Novel Experience (Sara Miles)

by Dacia Quinn

  I feel Gail’s eyes on me, but when I glance over, her gaze is back on the TV. Mine linger on her. Her panties are visible now—black lace, vaguely see-through. She rests the palm of her hand on her mound, her fingers lightly brushing her lips through the silk crotch. I can’t see to know for sure, but I imagine they're a little damp with wetness.

  God, I am wet. I slide a finger down between my lips and a shiver rolls through me. It catches Gail’s attention, and she involuntarily arches her hips slightly, pressing herself against her hand. She watches me slide my fingers up and down, just parting my lips with my fingertips. My eyes are locked to her tense thighs.

  I don’t tell her that I want to have my head between those thighs, feeling them tense and clench as I lick her. I want to. At least, the wine and mango vodka makes me want to. But no, despite her revelation about getting worked up over that chapter I’d written, she is still the same Gail. Horny, but conventional. And married. Would that even be cheating? Was what we were doing now even a kind of cheating? I realize that I’m thinking myself out of an orgasm, so I set aside the questions and just watch her slim, gorgeous body writhe on the couch next to me. I’ve given up the pretense of watching the men’s asses on the television, but Gail either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

  She lifts her shirt off over her head, and I get an eyeful of her round, perfect breasts—curved in just the perfect way, topped with two small, dark brown nipples. She pinches one between thumb and forefinger as she moves her hand under the waistband of her panties. I’d rather her take them off completely, giving me a view of her neatly trimmed little bush, but she rarely does that.

  She watches the men on the television, now getting attention from some newly-arrived women. The focus changes to their bodies rather than that of the men.

  “Want me to rewind?” I ask, somewhat breathless.

  “No, I think I need to watch them do it,” she says.

  “Alright,” I sigh, happy to keep my hand where it is.

  It isn’t long before the women are spread open for the men. Cue the requisite shots of penetration, which never do much for me. Soon the camera angles change, showing more of the women. My fingers dance along my cleft, teasing my clit. I know it won’t take me long to come, but somewhere along the line I’ve decided to hold off for Gail so I could orgasm while watching her come. Every moment that passes becomes more difficult though, between the tight bodies on the screen and Gail’s tight body beside me. She spreads open a bit wider, pulling her panties to the side. Our legs brush each other, and I feel her tense in that way you do when you’re not sure if physical contact is appropriate. I press my leg firmly against hers, and she relaxes against me. I feel pressure building inside me, and so with excruciating difficulty I slow the pace of my fingers yet again.

  Gail pinches her nipple as she rocks her hand against her mound. Her panties have worked down even lower, well past her hip bones and enough that I can see her fingers darting in and out in short little explorations, shining with her own wetness. I slide down next to her, resting myself against her arm. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to mind. It gives me a better view of her left hand as it plays with her stiff nipples. She opens her legs more, and I reach down. I do it almost without thinking, on some sudden primal impulse. It would be lying to say I don’t intend it, but I’m at war with myself over it. I slide my hand into the crook of her knee, pulling her leg over mine. When she doesn’t resist, my own war ends. I release the breath that I’ve been unwittingly holding. My pants and panties fall from my knees to the floor, and I open myself up more.

  I glance up at Gail, and find her looking down at me as she fucks herself with her fingers. I leave my hand on her thigh, letting it drift slowly down toward her crotch—but not all the way. Horny as I am, I haven’t suddenly become insane. I feel the heat coming from her tensing muscles. I slide my fingers deep inside, curling them upward to massage my g-spot. On the television, one of the women has climbed atop one of the men, and her hips thump rhythmically against him, the camera giving me a great view of the muscles of her thighs and ass as she rides with long, vigorous strokes. There is no stopping it now—I can feel the crest of my orgasm about to burst in upon me.

