by Sacchi Green
“It’s a beautiful night tonight, isn’t it,” she ventured without looking at me.
“It’s that time of year,” I answered, for lack of something intelligent to say. I guessed I was out of practice at this. I couldn’t believe I’d just said that.
She smiled at me and we stood there for a few more minutes. I figured my attempt at conversation had fallen short of its mark.
“Let me go slip into something more comfortable,” she said as she walked into the bedroom.
I followed her. “Wouldn’t the bed fit that bill?” I asked.
She turned and looked at me. “Are you always so direct?”
“Probably.” I smiled. “I have a short attention span. I have to say what I’m thinking, or I’ll forget.”
She was within arm’s reach, so I extended mine and drew her to me. She didn’t balk at my bold advance, but slowly slid into my arms as though she belonged there.
I kissed her. It seemed like it had been so long since I kissed anyone, I mean, really kissed anyone. I’d forgotten how good a woman’s lips could feel. They were warm, soft, and pliant. Something I could sink into very easily.
I hugged her into me as she returned the kiss. She seemed to think it was a nice feeling, too. Her tongue finally found its way into my mouth, so I caressed it with my own until she withdrew it.
“You don’t say much, do you?” she whispered, grinning at me.
“I like to save my energy for other things.”
“I see.” Taking a step back, she started to unbutton my shirt. I don’t wear a bra. My tits aren’t that large, but they’re firm, so they stand up by themselves. A bra seemed like a waste of material and money. I haven’t worn one in years.
“How much will these cost me?” she asked, cupping my breasts in her hands and running her thumbs over my nipples.
I thought about it for a minute. What could I say? “Best offer,” was all I could think of.
“For both of them?” she asked, looking up into my face.
“Yes,” I answered. “They’re a matched set.”
“One time only, or multi-use?” she asked, a sly smile on her face.
“One time,” I said carefully. No sense in ruining the moment with assumptions. “But the contract’s renewable if the conditions are right.”
“I can afford that.” She smiled and pushed my shirt off my shoulders.
It was then that she saw my tattoo, a phoenix on my left tit. It rises out of the ashes just above my areola and ascends, surrounded by a fireball, to just over my collarbone. Some of the flames extend over my shoulder.
“Beautiful,” she said, fingering the design. “You shouldn’t hide it.”
“Recently, there hasn’t been anyone I wanted to see it.” “Someone should see it every day.” She looked up into my eyes with a look so seductive that I felt like I might melt onto the floor right there and then.
I unbuttoned her blouse.
Her bra was so lacy I couldn’t understand what was holding her beautiful breasts up. As I finished undoing it, they fell into my hands. They were a good C-cup, very full and firm. Her nipples were erect and hard. I looked at them, running my thumbs slowly over the dark, berry-like nubs, wanting to draw them into my mouth. I’m not sure what stopped me.
While I stood there, entranced by her breasts, she reached for my fly and pushed my jeans toward the floor. She ran her hand over my hips. I don’t wear panties, either. I never thought they were comfortable. It’s just as easy to wash jeans as it is to wash underwear.
When she glanced down at my body the smile on her face lit the room.
She sat on the bed to untie her shoelaces, took off her heavy sneakers, then dropped her trousers and kicked them aside. I kicked off my loafers and stepped out of my jeans as she slid back onto the bed. I followed, removing her panties as she lifted her hips. We were now clad only in our socks.
She reached for my breast and gently drew it into her mouth. Oh god! It’d been so long. I’d forgotten the feeling. A nip of her teeth, the gentle glide of them running over my nipple, brought me back to the present.
I seemed to lose my strength and rolled onto my back, pulling her over on top of me. In all that movement, she didn’t miss a beat, her mouth firmly ensconced on my breast, her tongue and teeth doing marvelous things to my nipples. I hadn’t been this aroused in ages.
I could only grasp her back and shoulders. Her skin was soft and smooth. My body was hot and craving; I hadn’t felt this much woman-flesh in a very long time. She was trim, not as muscular as I thought she’d be after lifting all those trays of drinks, but I could feel the strength there.
I’m not sure how long she feasted on my breasts but it seemed like hours. I was ready for her. I was ready for anything.
With her mouth fondling my breasts, her hand roamed down my body until her fingers found my center. I was almost crazed. The smoldering embers below my belly threatened to burst into flames at any moment.
Whatever her fingers were doing I didn’t want them to stop. Ever.
Sensations overcame me before I even realized it. I closed my eyes, pressed my head back into the bed, and lost track of time. Breathing became an effort, so I didn’t even try. Shards of lightning and thunder were running through me.
My body closed tightly around her fingers as shock after shock of orgasm shook me. Someone was screaming. Was it me? As her hand withdrew I came again, even harder.
We rested while I slowly gained control of my breath. She crawled back up beside me.
“Are you all right?” she asked, softly.
It took me a minute. “Very.”
After just a moment I suddenly wanted more; more of everything.
