After Midnight
Page 15
I stayed with her that night, and for many nights thereafter. Marie was an adventurous lover, and the thrill of potential discovery was one she enjoyed. Often she’d make me eat her in front of her wide windows. It was unlikely that anyone could really see what we were doing up there on the fifth floor, but the potential that maybe, just maybe, someone was watching never failed to bring her to a loud climax. Sometimes she’d make me bend over in front of the window while she fucked me with a strap-on. But other times we’d just spend long hours on her bed, exploring each other with slow mouths and hands.
We dated for nearly six months—a record for Marie—and then I got a position in the local hospital in my hometown in Ireland. It was hard leaving Marie, but I was pleased to be going home. We made the usual promises to stay in touch, but inevitably after a few letters and phone calls, we lost touch.
I still hear about her occasionally, through a friend of a friend, and she’s done well for herself. She now heads up the surgical unit in a prestigious teaching hospital in Scotland. Sometimes I daydream of going over and walking into her hospital, trapping her in her office, and eating her out in front of a bunch of wide-eyed junior doctors.
I think the exhibitionist in her would enjoy that!
SCARS
Nell Stark
She kisses my scars when we make love.
The smallest is a thin line just above my left eyebrow, from a high school basketball game. One of the opposing players swung an elbow into my face as I went up for a shot at the bottom of the key. The pain was sharp, but I didn’t realize that the skin had split until I reached up to brush the sweat off my forehead and my hand came away red.
Head injuries bleed hard. Makes sense, I guess—there’s a lot going on under there. Thousands of tiny pathways crisscrossing back and forth, over and under, like a cloverleaf on the interstate. All of them throbbing in time, in harmony…and in the next second, broken and gushing. But I don’t even remember the pain as clearly as the surprise: the sudden knowledge that, really, anything can cut. At the right time, in the right place, even a misplaced elbow can take four stitches.
The swelling faded after a few weeks, but the scar is still there if you know where to look. And she does. Her lips trace it a few times, drawing out the memory of rupture then soothing it back to sleep under my skin. I close my eyes and exhale slowly, feeling my body conform to the contours of the bed. Her mouth is soft and will not break me.
She kisses down the length of my nose and pauses at the left corner of my mouth. My fist clenches as her tongue flicks lightly across my lips. They part for her—but she is moving on, across my cheek to suckle on my earlobe before trailing her mouth down the side of my neck. I tilt my head to make it easier for her, and she hums against my collarbone.
Her teeth gently nip at the skin where my neck intersects my shoulder, and my body shifts restlessly against the soft blanket. The touch of her mouth is a thread of fire radiating out from the soft licks of her tongue. Sewing me together—across my shoulder, swirling over the light bulge of my biceps, tasting the indentation of my elbow.
When she pauses there, I can’t help whimpering. It’s so very sensitive. My toes flex—down and back—in time to the movements of her lips. I’m about to beg her to touch me, but she finally moves on, raising my arm so she can run her tongue along the strip of thick, pale skin just beyond the joint.
I fell off my bike, that day. I was eight years old and gangly, lacking the grace to save myself. Hit the asphalt hard with my hands, and they burned. I remember turning them over, seeing the tiny pieces of asphalt embedded in my palms like flecks in marble. Didn’t even feel the gash on my arm, until my mother’s shrill exclamation. Even then, it was only a dull, persistent throbbing, matching the low roar of the car’s engine on the way to the ER.
When I begged them not to give me stitches, they didn’t—even though they should have. Instead a young male resident dug the grit out of my hands, stuck a glorified Band-Aid on my forearm, and sent me home. Later that night I screamed as my parents poured hydrogen peroxide over the gaping mouth of the cut. Hydrogen peroxide, the refiner’s fire. It frothed and bubbled, like madness. Keep it clean, keep it pure. Free of contagion.
That worked, for a while.