  Just at that moment, Gail thrusts her hips forward, and my hand slides down to the hot, sweaty meeting of her legs, and I sense the wetness of her pussy and her fingers as she starts to come. She cries out, and every muscle in her body clenches. I fuck myself hard and fast, every thrust prodding deep inside me—a sudden gush of wetness sprays my hand, then another and another as I come. I’m grunting now as my body spasms and curls in on itself.

  “Oh fuck, fuck,” Gail breathes, her words hot in my ear.

  As I fuck myself hard with one hand, my other hand presses itself against her, rubbing firmly in time with her own motions. Just as I think her orgasm is coming to an end, she raises her hips up to press herself more firmly against my hand, grinding against me. Her hand slips atop mine, and suddenly I find my fingers inside her, her hand moving mine forward and back against the length of her pussy, soaked with her own juices. My own orgasm doesn’t want to end; it just rolls on and on, my body shivering and convulsing as I try desperately to keep up the pace on both of us.

  “I’m coming!” she squeals, and I adjust my hand to make sure I rub the full length of her before going deep in with my fingers. Gail moves her hands down to the couch for leverage and thrusts her hips hard and fast against my hand, head arched back, eyes closed. Her voice becomes an incoherent series of grunts and moans. My own orgasm begins to fade, but already I can feel more stirring inside me. I want to climb on top of her and use both hands, my mouth, every inch of me on her to keep her coming—every second of it is hotter than anything I’ve ever seen before. I don’t want it to end.

  But it does. Her arms relax and her hips sink back to the couch. In the background are the weak grunts of the women faking their pleasure—suddenly it strikes me as funny rather than sexy. I laugh quietly, then take back my hand. At that moment I realize I am now in a situation that requires explanation, or at least some sort of discussion. Would she freak out? Get angry or upset?

  “Oh, fuck, you should have done that a long time ago,” she says, with a triumphant exhale of breath.

  “I’m …. well, it wasn’t something I planned.”

  “Don’t start getting all talky on me,” Gail says, her breathing still ragged. “I ought to bring you over and have you show Danny how you did that.”

  I don’t know what look I have on my face, but it makes her laugh.

  “Don’t worry, I’m just joking,” she says, but got a look on her face as though she were imagining it. “So, I guess that answers a question for me.”

  “A question?”

  “You do like girls, don’t you? I’ve always wondered, since you sometimes … well, you sometimes stare at women in that same way you stare at men.”

  I’m not exactly angry with myself. Just frustrated.

  “Not quite the same way.”

  “Close enough. Anyway, whatever,” she says. Typical.

  “Come on, Gail! I hardly did anything,” I say. More defensively, “And you grabbed my hand!”

  “Well, yeah. I may not be into women, but that felt way too good to just stop. And ruin a perfectly fantastic orgasm? Pfft. No way.”

  She’s glossed over something, though, that I can’t let go. “You meant that I sometimes stare at you.”

  “Me? No,” she says, unconvincingly.

  “I do. You’re gorgeous. Don’t take that the wrong way—it’s not like I’m interested in you in that way. Danny has nothing to worry about.”

  “Stop being silly, Sara. You’re getting talky,” she says. “What is it with you writer-types? Always have to talk everything out. Can’t you have an orgasm without analyzing it to death?”

  “I’m not analyzing it!”

  “Bullshit. I can see the wheels turning. We had a nice wank. It doesn’t mean anything more than any of the other
times we wanked together,” she says, firmly. “Get over it. Now, weird as this is, it made me incredibly horny, so I’m gonna need to go and get ready for Danny when he gets home.”

  “Uh …”

  “Don’t worry—he already knows we wank together sometimes.”

  “Holy shit!” I say, standing up and yanking up my pants. “When did you tell him that!”

  “Pfft, years ago.” Her blasé attitude isn’t doing anything for my blood pressure. Then it hits me that all those times we hung out together, he knew. My shame must have shown on my face. “Don’t worry about it. I think he wanted to like the thought of it, but his head told him he couldn’t.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t blow a heart valve!”

