When the class ended, she waited until the other students had filed out. I sat in my chair, looking at nothing, hot and wet and a little scared. She had a right to be mad. She walked up to me, stopped in front of my desk.
“Drop the class,” she said. “You’re distracting my students.”
I nodded.
Then she reached out and picked up another piece of ice. She placed it on my shirt and held it there, just above the nipple. Let it melt a second, dripping coke-sticky cold water down onto my nipple, which popped straight up. She watched me, watched my breath catch, watched me swallow. Then she dropped the ice back in the cup, smiled sweetly, and spoke again.
“Just one rule. Carla gets to watch.”
Oh shit.
I’d done some group stuff in college; everyone did, right? When dyke club meetings got late; when everyone got drunk and giddy. You ended up sprawled over some girl’s couch, feeling up someone’s breasts by candlelight while someone else felt up yours. But none of those had ever gone all that far; clothes had mostly stayed on—they just got pushed out of the way. All the real screwing I’d done had been one-on-one. Still, it didn’t sound like Carla would be doing anything—just watching. Watching would be okay, right? I could just ignore her, and it would be worth it—it would so be worth it to get my hands on Janna’s breasts, on her belly and hips and ass. I wanted to grind my pubic bone against her clit; I wanted my fingers fucking her, in and out, fast and hard and sweet. I wanted her screaming, and I wanted it bad. So I said yes.
We walked back to their house, not touching, a foot of space between us, my body humming with desire.
Carla worked at home; she was there when we walked in, leaning over a computer, long brown hair falling in front of her face. She turned around when we walked in the door, and I could tell right away that she knew; she knew exactly why we were there, in the middle of the afternoon, when Janna should have been holding office hours. Carla looked at us and knew. I was ready for her to get mad, to get weepy, but instead she smiled. It was a wicked grin, stretching her mouth wide and showing teeth. That grin took her plain pale face—a face I wouldn’t have looked at twice in a club—and turned it into something else again. Something maybe a little dangerous.
Janna said, “This is Susan. She wants to play.”
“You two go ahead and get started. I’ll be there in a minute.” And she turned back to the computer and started typing again.
Shit. I couldn’t believe she was so fucking casual about the whole thing. Did Janna bring women home like this all the time? What was going on with these two anyway? But then Janna was taking my hand, leading me through the house to the bedroom, pulling me onto the bed, and I didn’t give a damn anymore. So Carla didn’t mind if Janna fucked other women—this was my problem? Hell, no. Janna’s mouth was on mine, moving hot and wet, and her fingers were unbuttoning my cut-offs, pulling them off; I lifted my ass to help, and in a couple of minutes I was naked and she was too, and we were writhing together like two fish on a wet dock—fuck Carla!
I finally got my mouth on Janna’s breast—just as gorgeous naked as I’d hoped it would be, and even bigger than I’d thought—and sucked hard, pressing my face against it, smothering myself eagerly in all that soft flesh. I couldn’t breathe, and didn’t want to; she was on top of me, her body crushing me into the bed. I liked it; I wanted more. I tried to reach down to her cunt, but her hands grabbed my wrists and pulled them up over my head, pinning me down. Her thigh pushed my legs apart and pressed against my crotch; then her hip was grinding into me, shoving me down hard against the mattress. She was pushing me, pushing me up and over, and I was moaning. Usually it was me making the other girl come, me making her scream, but Janna had me down and begging for it, and when she bit my nipple I came hard. I came once, then again, and it was when I was gearing up to come for a third time that I noticed that somewhere in there, my wrists had gotten tied to a bedpost. Fuck.
I tugged against the rope—tight. Opened my eyes, and there was Carla, comfortable in a rocking chair, snuggled up in an afghan, of all the weird-ass things, a fucking orange afghan. She was wearing granny glasses, and if she’d been a couple of decades older, she could have been someone’s granny. But I knew that she was the one who had tied me up while Janna was busy distracting me, and she was definitely the one grinning now, watching us. And when Janna paused for breath, Carla was the one who reached out to the bedside table, who picked up a giant economy-sized tube of Wet lube, and who said, “I think she could use a good fisting, honey,” as she handed it to Janna. Then she sat back in the chair and started it rocking, her eyes fixed on mine.
I could have said something. But instead, I closed my eyes. I bit my lip and lay back; I wrapped my hands around the ropes and let Janna drizzle lube into my snatch. A little to start—then she was swirling her fingers around the mouth of it, getting every millimeter of skin wet. It had been pretty wet already, but for a fisting, it was going to need to be a lot wetter. Or so I’d heard.
She rubbed my clit until I started squirming on the sheets again. Then she slid a finger into my hole—two. Three. No problem. Four was easy. I had taken four plenty of times. And when she slid her thumb in there, I spread my thighs wider, inviting her in. That part, I knew how to do. She fucked me silently—she hadn’t said a word this entire time—had hardly spoken since we’d left her class. But I could hear her breathing, could feel one of her hands pressing down on my open thigh and the other sliding into me, in and out. More lube. She was doing something with her hand—spiraling it as she slid in and out of me. Pushing a little harder each time, pushing closer to the knuckles. I wanted her to go fast, to get it over with—to just push past the pain, like the first time I got fucked with a strap-on. But Janna went slower and slower. And she was quiet enough that I could hear Carla start to whisper.