The fingers of her right hand trail along my left side, tracing the bumps of my rib cage before sliding into the dip between my leg and abdomen. She is so close to really touching me, this way, and the low whimper that escapes from my mouth is involuntary. But after a tantalizing moment, she continues on, ever so slowly, until she finds the slash of rippled skin on the front of my knee. Her mouth continues to caress my arm, connecting the dots—elbow to knee, scar to scar, pleasure to pleasure. Her fingers also burn, but it’s different. I don’t scream, though I might later.
I fell again, in high school, on a ski slope. This, also, was a test of grace. Took a wrong turn and landed in a mogul field—huge, steep bumps with nothing but ice in between—and somersaulted over the crest of one to land in the chill trough. I felt, more than heard, the pop in my knee. Tried to stand and fell again.
ACL. This time, my body rebelled against itself—bone tearing through the ligament, severing it in two. My first thought, lying there while I waited for the ski patrol, was that I wouldn’t be able to finish the basketball season. That I’d disappoint Melinda—the captain, my hero. Senior to my freshman. She’d be sad for me, and worried, but also angry. If only I hadn’t made that turn, if I’d been better. If only I’d gone more slowly.
The whole trip down the mountain, strapped to a stretcher behind the bright red snowmobile, I saw her disappointed expression on the insides of my eyelids. The tears leaked out to freeze on my face.
Three months later I had the surgery. By that time the muscles had grown strong again. I was walking—mostly without a limp—only to be returned to crutches in the wake of the operation. Back to basics, one more time—to infancy, to helplessness. A seething stasis. The doctor cut out a piece of my patella tendon, made it into a new ligament, and screwed it into my traitorous bones. Good as new, he said.
But it isn’t, not quite. It still twinges, from time to time, in memory of the knife. Some wounds never heal, and this is mine.
She pays special attention to it, caressing it with slow, gentle touches—the way she’ll stroke me elsewhere, soon enough. My breaths are gasps, my hips in motion. Then her fingers move slowly up, swirling around the slight bulge of my quads before trailing farther along my thigh, up and up and up. A low groan escapes my lips as she traces the contours of my hip bone.
Her lips meet her fingers a few inches above and to the right of my navel. At the top of my first scar. She rests her chin on my belly for a moment, so that she can meet my eyes.
“I love you,” she says. Her voice is soft and deep and gritty with desire. Sandpaper, to smooth out my jagged edges.
“Love you back,” I whisper. The surge of my pelvis is involuntary. She grins and returns her mouth to the top of the long, thin line.
Ileal atresia. Simply put, the absence of an opening in part of the small intestine. Almost half of mine was solid. I couldn’t keep any food down, of course—vomited it up almost immediately. It wouldn’t have taken long for my premature body to poison itself. So there I was, a day and a half old and five weeks early, taking up a fraction of the operating table as the surgeon cut into my abdomen, removed the malformed tissue, and reconnected the ends. I spent a few weeks in an incubator after that. No one could touch me without wearing gloves for the first month of my life. Is it any wonder, then, that I’m starving for her hands on me, every chance I get?
I came out wrong. Defective. Incomplete. Flawed. God could have recalled me but didn’t. On the bad days, I think He should have. Sometimes I think my parents wish they could cut this part of me out too: the part that needs her mouth, her hands, her love. Cut her out of me and reconnect the pieces, make me a straight girl after all.
But if I hadn’t come out wrong, would I truly appre
ciate this? Breathing, running, feeling, being? And her, would I appreciate her? Would I know what I have, if that long, thin line weren’t there to remind me every morning in the mirror?
Her fingers leave the base of the scar to trail through the curly patch of hair farther south. My breaths are short and sharp as she finds my wetness, as she draws the moisture up and over my swollen clitoris. Gradually, her lips follow the same path, until the warm puffs of her breaths cascade over me in counterpoint to the teasing motions of her hand.
As she takes me into her mouth and enters me tenderly with one long finger, I forget that I am broken. On the good days, I know I was made exactly as I was meant to be. On the good days, she unifies my body with her fingers, lips, words.
