous male voice.

  “The bass is a bass!” I said, breaking the sex pun rule.

  “He’s a big-mouth bass,” Sam corrected me.

  “I should hope so.”

  “I think you should do what Ingrid does,” Sam suggested.

  “Get a cleaver and threaten you with it?”

  He shot me a consternated look, and the hand on my butt went away. Jeez, make one little murder joke in bed…

  “She’s kissing the fish,” he said.

  “I don’t want to kiss a fish.”

  He pounded on the bed. “You are the silliest person I ever met—how is it that you’re now being serious about the fish porn?”

  I grabbed his head and pulled him in for a long kiss. Immediately, he opened his gorgeous mouth, his tongue teasing mine, his passion turning my insides to sexy mush. ‘Watching’ the Fisken Porno Seks was the best way to watch the Fisken Porno Seks. He pulled back, his gaze soft. “That’s better,” he said smugly.

  “Ja.”

  He cocked one eyebrow and presented me with a satisfied dimple. Lights flashed from the direction of the TV. “Oh, my gosh!” Sam said with faux-surprise. “The fish is turning into a dude!”

  “Does he have a giant penis?” I exclaimed.

  “How did you know that?” He turned me to face him and pulled me closer.

  Deep into my eyes he gazed—so deep I felt it in my taesen, which is a Norwegian word I just made up for ‘toes’.

  “Are you a witch?” he asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “You admit it?”

  “Why? Do you have a stake to mount me on?”

  The TV became awash with neon pink, and we saw that the fish’s transformation was complete. Pretty slick for ancient porn—those Norwegians might be weirdos, but they were technical weirdos. The fish-man—we named him Fisken, naturally—immediately thanked Ingrid for turning him into a giant-penised man by allowing her to suck on same.

  “That Ingrid,” said Sam. “What a great cook.”

  I strayed my hand downward between us to find him half hard already. “And I see that you have found my stake.”

  “Sir, I believe that you are, in fact, the one now punning in bed.”

  “You started it. You’re a witch.”

  “Oh, I am. I’m gonna make your crops fail.”

  His eyebrows crinkled together. “Are we still making cock references?”

  “Oh—well—” I bit back a laugh. “I mean, I’m gonna make your crops robust and turgid.”

  “Good save. That was hot.”

  He shoved me onto my back and climbed on top of me. And…and…and…he just lay there, elbows on either side of my head, and watched the movie. “I think Miss Norway used to be a gymnast.”

  “Not with those tits. Terrible ballast.”

  Sam moved down my body so that he was ballast-level. He caressed my breast with one, luxurious hand. “Poor Ingrid. So depressed over her lost Olympic dream that she kisses strange fish.”

  “It really paid off this time.” I craned my neck to see the TV. “Holy crap—his tongue is almost as long as his—”

  “Fisken is starting to make me feel inadequate. His dick is bigger than mine, his tongue is freakishly long, and he has no amnesia.”

  I laughed, thought the better of it, and laughed again, for Sam was goofy-grinning at me. Well, at my boobs. I took his face in my hands and said more earnestly than a Norwegian milk maid, “Samuel Ballitch, your cock is amazing. If it were the size of that dude’s, I might need to be hospitalized. Your tongue is also more than adequate—I don’t require that my gentleman friend be able to catch flies two feet away with it.”

  He gave me a soft kiss on one nipple. “That is a relief.”

  I pulled him up to kiss my mouth, and he teased me with the kind of light, sexy pecks that drive a woman from her good sense. I didn’t have any to begin with.

  “As for your memory problems, well, I’d rather have an amnesiac man than one who likely smells of scales and brine.”

  “I’m just winning right and left here.”

  I lifted up my head to devour his mouth, but he moved to the side and turned me onto my front again. Frustrated noises squeaked from me, for which I received a pinch on the butt. “Quit your bitching. I thought you’d want to watch Fisken use his freak tongue.”

