I pressed the pedal to the floor. The engine roared and the nose of the car lifted as the automatic transmission shifted. Terrified, I let go of the wheel with one hand and grabbed one of her breasts. Her nipple was a hard button and she rolled her shoulders, rasping it on my palm.
“Attaboy, Al-bert,” she said. “You’ve got soft hands, bean counter.” She rubbed again and I felt her nipple stiffen even more.
The car seemed to vibrate dangerously and I wanted to step on the brakes, but I kept my foot pressed to the floor and my hand pressed against her softness. The engine began to scream.
“Go, Al-bert!” she shouted, her voice high. “Give it hell!”
I kneaded her breast as my eyes cycled from the road to the rearview mirror to the speedometer. The speed rose steadily as the heavy car gained momentum, and the sound of the tyres and the thick summer air we were plunging through became a roar. I began to wonder if I could get my mouth on one of her nipples without losing sight of the road.
Indigo took the decision from me, pulling away and moving back to the passenger seat. I took my foot off the pedal but our momentum had already brought us to a tractor-trailer and I swung out to pass. He blew his horn as we passed the cab, startling me. Indigo lowered her window and stuck out her arm to wave. “I think he liked me,” she said, laughing and turning the radio up louder. “Pass another one.”
I saw her hands move and glanced at her. She was tracing her fingertips around her nipples, which had become quite distended. Her window was still down and her hair was floating around her head. I stepped on the gas and caught another truck. Another horn blew, and Indigo waved again. Then, as I began to slow the car, she opened the front of her shorts and slipped her hand inside. “Keep going,” she said, looking at me. Her cheeks were flushed. “They’re probably talkin’ about me on the CB,” she added, her hand squirming inside her shorts. “Find another fuckin’ truck.”
I looked back at the road. Another truck loomed in front of us. When I pulled out to pass, I saw there was actually a line of four trucks. As we drew abreast of the first cab I heard the horn, blasting loudly through the open window.
Indigo raised her hips and pushed her shorts off. I kept the speed up, glancing sidelong at her as often as I dared. Her pubic hair was wispy yellow, and I noticed for the first time the blue-violet color of her fingernails as she continued to stroke herself.
More trucks. More horns. I eventually realized the truckers were slowing to allow our travelling roadshow to catch them. The black asphalt seemed to be streaking under us as the car settled, almost floating over the road. The trucks appeared to be moving backwards towards us.
I began to grin like a crazy man and horns blared as Indigo moved her hand faster, harder, fingers fluttering in her crotch like a frantic bird. “Slow down,” she grunted, reaching out the window with her free hand to wave the trucks forward. “Stay in the passing lane. And pinch my fuckin’ nipple.”
I slowed, turning off the cruise control. I reached, found her hard nipple and began rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. She was moaning, the sound muted by the wind rushing by her window. One by one the trucks caught and passed us, horns sounding.
Indigo came. It was a screaming, thrashing orgasm, and she raised her hips up, bucking like a boat tossed in heavy seas. She slumped in her seat as the last trucker blasted his way past, fist out the window, thumb in the air. “Holy fucking shit,” she said, rolling up her window. I glanced at her and saw droplets of perspiration had collected on her upper lip and between her breasts.
In the closed cavern of the car I caught new scents: hot oil and metal, and woman. I glanced at her and she turned, grinning at me. “Now I blow you while you pass them again,” she said, getting to her knees and reaching for my zipper.
I grinned and stepped on the gas. Indigo’s bare ass was in the air, pointed at the window. I turned the radio up all the way as she freed my cock, and used the controls on my armrest to lower her window, knowing the horns would blow again. I got the car up to eighty-five and punched the cruise control as her sweaty upper lip grazed my cock. I reached down and grabbed a breast.
The trucks were still slow, waiting for us. Every driver gave me a thumbs-up as we roared past them, Indigo’s head bobbing enthusiastically in my lap.
Just before I went off I decided to grow a pony tail.
The Survey
Mary Anne Mohanraj
So this guy walks up to me on the street at something like 8 p.m. on that deserted stretch over by the park, y’know? I’d be scared except he’s just a kid, and he says, “Hey, you wanna do this survey?” And I say, “What’s in it for me? I’m a busy woman.” And he says, “Five bucks – and if you answer the long form, fifty.”