On the good days, I am whole.
BY ANY OTHER NAME
Kristina Wright
There are times when living with someone can be a joy. Waking to a warm body beside you, her scent on your pillow. Having a friendly face to hold your hand across the dinner table as you recount the adventures of the day. Sharing your toaster and your heart with someone who knows you better than you know yourself. Yeah, living with someone can be wonderful.
And then there are the days where you’d give anything to live alone, with no one to worry about except yourself and maybe a goldfish. As I stared at the red Honda parked in front of my townhouse, I contemplated the perks of fish ownership.
Rosalie was home.
I coasted my bike to a stop, reluctant to go inside. She had stormed out the night before, angry and silent, leaving me to guess what the hell I’d done wrong.
I’d been up most of the night alternating between worrying about her and being mad because she knew I was worrying about her. I called her office in the morning, but the bitchy receptionist said she was out showing houses all day. By six, I’d worked myself into a self-righteous frenzy. Rosalie could be a moody wench when she wanted to be, and I was in no mood to put up with it.
I was half-tempted to turn my bike around and spend the night at the library. Let her worry for a change. Instead I grabbed my books out of the handlebar basket and headed toward the house. Rosalie always said I looked like a schoolgirl with my long red braids and shiny yellow bike. I told her I was still a schoolgirl—a twenty-six-year-old perpetual student. I was finishing my degree in Women’s Studies at Florida State and working at the library in the evenings. When Rosalie had a couple of glasses of wine in her, she would leer and say she could teach me all I needed to know about women. She was right.
I opened the front door and breathed in her unique scent of organic lavender shampoo and baby powder. No matter how mad I was, the smell of her made my heart flip-flop in my chest. I heard the shower shut off. My first impulse was to confront her and ask her where the hell she’d been. I decided that was exactly what she expected me to do. So instead I grabbed a bottle of juice out of the fridge and curled up in a chair with a biography of Margaret Mead. Let Rosalie come to me for a change.
She walked into the room buck naked, a white towel wrapped around her head turban-style. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
I have to say, Rosalie looks better naked than most women do clothed. I tried to ignore the way her breasts swayed as she leaned over to grab an apple from the bowl on the table next to me. Her nipples were tightly puckered and as rosy as her name. I looked her over, hungry for her body but still angry at her for walking out.
“I didn’t think you cared,” I said. Despite my best intentions, I couldn’t help noticing she’d trimmed her thick, dark muff into a neat little triangle.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She looked like Eve tempting me with her apple.
I turned back to my book. “You’re the one who took off. You didn’t even bother calling.” I sounded like a petulant child, but damn, she’d hurt me. She’d never been gone all night before.
“I was angry,” she said softly. She tossed the apple back in the bowl. “You made me feel like shit last night.”
Last night I’d dragged Rosalie to my family reunion despite her protests. We’d been together for nearly a year, and I thought it was about time to inflict my family on her. Everybody knew I was partial to girls, and Mom had long since given up on finding the right boy for me, thank God. It was funny to watch soft-spoken Rosalie in the midst of my boisterous clan.
“What did I do?” I asked, genuinely baffled.
I thought the evening had gone quite well. Even Gran had been smitten with Rosalie, and that woman doesn’t like anyone who isn’t Irish, or at least Catholic. Rosalie had been quieter than usual, but I chalked it up to nerves. It wasn’t until we got home that I realized she was giving me the silent treatment. When I finally asked what her problem was, she split.
“There were thirty people there and you never once introduced me as anything other than your friend.”
I closed my book and put it aside, trying to avoid the accusation in her eyes. I’d had two relationships go really bad. She knew that. I thought it was a pretty big step just bringing her to my parents’ house. One look into those stormy dark eyes told me differently.
“So? What do you want me to call you?” I asked, torn between frustration and anger. Rosalie was always pushing for more than I wanted to give.