  “Oh, come on, he’s not a prude—well, okay, maybe he is,” she admits. “But you’re sounding awfully prudish right now, too—especially since you just had your fingers in my pussy.”

  I blush deeper at the comment, and feel a sudden heat rush through me. Gail laughs as she stands to reassemble her outfit. I give her body one last scan with my eyes before she whisks away her nether parts behind drapes of cotton and polyester.

  [THREE] CONSOLATION

  I DON"T KNOW EXACTLY WHAT to expect from my first real meeting with Thane. My editorial meetings with Andrea were like afternoon teas. She’d offer some criticism, we’d argue, and most of the time I left feeling like I’d basically gotten what I wanted. After his brutally honest assessment at our first meeting, I had a feeling that tea and cookies weren’t on the menu.

  “Raymond is too docile,” Thane says, shaking his head. “No man who’s a television producer is going to be so ... deferential to a writer.”

  “He’s not deferential!”

  “No strong male would put up with her shit. She’d be marked as too difficult and avoided like the plague.”

  “Even if she were incredibly sexy?”

  “Especially so. Men in positions of power—or even men who only think they’re in such a position—have access to women just as gorgeous who aren’t nearly as demanding. She’s got to give them something more than that. A reason. Something undeniable and unique. That’s where your conflict is.”

  “I’m not writing a book about how women need to change to pick up men!”

  “I’m not asking you to change your women,” he says, probably for the twentieth time in the last hour. To his credit, he doesn’t say it with the exasperation most would if they’d been forced to say it so many times. “This is about the men. Most men would probably act as your men do. You have a wonderful protagonist here. She deserves better than just any man, right? He must be special. And she must be special as well. I don’t need to tell you this. You already know. It’s just not coming across.”

  “Thanks for at least admitting that I’m not an idiot.”

  “Of course you’re not an idiot,” he says, and this time some exasperation does come through. “It’s not a matter of changing. It’s about her finding something in herself. I think you can do it. God knows Clara Barton never did.”

  “You know, I’m a bit tired of hearing her name,” I say. I’m pouting, dammit, and it’s humiliating.

  “There was always a moment in Clara’s books where a light went on in the woman’s head, where she realized that the man had been right the entire time. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s what the character does about it that’s the problem.”

  “So that’s it, then? You couldn’t change Clara, so you’re trying to change me?”

  “I never tried to change her. I tried to make her books better. And she was very nearly as stubborn as you are. This isn’t personal, Sara.”

  “It’s my work,” I say, lifting up the printed manuscript of the first third of my book, then dropping it down on the desk. “I don’t know how to not take it personally.”

  “You’re still new to all this,” he says, slumping back in his chair. “For your own sake—and not just a little for my own—I hope you soon learn how.”

  * * *

  “HE ... DOESN"T LIKE MY BOOK,” I say. Yes, I know, that isn’t exactly what he’d said. Maybe he’d even said the opposite. But I knew what his words felt like, and my own version sounded closer to my experience than his actual words. And I don’t care how irrational that sounds.

  “He must have liked it a little,” Theresa says. “Or he wouldn’t have wanted to work with you, right?”

  Theresa is packing up for the day. My meeting with Thane has gone late—with the greater part of it filled with argument—and the poor girl has been stuck waiting for us to leave. Thane had just left, parting with a smile and kind words. I wanted to stab a pen into his arm.

  “Well, it doesn’t feel that way,” I growl at myself, scaring Theresa a little. I take a deep breath. “You know what? I need a drink. It’s closing time—why not join me?”

  “Join you?” she repeats, a look of mixed fear and excitement in her eyes. I can’t help but wonder how many famous authors had passed through here and not given her the time of day. Of course, I’m not exactly friggin’ Clara Barton. “You mean, at a bar?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “It’s just … whenever I go out to a bar with friends they try to set me up with guys.”