Well, fifty bucks is not something to sniff at, y’know? There’s a lot I could buy for fifty bucks. There’s this long black velvet coat over at Goodwill, only twenty bucks, and a nice pair of rhinestone heels I’ve been eyeing, five bucks, and that leaves twenty-five for the kids – half for them, half for me. That’s fair, right? And that sounds so good I can see the money’s already spent, so I’d better answer his questions. So I tell him, “Shoot.” And he says, “Do you masturbate?”
So I reach back my arm and I’m gonna belt him a good one right there, only he ducks and hollers out – “It’s for the survey!” And I drop my arm and I say, “What the fuck kinda survey is that?” And he says, “It’s a fucking survey, see? The university is doing a survey on fucking. I got stuck with asking women if they masturbate, which is not making me popular, believe me. My roommate, he gets to ask guys where the best places to get a blow job are, lucky bastard. You wouldn’t believe how many women have tried to hit me already today, lady. Look, one of them got me.” And he shows me this bump on his forehead, under where his greasy hair falls in his face. So I say, “What the hell kind of school do you go to that does a fucking survey? Never mind . . . I don’t wanna know.”
So he’s standing there, waiting, and I’m standing there, thinking. “Do you gotta know my name?” I ask him. He says, “Well, we have to put down a name and an age, but you don’t have to give me your real name. They won’t know.” And I think it over, and finally, I think, Sure. What the fuck. Give the kid a thrill. “Put me down as Esmerelda. Esmerelda Valentino, age twenty-eight.” Ever since I watched I Dream of Jeannie as a kid, I’ve liked the name Esmerelda. “And the answer to your question is ‘Yes.’ ” The kid scribbles something down on the clipboard he’s holding, and then reaches into his pocket and hands me a five. And I say, “Where’s my fifty?” And he says, “That’s only for the long form, Miz Esmerelda. Nobody wants to answer the long form.” And I say, “Show me.”
So he hands over the clipboard, and there’s this sheet of paper with big words at the top – How Do You Masturbate? – and a long list of questions below. Questions like “How many fingers do you use when you masturbate?” and “Do you prefer clitoral or vaginal stimulation?” and “Have you ever inserted foreign objects into your rectum?”
I hand back the board. “That’s what they want to know? They got this list – that’s supposed to tell them how we do it?” The kid nods his head, looking embarrassed. And I laugh. ’Cause it’s just too damn funny, y’know? And I say, “Siddown, kid. Grab a patch of sidewalk. That little list of yours won’t tell you nothin’. I’ll tell you how I really do it.” So we sit down on the sidewalk and I stretch out my aching feet, ’cause it’s been a hard day at the diner, and I close my eyes and start talking.
“It all starts with Johnny, see. Not Johnny Stepanino, that lousy no-good bum that I’ve been seeing for the past six years, who keeps promising me a ring but do you see it on my finger? Not him – he’s got stringy hair and doesn’t remember to bathe half the time unless his mama tells him to; I wouldn’t give him the time of day ’cept he’s got a good business and could really take care of me and my kids. But he’s never gonna get up the nerve, ’cause his mama don’t like the idea of him marrying a girl who�
�s only a little bit Italian, mostly mutt, and dropped out of high school when she got knocked up at sixteen. His mama don’t like that idea at all.
“Anyway, the one I’m thinking of is Johnny Viaggi. Johnny Viaggi with the long black hair that falls into his face so cute – kinda like yours, kid. He smells clean all the time, clean as spring, with the smell of new bread hanging heavy over him – that’s ’cause he works at Cantalini’s bakery over on Fourth.
“That Nina Cantalini! How that little shit managed to snag Johnny Viaggi I’ll never know – oh, she’s all-right looking, I’ll give you that, with that tight ass and those big tits. But them Cantalini women are all drinkers, which is why the men run the shop, and I swear that before she’s thirty Nina will be drinking up the profits and lettin’ her body go to hell. She’s gonna swell up like a balloon and those big tits are gonna droop over the beer belly she’s gonna have. And that tight ass is gonna loosen right up, and Johnny Viaggi is gonna be damned sorry he married such a worthless drunken lump of a woman when he could’ve had me.