  The fact that Sam had stopped touching me made my skin needy with the force of a thousand suns—gah, he was driving me mad! Tiny kisses, light caresses, then nothing but observing Fisken totally go to town on Ingrid. Damn. It was entrancing, watching him go down on her. She was certainly entranced, and I realized my hips were squirming, and that Sam was watching me watch the filthy movie. Damn him.

  “I wonder what happened in Fisken Porno Fem?” I asked. ‘Fem’ meant five. We’d thought ‘seks’ meant ‘sex’, but it was the number six, according to the Internet. That meant that there were at least six fishy sexy movies in the world, which proved that Hollywood’s obsession with sequels had finally gone too far.

  Sam got up on his knees and began to move behind me. My breath shortened, and a definite tingle lit me up from the waist down. From my breasts down. Hell, my whole damn everything was tingling like mad. He pressed a kiss to my shoulder and said hot in my ear, “Make some guesses, and I’ll reward you if you’re correct.”

  I craned to see him. His expression held pure joy, and desire, and a total comfort with me—all the things that make coming home to someone the best thing on the planet. And he viewed me that way—me!—whom he’d woken up not even knowing a few weeks ago.

  But it had been this way the first time—our gravitational pulls seemed to only function on each other. The hope I’d been nursing like a fifty dollar glass of Scotch flared up, nearly setting me aflame with want.

  I put every bit of the sauce I possessed into the question, “How the hell would you know what’s in Fish Porn number five? Or one, two, three—?”

  “I am the all-knowing Sam, and my memory is excellent, despite rude gossip to the contrary. Now, get to it,” he ordered with a sharp slap to my butt.

  “Ow!” I protested one hundred percent fakely. “Okay, okay… I guess that the fish of this Norwegian village have been sexing attractive villagers for centuries in the hopes of not being eaten, and that Fisken Porno number one was set in the 1700s during the tragic herring slaughter. Many giant-cocked men were lost during that dark time.”

  He pushed up my pajama top and covered the small of my back with feathery kisses. I shivered, the duvet bunching in my fists.

  “Very historical.”

  “Well, I’m a famous actress. One must consider the character’s background. Fisken Porno number three dealt with the Norwegian queen’s addiction to scented candles, and how she overcame it by banging a cod.”

  My pajama bottoms received a powerful yank. Then another. “You’ve got to work them over the bubble butt,” I reminded him.

  A contemplative grunt was my only reply.

  I set my chin on my hands and turned my attention to the film while he inched my bottoms off. He kept getting delightfully distracted down there, which made me quite distracted away from the Norwegian maiden, who was giving that shockingly well-endowed fish man a second enthusiastic blow job. Then I got distracted because that was a hell of a sentence I’d just thought.

  Somehow, Sam soldiered on and managed to remove my shorts. My undies defeated him, thou
gh, and he decided to leave them on. The fact that they were lacy and sky blue had nothing to do with it, I’m sure.

  “Do the Norwegians have queens?” he asked me. His question was accompanied by his straddling my hips and beginning a shoulder rub. My brain completely shut down, for it is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of strong back-rub hands must be after seduction of his woman. I was just sore-shouldered and slutty enough to give that man what he wanted.

  But first, I’d enjoy the rub down. And watch the fish guy settle his savior over the kitchen counter and begin to pound her from behind. I cannot say I was unmoved…the dirty fish sex in front of me—ugh must stop thinking about the fish aspect…the competent ministrations of Sam easing into my tired, tense muscles… The weight of him on my legs turned me on further, for I imagined him moving across me, lifting up my hips, and sliding between my thighs…

  I shifted my head to the side and whispered, “Kiss me.”

  “I’m not done with your massage yet.” His clever hands trailed lower, into the lowest part that was still technically back and not butt, and worked into that sore spot that flares up when Aunt PMS comes to punch you in the abdomen. Oh, and I was hurting there, almost as if the low-grade thudding hadn’t registered to my brain until Dr Sam had swooped in. I moaned and flopped back onto the duvet.

  “You like?” he asked.

  “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” I agreed.

  “Your period coming?”

