I wanted to say that we were Donna and Fred. We’d just made love to our mirror images, and it was caught on tape.
I started the car.
“Turn on the heater,” Beryl said. “I don’t want to catch cold.”
I did, and as we drove, the warmth started at our feet and moved up our bodies and to our faces. We were holding hands the whole way.
Home, our hair dry, we went into our own Jacuzzi and fucked in the water and under the stars, and there was only us, and it was very nice again, for a while.
After Loss
Tabitha Flyte
After the tears had been shed, the damp tissues were buried in wastepaper baskets, and we had all given up asking why, why, why, Robert said that he should go back home. My sister Sarah said no: she felt she should stay overnight to keep an eye on Mum, even though my brother was still living at home back then. (He moved out a few months later. He said it wasn’t the same without Dad).
I couldn’t bear to stay in the family house so I asked Robert if he wouldn’t mind dropping me at my flat, even though it was way across town. My eyes were blurry from crying, and I hate night driving even at the best of times. Robert said it was no problem.
Saying goodbye wrung more tears out of all of us. My sister and I hugged each other unusually tightly and I promised to call early the next morning. As I left the house I had a sick feeling in my gut: what if they died too?
Robert drove so effortlessly it was almost as if he weren’t driving at all. I watched his big hand as he glided through the gears. He was a cool customer but I knew he was upset too. He and Sarah had been dating for eight years; as Mum said, he was almost family. In fact, he probably got on with each of us better than family. I don’t think he and Dad had ever conversed deeply, but they’d laughed about a broad range of things, as men do, and together they’d teased Sarah and me, the crazy sisters.
“I feel terrible,” I said desolately when we arrived at my place.
“I’ll come in for coffee,” he said, and I knew that he meant a talk. Robert had been trying to talk us around for the last few days. He was full of correct homilies, lines from books on bereavement counseling.
In the bathroom, my face in the mirror looked unfamiliar. My eyes were over-bright and my expression seemed new, but not fresh-new. Surely I didn’t have more lines, more gray hairs than last week? I pinched my cheeks, trying to bring some color onto the pale palette. I changed out of my formal black clothes into a dressing gown.
In the living room Robert was sitting on the floor, cupping his mug of cocoa. When he saw me a sympathetic look crept across his serious face. It was too gentle. Annoyingly, it started me off.
“Robert,” I dribbled, “I need a cuddle.” The words just spilled out like a leak.
“It’s all right,” he said. I swear I would have killed him if he’d said, “Let it out” or “Have a good cry.”
I sat down beside him, and he put his arms around me. It had been so long since anyone, any man, had touched me that for a split second I almost didn’t know what to do. I tensed. It was a shock, just to be there, to be held. Eventually I relaxed. I felt the stress leave my body, and my muscles all seemed to flop. With my family I had tried to be so strong; now, with Robert, I defrosted.
Robert didn’t let go. He held me in his warmth. He was a big cuddly bear. “It’s all right, ’s all right.”
Men and women hug so differently. When I am hugged by a woman I feel that the arms around me say, “Yes you can do it, you can.” When I am held by a man I feel that I am being told, “No, you don’t have to do it, you don’t.”
A sob, a groan – I didn’t realize immediately that it was he who was sobbing, not me. He was crying into my shoulder. I remembered Sarah saying, almost contemptuously, that he couldn’t even watch a romantic film without welling up.
“It’s OK,” I whispered. It was my turn to comfort. I patted him awkwardly. This was my grief, not his, yet I was proud; if he was this bereft, think what sorrow I was entitled to. His face had that comical look men sometimes get when they cry; he was trying to cheer up, but grief literally pulled the corners of his lips southward.
I felt the carpet beneath my dressing gown burning against my thighs, but I hung onto him, squeezing him alive. How good it was to comfort someone rather than have him walk on eggshells around me.
“’S OK,” I whispered. He looked at me for a second and then his face was comfortably looming over mine. His mouth moved onto mine, tender, searching.
“It’s OK,” I repeated firmly.