“You’re wondering why I’m telling you all this. See, when I’m getting off, I’m not alone. No, I close my eyes, and Johnny Viaggi is right there next to me. It’s his big thick hands that lift me up and move me to my bed, his hands that unbutton my blouse and push it down my shoulders and off my arms. Slender arms, and a slender body, and if my tits aren’t as big as that damn Nina’s at least they’ll still be standing up straight in ten years. I don’t fucking care if I’m only a 32A – my nipples are sensitive as hell, and that’s what counts. That’s what Stepanino says, anyway, and for once the scumbag is right.
“I’ve got great little tits, and when I unhook the front of my cherry red bra and pull it off, that’s Johnny’s fingers doing it, and his big hands cupping my tits so that they disappear under his rough touch. Then my nipples stand up hard, so hard they poke out between his fingers, and he starts playing with them, rolling them between two fingers, squeezing and pulling a bit, all the while whispering words of love, ‘Mi amore, cara mia, darling Angie.’ And I’m moaning under Johnny’s touch ’cause it’s so good, and my nipples are so sensitive, and his breath is soft against my ear, against my neck – I’m almost ready to come right there, but he likes to take it slow.
“Then his hands slide down my body, unzipping my skirt and pushing it down, so he can see the red silk garter belt and black stockings I wore just for him, just like he asked me to. No panties, and Johnny’s fingers trail down and down, almost tickling but not quite, sliding over my shaved pussy until they’re barely touching my clit. And he touches me then, and it is so sweet, so fucking sweet that I moan Johnny’s name, oh yeah. I’m lying in my bed with his body warm beside me and his mouth on my nipple now and his fingers sliding into my pussy, warm and wet and slick and hard, pumping harder and harder until I’m almost about to come and it’s then that he whispers, “Angie, will you marry me?” and that’s when I scream “Yes, yes, yes!” and I’m coming hard and fast like you wouldn’t believe.
“That’s how I masturbate. You got all that down, kid?” He’s staring at me with wide eyes, like he’s never heard a woman come before.
Maybe he hasn’t. And I’m standing up and shaking the dust from my ass, and he comes alive quick and reaches into his pocket, fumbling a little, and then counts out nine more fives into my hand. He’s still not saying a word so I smile at him and turn away, walking down the empty street and not caring that my feet still hurt ’cause I’ve got fifty dollars in my pocket and a sopping-wet pussy.
Take that, Nina-fucking-Cantalini.
Muriel the Magnificent
Marilyn Jaye Lewis
When Muriel Bing was seven years old, in the course of a single Saturday afternoon, something happened that shifted the topography of her secret inner landscape forever. The day had started out harmless enough: an afternoon in late spring close to the end of her second grade school year. In high spirits, she and Tommy Decker, the little brown-haired boy whose family’s backyard adjoined hers, played together on her brightly coloured swing set. Higher and higher they swung, until Tommy wagered with Muriel. “I’ll bet you can’t swing as high as me and jump when I yell ‘jump.’ ”
“Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I can, too!”
“OK,” hollered Tommy, the bet underway. “The loser has to do whatever the winner says,” he shouted.
Muriel’s sturdy legs pumped determinedly as her swing kept pace with Tommy’s. Her long auburn braids flying out behind her on the upswing, then smacking lightly against her shoulders as she swung down and back. Over and over, higher she climbed, until Muriel had reached an exhilarating height.
“Now!” Tommy Decker cried, “Jump!” as he flung himself free of the swing, soaring several feet out over the small backyard, landing in a tumble on the cool green grass, his empty swing chink-chinking to a sudden halt behind him.
Muriel, however, hadn’t jumped. The sheer height she’d reached had been too daunting. When it came time for her fingers to release their tight grip on the chains of her high-flying swing, when she’d heard Tommy’s voice suddenly shout “jump” and her eyes had taken in the full scope of empty sky she’d be forced to sail out into and the hard expanse of ground beneath her, Muriel’s bowels had clenched tight. She’d been too timid to jump.