She strode across the room and stood in front of me, fisting her hands on her hips. Water droplets clung to her heavy breasts and the soft curve of her stomach. “Hell, I don’t care. Anything would be better than, ‘This is my friend, Rosalie.’”
I didn’t like her tone. I stood up and brushed past her. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Wait a minute. We’re not finished here.” She grabbed my arm and pushed me back in the chair. I couldn’t do anything but gape at her. Rosalie is as sweet and gentle as they come. She can be a hellion in bed, but we weren’t in bed and I was starting to get pissed off.
“Knock it off, Rose,” I said, not at all liking the nasty little smirk she gave me. “I need a shower.”
She knelt in front of me and spread my thighs with her hands. “What you need is to learn some manners.”
Before I could speak, she slid her hand up my skirt and cupped my crotch. A wave of heat spread through my belly and I groaned. She had that effect on me. One touch and I was lost. Instantly, I spread my legs wider to allow her access, all thoughts of anger fleeing my mind as moisture flooded my crotch.
“You’re hot.” She toyed with the elastic on my underwear. “Are you wet?”
I knew my cunt was already slick with my juices. “Why don’t you find out?” I gasped when her finger burrowed under the leg of my panties.
“Yeah, wet.” She finger-fucked me gently, her baby-soft finger gliding inside me. “I love how wet you get.”
The material of my panties restricted her motions, but her finger felt good inside my fevered cunt. My clit throbbed against the thin fabric of my panties, aching to be touched. I leaned my head against the chair and closed my eyes. Suddenly the finger was gone and I felt empty.
“Don’t stop,” I said, hearing a hint of desperation in my voice. Then it dawned on me that was what she wanted. “Touch me, Rose.”
She sat back on her knees, one delicate eyebrow arched. She looked like some exotic harem girl in her towel turban, kneeling before me in supplication. But we both knew who was in charge. “Touch me, what?”
“Please?”
She laughed, but I could tell by the hitch in her voice that she was getting turned on too. “No, you said, ‘Touch me, Rose.’ What else could you call me?”
I grinned at her little game. Did I mention she can be a devious wench? “Touch me, baby.”
She nodded, the towel on her head wobbling. “Better.”
She pushed my panties to the side and pushed her finger inside me again. I arched my hips off the chair and felt her go deeper. When I started rocking on her finger, she pulled it away again. I sighed in frustration.
“Take off your skirt,” she said. “Just your skirt.”
“Mmm, you smell good,” she said. “What do you want?”
“Touch me,” I pleaded.
“Touch me…” she prompted.
I reached down and tugged the towel from her head, letting her long, damp hair cascade over my thighs. “Touch me, sweetheart.”
She nuzzled me with her lips, nipping my clit through the wet cotton. I groaned and tangled my hands in her hair but she pushed them away and put them over my breasts. I pinched my hard nipples through my T-shirt, aching to feel her mouth on them. When I raised my crotch closer to her face, she moved away.
“Are you ashamed of me?” She said it with a smile, but I saw the vulnerability in her expression.
I wrapped my arms and legs around her and pulled her close. “Of course not, baby. I love you.”
“So the next time I meet your family, you’ll introduce me properly?” She pulled away and teased my clit through the fabric once more.
I nodded, wanting her. Needing her. “I promise.”
“Lift up.” I raised my ass so she could tug my panties off. She slid them down my legs and tossed them over her shoulder. They landed on a lamp like a jaunty pink beret. “How will you introduce me?”
“I’ll think of something,” I said. “Now stop teasing me. Please.”
She blew air over my engorged cunt and I gasped. “What will you say?”
“Whatever you want.”
Rosalie had the nerve to shake her finger at me. The same finger she’d been fucking me with. “No. You tell me. I want to hear it.”
“Touch me, Rose,” I begged. “Lick me.”
“Introduce me.”
“Fine.” I groaned in agony. My cunt was on fire and she wanted to play mind games. “This is my girlfriend, Rosalie.”