We kissed, and our lips parted and our tongues peeped out, cautious at first, tentative. Then, as his lips warmed mine, I couldn’t stop my tongue from prying into his mouth. His tongue felt so good, like an extension of our comfort, a sharing of our pain. His wet tongue inside my mouth was like transference, like a mother giving her baby food. It was sweet, soft nourishment somehow – well, that’s how it felt at first. I cupped his face, his beautiful face, and I felt moisture between my legs, but it didn’t feel wrong or anything, just friendly. We held each other tight. He was massaging my back, making big circular strokes, and our mouths were widening and our tongues becoming more adventurous. I made a little whimpering noise and he pulled me closer.
OK, we weren’t being so friendly then, but the opposite of friends is enemies, and we were still friends – we’d just slid along the sliding scale. It didn’t feel like a big change, or an abrupt turn. It felt warm playing with tongues. Arousal dampened my knickers. Rising heat. Maybe we shouldn’t have, but it was nice, so nice, not to be alone. We were like kids too young to know any better, playing doctors and nurses. He kept pulling back and studying my face but I couldn’t stand having him look at me. I wanted his tongue inside me, his mouth wrapped around me. I didn’t want him to see me; I felt like my face was just fragile skin stretched over skull. People say faces are beautiful, but they are just mineral, just shells. I wanted him to squiggle in my hole, to blot away my anger. I was becoming exuberant, feeling good, physical, for the first time in weeks. I felt that strange twist in my sex, the reminder that I was not dead.
How can you be dead when you feel like this?
Somehow, I don’t know how it happened, but my dressing gown was gaping and he was down lower, sucking at my tits. I remember looking at his face, his tufts of dark hair, pressed into my collarbone. I felt womanly, maternal. I knew I couldn’t stop this. There was no reason to stop. This was the best way to comfort someone. If I could do this for everyone, every man, then surely the world would be a better place. Imagine on the subway, healing the soulless faces, touching their hands grimy from newspaper print, letting everyone who needed it suck me there, hold me tight. I would spread sustenance, warmth, fulfill some fantasies.
My nipples were hard and he was rolling them around in his mouth, sucking them like candy, pulling at them. I still felt tender toward him, tender toward everything – but I felt crazy too. Go lower, I wanted to urge, go south. I wanted him to suck my clit before I exploded.
He was kissing me again, little angel kisses on my lips and my chin. He was pulling me onto him, and I let him because he was so upset, and if I was making him feel just a little better, it would make me feel a hundred percent better. To see my nipples harden and pinken was something I just wouldn’t have expected at a time like this.
At a time like this.
I was leaning over him so that my breasts kind of plopped into his mouth. I was thinking how lovely it was. Nothing else. I know that you are supposed to be wondering tortured thoughts – Where will this go? How will this end? – but I didn’t wonder about any of that. In fact, I thought he, we, wouldn’t go further. I thought this was it, a complete story. But then he yanked my dressing gown up at the back and his hand landed on the cusp of my ass. Fuck!
Jesus, it felt nice. The hole between my legs turned liquid from his hands toying with my butt. I was making little noises of approval. These fired him up: the next instant he was sucking my breast furiously, fiercely,
harder than before. I thought, What about the other one? What’s wrong with that one? Then he moved over and nursed my other nipple and I was controlling his head, urging him on. Even to myself I sounded like one of those women in the dirty movies, telling him to suck me, telling him how horny he made me.
I felt like he was taking possession of my body. He was really moving in, and I didn’t know how I felt about that. At the same time I was thanking God that someone was taking control of me. It was glorious to let someone else be responsible for a change. I was sitting lightly on his hands, and he was massaging my naked buttocks. Biting my titties. Did he know how creamy my cunt had become? Did he realize that I would fuck him like a shot, bereavement or no? He looked me in the eyes again before another round of bruising kisses.
“Robert,” I murmured, “what are we doing?”
I suppose my intervention came too weak, too late.
It did not take much for the poor man to slide one finger, just one culpable finger, between my legs. And it took just one exploring finger to change the way of the world and to make all of our decisions. His finger found my cunt, wandered up my creamy slit. I was wetter than the ocean. He groaned his surprise. Still, as soon as his fingers were slithering around in my moistness, I knew that this wasn’t right.