Her feet dragged the swing to a stumbling stop. Tommy had already leapt to his feet and come running over, his eyes bright with triumph. “You lose, Muriel,” he cried gleefully. “I won. Now you have to do whatever I say!”
Tommy Decker was only one Decker from a veritable sea of Decker boys. Unlike the Bing family, the Deckers were Catholics who’d had nothing but sons. In the Decker house, there were always boys as far as Tommy’s blue eyes could see: in his bedroom at night there were boys, in the morning at the kitchen table, or in front of the television set when he came home from school – nothing but brothers. Tommy was drawn to Muriel Bing because she was an only child; a sweet, kind and smart little girl, but more because she was just that: a girl.
“Now you have to come behind the garage with me,” Tommy announced.
Bravely, Muriel slid off her swing, knowing Tommy was fully capable of making her do something awful. Once, the summer before, he’d plucked a carrot from her father’s vegetable patch, a carrot no bigger than Muriel’s pinkie, and had forced her to eat it, then and there, dirt and all. Another time, he’d made her shuck unripe peas from their pods and eat them raw, giving her a churning stomach ache. Worse yet, Mr Bing didn’t like Muriel and Tommy making a mess of his garden. He’d said as much, in no uncertain terms, on several occasions.
With a cursory glance back towards her house to see if anyone was watching her, Muriel followed Tommy behind the garage to her father’s vegetable patch, her childish curiosity outweighing her reluctance, as usual.
When the pair were safely ensconced between the row of hedges that lined the edge of the Decker yard, and the garden at the back of the Bing’s garage, Tommy told Muriel, “Pull down your pants.”
She was stunned. “What?”
“I said, pull down your pants. You have to do it because you have to do anything I say.”
Muriel stared at Tommy uneasily and did nothing.
“Come on,” he persisted. “Do it. I just want to see.”
In an unfamiliar mix of interest and fear, Muriel did what Tommy wanted. She unzipped her pants, tugging them down just a little bit.
“Those, too,” he insisted, pointing at her cotton underpants.
Muriel hesitated. “No,” she refused quietly.
“Come on, Muriel, just for one second. Just until I count ‘one Mississippi’ then you can pull them back up, OK?”
Muriel considered Tommy’s offer, her cautious hesitation giving way to a growing intrigue. She liked the way it felt, Tommy staring at her underpants in earnest, she suddenly felt eager to show him what she knew the sisterless boy wanted to see. When she tugged her underpants
down just enough to reveal her smooth mound and the pouting cleft at its base, the expression of wonder on Tommy’s face made Muriel almost burst with pride.
He seemed so entranced by the sight of the strange nakedness that peeked out from between Muriel’s legs, that Tommy forgot to count “one Mississippi”. In fact, the two of them stood transfixed by the magnetic pull between them for several uninterrupted moments. When they finally were interrupted, though, it happened in the worst possible way: an unsuspecting Mr Bing rounded the corner of the garage.
“Muriel Bing, what do you think you’re doing?” he sputtered, as Tommy Decker took off running for the relative safety of his own backyard.
Muriel’s seven-year-old mind knew instinctively that she had no satisfactory answer to her father’s question. “I’m not doing anything,” she replied weakly, hastily tugging her pants and underpants back up around her waist.
No sooner were her clothes in order, than Muriel’s father grabbed her abruptly by her little arm, escorting her up the yard to the house, in through the kitchen door, down the hallway and into her room.
“You know better than that, Muriel!” he practically shouted. “What was going on out there?”
“Nothing,” she replied timidly, realising in a panic that the most dreaded punishment was befalling her. The pants and underpants she’d pulled up to her waist only moments before, were coming down again, quickly, and her father was pulling her over his knee.
“Daddy, don’t!” she cried feebly, as the spanking got underway. But there was no stopping Mr Bing. The smacks rained down on Muriel’s bare bottom furiously, as he unleashed a litany of reasons why what Muriel had done was bad, bad, bad.
This degree of anger was uncommon in Muriel’s father and she was unnerved by it. It wasn’t so much the severity of the spanking that wounded her, she was pierced to the core by the sound of his words.
“I’m thoroughly ashamed of you, Muriel,” he declared, as he unceremoniously yanked her from his lap when the spanking was over. “What made you do a dirty thing like that?”
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