I pushed her up, rolled her onto her back, and took a breast into my mouth, sucking in as much as my mouth could hold, then backing off to take her nipple between my teeth, feasting on it until the entire area was puckered hard. What a wonderful piece of flesh! Was the other like this? I moved over to see.
“Is this what you save your energy for?”
“Exactly. I may have to give you a refund.”
I kissed and licked down her body, my hand leading the way, reaching down until I felt heat and a hairy patch. I felt around in the damp hollow to get the lay of the land. But something else was there, too!
I looked into her eyes, surprised. Her answer was a small smile that said I had found her secret. I got on my knees to take a look.
As I parted the hair a ring with a blue gem appeared. My face must have shown my shock.
“It’s beautiful,” I said of her piercing.
“I’ve only had it a few months.”
“Someone should see this every day, too.”
We laughed.
She pulled me back into a kiss.
Finally I pulled away again. “I have to see what it tastes like.” I moved lower on her body and started by licking around the ring and lifting it with my tongue. I felt all around it, from one side to the other and back. Her gasping was all I needed. I explored her hole with my fingers as I pulled gently on the ring with my teeth.
Her breathing got heavier. “Oh god!” she screamed.
In answer, I thrust inside while my tongue circled the entire orb and ring. Her legs wrapped around me, and I felt her stiffening. She pulled me closer. My hand went deeper.
My tongue and fingers continued until her entire body tightened around me, shaking us both with its force.
When her breath began to quiet and her muscles relaxed, I disentangled myself and moved up to hold her in my arms.
“Incredible,” she gasped, turned toward me, and rested her head against my chest.
That’s the way we fell asleep.
It was well after sunrise when I awoke. I could feel her beside me, her breathing soft and peaceful. I looked over at her and took a deep breath. She was beautiful, glowing as she slept. Had I noticed this last night? Sometimes I’m not very observant. I must have, though, or I wouldn’t have been there.
I felt her hand on my thigh.
“Leaving?” she asked as I turned to her.
“I have work to do,” I answered as I straightened my socks. I couldn’t believe they’d stayed on all night.
“Will I see you again?” The question sounded like a soft request.
“Most definitely.” I crawled across the bed and kissed her gently.
Her face erupted into a beautiful smile. Her hand on my face almost stopped me. But I had to leave. If I didn’t leave now, I might never.
I slipped into my loafers and let myself out of the apartment. On the street, I realized I was smiling. For the first time in months, I looked forward to the day. I smiled up at the window I calculated was hers and then turned toward the river walk.
As I sauntered away, it hit me. I had never asked her name.
SHAVED
Pascal Scott
Deputy Sheriff Wynonna Fletcher lives in her grandfather’s farmhouse at the northernmost edge of Hemphill County, NC. She looks different outside the shooting range in town where we met—more mature, less wild. Or maybe it’s the bib apron over her jeans and T-shirt. I’ve brought a bottle of California Cabernet and a bouquet of summer flowers to our first date. She thanks me, smells the daisies and carnations before putting them in a porcelain vase. She uncorks the wine, starts to pour us both a glass before I can tell her that I don’t drink. She offers me sweet tea. Lemonade? Coke? I ask for water, bottled if she has it. She doesn’t. Tap is okay, with ice. It’s well water, she tells me. That’s fine, I say.
“Dinner is just about ready. I’m fixin’ barbecued ribs, corn on the cob, and collard greens.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Vinegar or ketchup? Umm, you seem like a vinegar girl.”
“Hell yeah,” she says. “It’s a sin to put ketchup on a pig.”
“So,” I say, sipping my water. “Deputy Sheriff.”
She gives me an amused look, as if she’s been expecting this.
“Yep.”
“How’d that happen?”
She pauses, suddenly more serious.
“I thought I was going to be a nurse,” she says. “My first semester at college I was a nursing major.”
“Sensible,” I say.
“I would have been a good nurse. But then something happened.”
She’s silent now.
“What happened?” I say, gently.
“I got raped.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, it was date rape, at a fraternity house. One of those situations you get yourself into when you’re drinking and not being too smart.”
“But it wasn’t your fault,” I tell her. “Rape is never justified.”
“Oh I know that. Now. I know it now. At the time I thought I was to blame. At least partly.”
“But you weren’t,” I assure her. “Did you press charges?”
“No. I just wanted it to go away. I wanted to pretend it never happened.”
“It doesn’t work that way, does it?”
“No,” she says. “It doesn’t. So I did what we tell rape victims to do, I got counseling.”
“Did that help?”
“It did. I took a semester off and when I came back I changed my major to criminal justice. The department’s motto was ‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.’ It sounds pretty corny but that’s what I came to believe.”
She clears her throat.
“And the good that came out of it is that Hemphill County has got itself a kick-ass woman Deputy Sheriff now.”
“That it has,” I say.
She turns back to the pot of greens on the stove, removes the lid, and stirs. I don’t know what more to say. I wander into the dining room where a wood-and-glass display case hangs on the wall, filled with antique memorabilia. Her eyes follow me.
“Granddad’s,” she says.