Sarah will kill me.
I had never fancied Robert before, and I say that in all honesty. But I wanted him now. Oh, yes. I wanted him to fuck me like I wanted nothing else in the world.
His finger filled my sex. And he had such massive fingers, and his other hand, the hand on my buttocks, was clenching me tight. Exploring where it shouldn’t, gliding up and down the gap between my cheeks. Oh, God, Robert, do it to me more.
Sarah will never find out.
More fingers were involved. One was on my clitoris, flicking gently, Oh, God, Robert, you are going to make me come. I was burning up. I was re-entering the earth’s atmosphere, or maybe I was halfway to heaven.
Sarah taught you well.
I felt that he wanted me on top of him, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to straddle him but to be annihilated by him. Fill me up. Wasn’t I the “victim” here? He pressed down on me – not questioning, not fainthearted, but assertive. This is my right, my primitive right. His cock grew huge against my thigh. Yes, bigger, you bastard, as big as it will go.
My wetness coaxed him to be brave. In the tremors of our bodies, our grief was forgotten. He started kissing me again. Long deep dark kisses, knowing kisses, victorious kisses.
Sarah aged twelve asking Dad what erogenous zones were. “Places that are hot,” he’d said, winking at me.
My dressing gown was parted and Robert was sucking powerfully on my nipples, yearning at them, serenading them with his pointed tongue.
I wanted to feel alive again.
Remind me that I am not dead. Show me that I am flesh and blood, and squealing cunt, and horny thighs, and breasts, and curly pubic hair. He went there, between my legs, with his lovely, clever tongue. He licked me there, my wet pussy, sucking out my loneliness the way people suck out the poison of snakebites. He pushed me down so I was lying with my dressing gown askew, legs open, bent at the knees, not caring what he did to me. My shutters were thrown open. He was fielding my pussy, soaking his face and rubbing it against me.
“You’re so good.”
I wondered how we compared sister to sister. Did we taste the same? Would we come the same? He licked and licked and I moved, rocking against him, making his face so wet that he had to pull away and wipe himself. And then he was back, determined, vibrating my clit, tongue and fingers, fingers and tongue, and I was cunt-up, eaten up, losing it, losing him. I thrust against his licking face, mad for it. The orgasm stole through me, big shudders following little ones. Embarrassed laughs of disbelief followed my roars of approval.
And then he was up; up and ready to insert his big cock inside me to blot out our pain. He fiddled between my legs and found my welcoming space. After the hors d’oeuvres, my cunt was hungry for the main course. He moved to enter me.
“Do you have a condom?” I hissed.
No.
Then we couldn’t fuck, we can’t fuck because tonight is definitely not the night the first grandchild will be conceived, not by him and me. I didn’t trust him not to come the moment he entered me. I would, why wouldn’t he?
Oh shit, the interruption, the aching, I needed fucking like I never had before. This emptiness had to be filled. Let me escape just for a minute again into the oblivion of orgasm. My body was still shaking from the tremors of the last one, the aftershock. Do it again before it wears off and we wake up from this dream. Fill me up, fuck me up. It had to be all of it, his hands on my tits, his mouth on my mouth, and his throbbing dick thrusting up my hole.
“Up my ass,” I whispered. I knew Sarah wouldn’t. I knew he wanted to, and I knew she wouldn’t agree to it. “It’s dirty,” she’d insisted during one of our private sex chats. Well, I was dirty, a fucking whore. So fuck me, hurt me, harder, deeper, go where you shouldn’t go, come when you shouldn’t be thinking about fucking, do it to me when you should be crying, or praying, or drinking sweet tea and eating plain biscuits.
I got up on my hands and knees, doggy-style. I must have looked a sight with my ass up in the air, waving it about, jiggling it, at a time like this. I liked looking like this. He caught hold of my cheeks and pulled them apart, exposing me, wasting me.
His breath caught. “It’s so tiny,” he said cautiously. It was the first time for both of us, I think.