“Come on, Susie. You can do it. Relax—you gotta relax and let her into you. Open up wide and let her into your wet cunt, your sopping pussy. You want her to—you want her so bad… .”
Janna was pouring more lube onto me now, cold at first, thick and wet, coating my thighs and cunt and the sheets and her hand, fucking in and out of me.
“I saw it at the club; I watched you make up to my girl, and I knew you were dying for her, you wanted her so bad. So give it up, baby. Relax and let it go, let her have you, let her take you.”
She was pushing harder, pushing hard enough that it hurt, just a little. Pushing down, and her fingers pressing against that spot that felt so good but made me feel like I was gonna pee. And I was twisting under her hand, or trying to—I couldn’t help it—but she kept my hips pinned down with one hand and fucked me with the other. In and out.
“We want you to let us fuck you, baby, and it’s the least you can do, little tease, little slut. You pretend you’re a top but what you really want is for someone to take you and fuck you hard, push you up and over the edge—”
I was moaning now, pulling hard on the ropes and glad they were there, moaning loud enough that I almost couldn’t hear her anymore. I was so close, so fucking close.
“…and you want it bad enough that you’re willing to beg for it from someone you know you aren’t supposed to touch. So come on, baby girl…come on… .”
And that was it, Janna’s hand slid into me with a quiet pop, a sucking noise, and it didn’t hurt at all. It was in me. Then she started moving it. Moving inside me, her whole fucking hand. She opened it up and closed it, her fingers reaching up and into me, like she wasn’t just fucking my cunt, like she was fucking all of me, and I was shivering and screaming before long, coming up and over and over again.
It went on for a long time.
When they were done with me, Carla untied me, still grinning. Janna and I showered, giggling off and on. I was pretty high on an endorphin rush; my thighs were trembling and my head was spinning. Dropping the soap was funny, and almost slipping on it was hilarious. I didn’t know why Janna was giggling too, but I didn’t care. I was just
glad she’d enjoyed herself. Janna soaped my back and I did hers; we washed each others’ pussies clean. That was all good.
By the time we started drying off, I was coming down from my high, the giggles disappearing and exhaustion taking over. I started wondering if this was it, if they were done with me. Maybe they picked up a different girl every week—it was possible. That should have been fine with me—all I’d wanted was to fuck Janna, right? And even if she’d fucked me instead, or they both had, I couldn’t complain that I was unsatisfied. There was no reason for me to feel blue—but I did.
My mood got worse as I got dressed—Janna disappeared to go find Carla. When I joined them in their sunny yellow kitchen, they were sharing a glass of water. They looked so fucking cute; Janna leaning against Carla, the glass cradled in her hands. I shoved my hands in my pockets so they couldn’t see them shake; I was ready to storm off, pissed for no reason I could explain.
Then Carla said, “Hey, that was great! Do you need to take off, or do you want to stick around and talk, maybe have dinner?”
Dinner. I wasn’t sure what came with dinner—maybe something complicated—maybe more than I wanted in the end. It had been a pretty strange day. But for now… .
“Dinner sounds good.”
I took my hands out of my pockets as Janna handed me the glass, and drank deep.
A Jewel of a Woman
You ever wonder what women think about when they’re grabbing the goatee? I bet you hope they think about you—about the smell of you, or the taste of your slightly salty come, or how much they want a nice, thick cock slamming into them right about now…well, sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t think about men when I’m jilling off. Maybe other women do—I don’t know, so you can still keep hoping—but I’m a little strange. You know what I think about?
Jewels. That’s right. When I’m fluffin’ the muffin, buffing the beaver, airing the orchid—you know exactly what I mean—I’m thinking about rubies. Rubies and diamonds. Rubies and diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and I’m getting wet just thinking about it. Here, let me get more comfortable—undo this silly bra and spread my legs so I have lots of room to work with—ah, that’s better.
So as I was saying, I don’t know what other girls do when they’re dousing the digits, but me, I get myself off with gemstones walking through my mind. Before I even start, I open up my jewel case and adorn myself with some pretty or other—not that I can afford real jewels, but at least I can pretend. Sometimes I wrap imitation pearls around my waist, or put a string of bangles on my naked arm. I’ve thought about getting my nipples pierced, so I can hang earrings from them—don’t you think that’d look cute? And at Christmas, I could hang little ornaments there.
I once tried that trick you read about, where you stuff a bunch of pearls deep into your pussy and then pull the strand out slowly, one by one. It drove Mike (my ex) crazy at the time, and it felt so good, so fucking good as those pearls came out, grinding against my clit one by one, but it totally ruined those imitation pearls. I need real ones, baby…real strands of pearls. And topazes and opals, and amethysts, and garnets—I’m not picky—I’ll even take semi-precious if it’s the best I can get.