  I lifted up my head. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”

  “Well…” His hands vacated and silence descended for a moment. “I have dated other women. Lots of women get backaches.”

  My jaw opened to retort, but it was true. I wasn’t special. Any straight dude worth his salt knew the signs of impending, bloody doom.

  “But…” His whisper hit the back of my ear with a warm breeze. “I mean you…” He retreated again, talking in the half sentences that always spluttered from his mouth when being evasive, or when forced to express a confusing emotion. At least that’s what used to happen.

  I’d trained him to talk about emotions, though! It had taken flash cards and some Margaret Atwood, but we’d gotten past this long ago. One step forward, three ellipses back.

  The cold air of stranger-dom descended over us, completely dissipating my lust haze Tears rushed behind my eyes, begging to be let out to further wilt the mood. Jeez, I really was pre-menstrual.

  He cleared his throat. “If you’re not feeling up to fooling around, I’m happy to back-rub and tuck you in.”

  And just like that—schwing!

  I shifted onto one elbow, and he moved to the side to let me flip onto my back. Perhaps he took his cue from Mister Fisken, who had flipped his lady onto the frigid-looking tile floor while a puppy wandered into the shot. That was generally my biggest problem with porn logistics—no, not puppies, but that all the women appear to be so damn uncomfortable. No one besides your chiropractor wants you to screw on the hard floor or the stairs. And holding a pose like that of a hooker flamingo is just plain stupid.

  “Come here, Mister ‘I’ve Dated Soooo Many Women’.”

  He smiled, small and sneaky. “I’m very popular.”

  “You better prove why.”

  He lifted the remote and rewound the tape. We came upon the part during which Fisken began to eat Ingrid out. My pulse leaped. He tossed the remote aside and turned me onto my belly again, then hauled me up by the waist until I was on all fours. My pulse skyrocketed. I instinctively arched, my bottom lifting toward his face, and the filthy smile on it.

  With one finger, he slid my panties down my butt, the trail of that touch making my pussy ache. When they were stretched across my thighs, he ordered, “Spread ’em.”

  I lifted my head to see Ingrid arch in delight, and I obeyed, as far as my stretchy lingerie would allow. A soft touch to my open lips, and I started. He tantalized my flesh with too-brief caresses of his fingers, and I pushed back toward him, desperate for more. My body clenched of its own volition, and he let out a soft gasp.

  “Ask me for it,” he said in a voice full of confident pride.

  “Ja, please to lick my pussy?”

  A sound that was half laugh, half desire blew on my wide-open cunt, followed by a kiss. Soon enough, my moans mingled with Ingrid’s on the screen. The porn actor’s tongue slid wet and smooth across her swollen sex, and, finally, so did Sam’s across mine. He clutched my thigh and yanked me closer, his mouth now feasting on me. Waves of pleasure emanated through me, to the point where I dropped onto my elbows, my head down, my eyes closed. My entire world became his mouth on me, and it seemed like I’d never, ever felt anything so good.

  He pulled away, and my body followed while I whimpered, pathetic and not ashamed at all.

  “Poor girl,” he whispered while working my panties off me.

  I opened my eyes to see between my legs. He’d flipped onto his back. “Sit on me. I’ll hold you up.”

  Jesus, how was it even possible to be more turned on? But my lust capacity was high, indeed, and I moved my pussy over his face. Adjusting himself to where he wanted to be, he gently indicated that I should sit fully. So I did.

  He looked up at me while his mouth opened to allow his tongue to slip inside.

  “Oh, my God,” I moaned.

  His hands slid up my body, one in front to cup my breast, the other to my waist to support me. I cupped my breasts, fingers over his, and I squeezed almost involuntarily. His eyes closed then, as if he wanted and needed to concentrate on nothing but eating my pussy. On and on he went, long past Fisken’s efforts. I was so slick, so on fire, so fucking—oh, God, I came, right on his perfect face, his hands clutching my ass, digging into my flesh, until I… I…

  His arms bore my weight when I would have fallen forward, and I realized my mouth was open and dry from moaning, my breath coming in short, too short gulps.