“Yes,” I said, though I didn’t know, how could I know? Dwarfed next to his rigid rod. His fingers sneaked their way around to my underbelly. He put his face forward and nuzzled me again. I clamored for more. I was bewitched.
I wanted it up there.
Things were not normal. Things were unnatural. Him here, me here, making out like teenagers on the carpet, fingering each other in places we didn’t know. But I didn’t want to be alone; I didn’t want time to think. He was a bandage for my wounds, and, I suppose, I was for his.
He held me open and probed my hollow softly with his index finger. It wouldn’t budge so he sucked his forbidden brother-in-law finger and put it damp in my forbidden sister-in-law hole. I was anxious, impatient, and terrified. The puckered valley was temporarily sated by the explorer. He entered me. I loved him entering me. I wanted to buck and shout and shudder. He was stroking my buttocks with his bigness, showing me what he was made of. Kneading me with his shaft of neediness.
“Are you sure?”
Sure? What was there to be sure about in this world; nothing would ever be sure again. I could only gulp my fucking willingness. My willingness to be fucked all over. I saw us in the mirror, his mesmerized expression, concentration and the work ethic etched on his lips. He was going to screw me like I needed to be screwed.
He pushed forward. I felt my insides tear and howled, “No, no, no!” We all make mistakes. To think I could do this with him was a big mistake. But he held steady, thank goodness, he stayed still and waited for my expansion. I could accommodate him, yes, I could. More than that. I wanted to hold him inside me, up me. I scrambled back against him, mashing and grinding. He wrapped his arm around me, perching his hand over my pussy. His hand looked like a diver poised to launch into the deep blue sea. He dove. I felt the trigger, the chase, the splash. All holes filled, all bases covered.
I slammed back again and again to feel his cock work up and down that new place, that uneven road. His hand worked magic on my clitoris and I slammed back, again and again, sighing and coming, and breathing hard, and promising I loved him, and I knew I was alive, I was really alive.
He sped up, and was groaning hot cunts and fucks in my ear, and we jerked against each other, together but not together, alone in our excitement, our exalted incredible comings. I couldn’t stop myself from wailing as his cock sliced through me.
Afterwards he disappeared into the bathroom, where he probably examined his prick and tri
ed to wash the guilt off him. What the fuck have I done? I knew he must have been feeling that, because I was. He dressed hurriedly, like a man who has overslept on the day of the big company presentation.
“Well, if there’s anything you need . . .” he said, backing away toward the sanity of the street. The car sat loyally against the curb like a puppy faithful to its owner.
“You’ve already said that.”
I watched him walk away. I watched him intently almost to convince myself that he had been there, inside my house, his head between my legs, his cock up my ass. As soon as the car drove off he seemed to erase, or vanish. But not completely. My skin felt different, touched, and the hole, the passage, felt used and unfamiliar. Later, no matter how I tried to contort and distort my memory, I could never drive out the events of the day. I realized I had simply exchanged one kind of grief for another.
A Walk in the Rain on the Wild Side
O’Neil De Noux
Judy was plenty scared. Two seedy-looking men leered at her legs as they sat across the aisle of the narrow streetcar. She looked up at the only other person on the car, the driver, and tugged nervously at the hem of her tight silver minidress. The driver was too busy driving through a tropical New Orleans rainstorm to notice anything else on the streetcar at one in the morning.
Judy told herself to calm down. This was what she’d planned when she climbed into the shortest dress she owned earlier that evening. Checking herself in her full-length mirror, as she built up confidence to leave her house dressed like that, she felt excited. The slightest bend at the waist gave a clear view of her thin white panties. Her dress was so short, she had to pull her black thigh-high stockings all the way up to her ass, to keep the top of the hose from being seen when she walked.
Finishing her make-up, Judy had rolled dark red lipstick over her lips and took a look again in the full-length mirror. She’d run her hands down her hips to straighten her dress and turned. Not bad, she thought. At thirty-two, she still had a good figure and damn nice legs. She just wished she could tan, so her skin wouldn’t look so – white. She ran a final brush through her long brown hair and slipped her Smith and Wesson .38 snub-nosed revolver into her purse. After a third glass of wine, she decided to go braless.
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