  I laugh. “Honey, the real purpose of a bar is to get drunk, not to pick up guys. And after today, I think I’m ready to swear off men completely.”

  “Well, then, let’s go!” she says.

  * * *

  I ORDER A COSMO BECAUSE I can’t think of any other drinks off the top of my head. Theresa orders a Long Island iced tea. It’s a Wednesday night, so the bar is not exactly busy. I count it a blessing. We find an unoccupied stretch of the bar and sit.

  “I think he likes you,” she says.

  “You mean Thane? You’re kidding.”

  “No, you can tell by how he looks at you.”

  “You mean, he likes me in a platonic way, right?”

  “Sure, if that’s what you want to think,” she says.

  “I don’t know if I want to talk about this,” I say. “We can talk about your love life.”

  “No way. You know, Thane never stays late for meetings with other writers he’s working with.”

  “You're not gonna give this up, are you? What other women is he working with?”

  “Dana Trask,” she says.

  “Dana Trask is fifty years old!”

  “He makes a special effort with you.”

  “He makes a special effort to kick my ass.”

  “That’s his job.”

  “Andrea was at least nice when she offered a critique. Thane seems to take a great deal of pleasure in inflicting pain.”

  “Aren’t writers supposed to have a thick skin about that sort of thing?”

  “We pretend. I just don’t do it as well as some others.”

  “You always won your arguments with Andrea?”

  “Mostly. I don’t think they had high expectations from the book back then, so I wonder if it was just a matter of time and effort. Now that the book is selling, I think they’re making more of an effort.”

  “Money?”

  “Well, yeah. No one likes to say it, but that’s why we’re doing this, right?”

  “Not for the love of the written word?”

  “Distant second. I can’t write if I can’t eat.”

  She smiles brightly, and I can’t help but return it. Her lip curls. “For a minute you sounded just like Nara. Although I think she said it about working and fucking.”

  I immediately recoil. “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or compliment.”

  “It’s just the truth,” she says, sipping her drink. “Anyway, why wouldn’t someone like Thane like you?”

  I groan. Obviously she’s not going to let this go. “He thinks I’m a lousy writer.”

  “Oh, come on, he didn’t say that.”

  “Maybe in not so many words...”

  “Maybe not in any words.”

  “If you h
eard our arguments, you’d think differently.”

  “What makes you think I can’t hear? The door in the office isn't that thick,” she says. “It’s as if you didn’t read your own book. Nara and Peter argue with each other through most of it.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not that kind of arguing.”

  She shakes her head. “Are all writers so un-self-aware?”

  “Probably,” I say. “And besides—maybe I don’t like him.”

  “You said maybe.”

  I look at her again. For a receptionist, she’s awfully perceptive. Her quirky smile sends a little shiver through me.

  “And you thinks that means that I do like him?”

  “He’s good looking.”

  I sigh. “I think I might be looking for something different at the moment. Very different.” I down the last bit of my cosmo. My eyes settle on the empty glass. It’s the easiest way to avoid staring at her smile, or the nape of her neck, or the curves below her shirt. “Okay, I went through that pretty fast. I need another.”

  “Get something stronger!” she encouraged.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “You seem to be doing a good job of that on your own.”

  “Getting drunk and fucking myself,” I say, my voice full of pathetic depression.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Something a friend said.”

  * * *

  THERESA STUMBES DRUNKENLY INTO MY livingroom/kitchen/office/bedroom and slides onto the couch. She’s only had three drinks, so she can’t possibly be that drunk. On the other hand, my own reasoning skills have become seriously degraded by three vodka tonics and two shots of Southern Comfort. With her sprawled out on my couch I realize just how tiny she is, and reconsider. They weren’t small drinks. I’m not large by any means, but I’m thirty for God’s sake and I’ve got a job that keeps me lounging about all day. If my food budget hadn’t been miniscule, I’d be a wreck. As it is, I have ten pounds more than I ought. Theresa could probably put on ten and look better.