  Holy shit.

  I sat up a little, realizing I was probably strangling the poor, wonderful man. He chuckled that chuckle of pride that happens when you know you’re a sex deity. His hands slid over my thighs. “I hope you don’t think you’re done.”

  “Nope. I’m just getting started.” I lifted my leg over his head and bounced onto my side. He protested for a moment, but I quickly turned so that I straddled him, but facing the other direction. Facing his marvelous hard on.

  “Ah,” he said until I stopped his mouth with my cunt. Heh heh—get back to work, you. And he did, his tongue immediately lapping at my flesh, nearly making me forget my purpose. Nearly.

  I leaned forward, opened the button fly on his boxer briefs, and took him in my mouth. That did make him stop, for his head fell away, and he said my name. Damn right. Who’s your Ingrid, baby?

  I really did enjoy a nice blow job. Sam loved them so, and the way he thrust his hips toward my mouth, well, that plain makes a girl feel appreciated. Mmmmmm he was warm, and soon wet, and I slid up and down on him not too fast and not too slow. I wanted to drive him crazy, to take my time, but when he lifted his head again and tongued my clit, I moved faster. He worked more feverishly, as did I, but I ended up not working very long.

  With a ragged moan, he gasped, “I need to fuck you.”

  I stroked his cock and said, “Can’t talk now. Giving blow job.”

  He didn’t protest anymore once he was in my mouth, for his capacity for speech seemed to have fled. I licked him up one side, around the sensitive head, then down the other. Again. And again. He fought back, tracing slow circles around my clit and easing one finger inside me. It was my turn to break off my actions and cry out in pleasure.

  He’d convinced me. I needed that gorgeous cock. I rolled off him again to get rid of his boxers and returned to straddle his cock. Without ceremony, I slid onto him while he pushed up the rest of the way, nearly knocking me off with the force of it.

  “You’d better stay on, cowgirl,” he drawled obnoxiously.

  I grabbed both his hands and held them o
ver his head while I ‘stayed on’ again. His most shit-eating grin flashed right before I kissed him. He slid his tongue to tangle with mine, and he tasted like me, reminding my slow-grinding pussy of where he’d been and what he’d done. Pussy was extremely fond of every part of him, and couldn’t have stopped rocking that cock if she’d tried.

  He let me dominate him, bite and nip at his neck, grab and slap at his hard waist. All the while, he pumped his hips in rhythm with mine, drawing out the pleasure, slow screwing in the best way.

  Finally, I couldn’t take his hands not being on me, so I released them. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me, our bodies moving together as one, chest to chest, hip to hip, mouth to mouth. He raked one hand through my hair and settled the other on my ass, guiding me to his cock how he wanted it, and how I wanted it, too. Me on top always brought me there, and I started to come, again, tearing my lips away from his to scream his name. It overwhelmed me, my body spasming with total bliss, total release. He held onto me with both hands now and thrust into me faster, faster, milking my orgasm for all it was worth, or maybe just orchestrating his own, for he gave a ragged moan, and I knew he came, too.

  He cradled me against him for a long time, our breathing becoming more regular. I finally noticed that the room had gone dark, for the film had stopped long before we had. “Oh, no, now I don’t know how it ended,” I said.

  “Yes, you do.”

  I laughed at his tone, sarcastic and sexy both. Somewhere in the duvet, he found the remote, which had been tossed and turned like a bob on the ocean. The TV flicked off, and he scooted me under the covers. His body spooning mine, his sweet-smelling arm beneath my neck, he said, “Goodnight, Ingrid.”

  “Ja. Goodnight, Fisken.”

  Chapter Eight

  Now With More Angst!

  I nearly danced in the elevator up to our apartment the next day after the table read for my movie. Not danced as in happy-boogie, but almost like a pee-pee dance of anxiousness, for I needed to tell Sam what had happened. Taylor was turning seriously squirrely, and he gave me the heebie-jeebies like crazy. Plus, every time I thought about him sending goons after my husband, I wanted to beat him with his own script.