Mmm…just thinking about it makes me want to fuck. And since you’re not here, well, I’ll have to do the best I can myself. Let my fingers do the walking, from my hard nipples down to pet the pussy, oh yeah. Uh huh. Just a little tickle here, then a little jab there…pull those labia apart so I can really get to strumming the clitar, oh yes. I left my vibrator at the office—silly me—but hey, I’ve had years of getting off without it. Just takes a bit more work. Just think of diamonds, girl, diamonds in your hair and ears and around my smooth white neck—a diamond in my belly button and another in my pubic hair. They say that back in olden times, ladies used to grow their pubic hair extra long so they could tie ribbons in it. Wouldn’t mine look cute with a couple diamonds attached?
Maybe I’d just stuff a handful up my pussy—though rubies would be better for that. Oh, yeah. Nice, big, goose-egg rubies, cold and hard at first and then warming up inside me. I could walk to work like that, and all those rubies would be jangling around in my pussy, and strange men would look at me in the street, wondering where that strange knocking noise was coming from. And I would smile… . ‘Diamond in the soles of her shoes’? She ain’t got nothing on me, baby.
God, I’m soaking now, at the thought of all those rubies inside me. I wish I did have something inside me, something big and hard. Rubies would be best, but I wouldn’t complain at a cock right now, no I wouldn’t. My fingers are getting wrinkled, and it would be nice to have someone else take over thumbing the button, waxing the saddle. You could buy me jewels—the kind of jewels I can’t afford with my $7.75 an hour as an Arthur Anderson file clerk.
How ’bout that for a deal, huh? Buy me rubies and pearls, black onyxes and opals—hell, I’ll wear an opal in my ass; I’ll deck myself out in jewels from head to toe, like those exotic harem girls over in Arabia. And you can lick me from head to toe, lick right around and over and under all those pretties, and take ’em off one by one to leave a clear path for you to fuck me, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah—wrap your fingers in my hair and pull me down to the bed naked and wet beneath you—just leave me my pearls, my string of pearls wrapped twice around my waist and I will fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before, oh boy, oh God, yes—I will fuck you until you scream.
The Poet’s Journey
1.
In a faraway land under the coconut palms, there was a quiet little house by the sea. It had old boards that creaked when the wind whistled through them. It had small rooms that filled with sunshine on sunny days and moonlight on cloudless nights. Sometimes the roof leaked a little rain. And it had a young poet.
The poet was not happy. She spent her days biting her lips and biting her nails. She spent her nights staring at the cracks in the ceiling, watching the lizards scuttle. She never danced in the warm rain. The poet was not happy at all.
She couldn’t write poems, you see.
2.
The poet didn’t know why she couldn’t write poems. She had studied how to do it, and she had a good wood desk that faced a window that faced the open sea. She had a stack of paper given to her by a kindly aunt, and a box of pencils from the store. She had more time than she knew what to do with. But she had no poems inside her.
She bit her lips until they got chewed up and swollen. She bit her nails until they got raggedy and torn. She stared at the ceiling until her eyes crossed and burned, but her mind was empty of poetry.
Finally, she decided she had had enough.
3.
The poet decided to go on a quest. She said out loud to the empty room (because there was no one else to talk to):
“I must find poetry.” She stood quiet for a moment, listening for an answer, but there was none. So she began to pack.
She packed very little. She had always wanted to be the kind of person who travelled light. Just the clothes on her back, a small bag packed with a few necessities, some money to buy food along the way, and of course, some paper and the box of pencils. Just in case. The poet took one last look at her little house, and then turned resolutely away and walked out through the door.
She stepped out into the wide world.
4.
She walked and walked and walked. Just when she got so tired that it seemed she couldn’t possibly walk any further, she came to a crossroads. The road forked at a signpost; one road went left, the other went right. She didn’t know which to choose.
“Which way do I go?” She spoke out loud, even though no one was there. The poet had gotten into the habit of talking out loud, back in her empty room. So she was very startled when she got an answer.
“What are you looking for?”
5.
Who was talking? The poet didn’t see any other people! She looked left. She looked right. She looked behind her. Finally, she looked up, and there she saw two crows, sittin
g on top of the signpost. Could they be talking to her? Was it possible? She decided to answer the question.
“I’m looking for poetry. I’m a poet, and I can’t write poems.”
The larger crow spoke, its beak opening wide. “I am Stephan. You must have good white paper, if you want to write poetry.”
Before the poet could speak, the other crow opened its beak. “I am Nathan. You must have a good, stout pencil, if you want to write poetry.”
The poet opened up her bag, spilling out paper and pencils. “Look—I have paper and pencils!”
6.
“Not good enough!” Nathan sneered.
“Shoddy workmanship!” Stephan sniffed.
“You call yourself a poet!” they chorused. “Pathetic!”
The poor poet was ready to cry, but she blinked hard to hold back the tears. “Where do I go? What should I do?”
Silence and the Word Page 21