“Son of the Confederacy,” I say, referring to the blazer patch with the Confederate flag.
“Yeah, Granddad was a proud Son. A lot of folks stayed out of the War entirely but the Fletchers served. Where are you from?”
“California, originally. Los Angeles. Born, bred, and fled. I spent a lot of years in the Bay Area.”
“I thought you didn’t sound like you were from around here.”
“My people are. On my mother’s side. She was a Thompson. I never knew my father.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need. Probably just as well, from what I heard. My mother wasn’t much of a fan.”
She considers this, starts to say something, and then says something else.
“What was she like?”
“My mother? I don’t really know. I only saw her on Saturdays, for visitation. I grew up in foster care.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It was.”
“Is that why you moved to North Carolina? From California? To take care of your mother in her old age?”
“Oh god, no. She died before I moved here. She disowned me when I was twelve. Her lawyer had a hard time finding me, in fact, but he finally did. Thanks to the Internet you can find anybody anymore.”
“Her lawyer?”
“Yeah, the estate lawyer. She had actually made a little money in B-movies while she was in Hollywood. I inherited her estate because she died without a will.”
“So are you telling me that you’re filthy rich?”
“Not rich. Just comfortable.”
She thinks about this for a moment.
“Good for you,” she says. She seems to mean it.
I change the subject. I look again at the display case.
“So, we have a Son of the Confederacy patch, a ten-dollar Dixie issued by the Confederate State of North Carolina, a certificate of baptism from First Baptist Church, and a Robeson Shuredge razor. Some people might take offense at some of these.”
“It’s hard for a Yankee to understand. This is something to remember him by. My grandfather was a good man.”
“And these are?”
I’ve wandered back into the kitchen. I’m looking at the photographs on her refrigerator—four redheads with light brown eyes.
“That’s me, my sister Ellen, my brother Luke, and Mama.”
“And where’s Daddy?”
“Out of the picture.”
“Literally.”
“They’re divorced. Mama’s living in Dallas with her new husband. Ellen’s married with two little girls. They’re in Charlotte. And Luke is stationed in Afghanistan.”
“Are you close to any of them?”
“I’m close to all of them. Even Daddy. He’s got a new wife. They’re in Sarasota.”
“You’re lucky,” I say.
There’s a photo of Wynonna on her red Sportster, another with a group of Levi and leathered women riders.
“My club,” she says. “Tar Heels on Wheels.”
“You are something,” I say.
She’s a good cook, too. I eat everything and ask for a second helping.
“And stop calling me Wynonna. Nobody calls me that. It’s Wyn to my friends.”
“Wyn,” I say. “I like it.”
After dinner I help her clear the table. She doesn’t have a dishwasher—never put one in—so she fills both sinks with hot water, one soapy, one clear. I grab a towel and dry. We talk about our ancestors landing in Philadelphia, fresh off the boat from Europe, and how they made their way down the Great Wagon Trail to the mountains of North Carolina. It took the Blue Ridge to stop them, the Fletchers and the Thompsons and the rest of the Scots-Irish who emigrated in the eighteenth century. It took a mountain range as old as the earth itself.
While I’m putting up the last of the clean dishes, she pours another glassful of wine. She watches me, sipping, looking me up and down..
“Thank you.”
“Not to be rude but—how old are you?”
I have to suppress a smile.
“I turned sixty-two last April.”
This stops her short. I watch her expression change.
“Sixty-two,” she repeats. “You look younger.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Sixty-two. Damn.”
“How old are you? Not to be rude.”
“Forty-two,” she answers. “And sixty-two. That’s two decades.”
“It is,” I say.
“Twenty years.”
“Do you want me to leave now?”
“No, no, it’s just that, well—two decades.”
“Listen, if my age is a problem for you, we can stop right now.”
She looks at me, her golden-brown eyes a mess of conflicted emotions. Then they settle on one I recognize. She steps forward and takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. It’s been a while since I let a woman undress me. She pulls my shirt over my head, rips my belt out of its loops, unbuttons my 501s. I’m thinking it’s true what they say: age is just a number. At least sometimes, when the lights are low and desire has entered the room. As she’s pulling off my jeans, she notices the nine-millimeter crater of mottled skin on my left calf.
“What happened here?”
“Yeah that,” I say. “That is why I carry a revolver now and not a semiautomatic. I shot myself while I was cleaning my gun.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. The bullet in the chamber. Famous last words.”
Her fingers trace my other scar, the one that’s more obvious, the one below my right cheekbone.
“And this?”
“That,” I say. “Reformatory. You’d be surprised what those girls can do with a shanked-out toothbrush.”
“Reformatory, huh. Do I want to know what you did?”
“No,” I say. “You don’t.”
“Poor baby,” she says and pushes me down on the bed and is suddenly on top of me, leaning in for a kiss. I do a quick half sit-up and grab her shoulders, flip her over onto her back. I climb on top, straddle her, and just sit there for a moment. Then I lean down, take her arms and pin them over her head, wrist on wrist. I look into her eyes.
