“We need to get these generators out of here,” he said, stroking my hair.
I nodded but pulled his head back towards mine. John and I were the only two left on the bridge and we were already soaked – my T-shirt was stuck like a second skin, my nipples were hard. It was thrilling; kissing on the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, John pushed me down and rolled over on me. We were kissing as raindrops rolled down my face like tears. With one hand he reached up and held my face, he slid the other hand up my shirt, lightly rolling my nipple between his fingers. I moaned and arched my spine. I put my hands on his strong back and pulled him down closer. He pushed his leg between mine, applying pressure on my cunt. I wanted him, wanted him inside me, filling me, completing me.
The thunder, lightning and rain kept coming. A boat blew its horn, the low and terrible moan of a lost and tortured ghost and the rushing cars blended into the frantic wind. There was something otherworldly about it all. Something so far from normal. I hurried to unhook his belt and pulled down his shorts. His dick was hard, rock hard. I wrapped my hand around it and stroked it, over and over. He unbuttoned his shorts and pulled them the rest of the way down.
I pushed him down on his back and kissed a soft line down his chest to his stomach. He shivered beneath my gentle kisses, slightly arching his back up to meet me. I continued down, breathing hot breath against his crotch, I kissed the inside of his thighs, lightly, and was answered with a happy moan. I kissed up the shaft of his cock, kissing the head before taking it in my mouth. I sucked it long and hard as his feet clenched and his body tightened. He leaned over, trying to yank down my shorts without interrupting my mouth. I helped him, getting my shorts and panties down. His finger found my clit, circling it faster and faster, I could feel my pussy dripping as my body responded to his attention. I pulled my mouth up and slid my hot, wet pussy down on his dick.
“You’re so tight,” he moaned, as I began pushing myself up and down, faster and harder. He reached up and pinched my nipple, twisting it until I felt the most exquisite pain. Then he flipped me over so he was on top, expertly he moved me around until I was kneeling and he was behind me, his hand snaked in front to tease my clit.
“Yes,” I groaned, “harder, fuck me harder.”
He did, he was pounding his cock into me, and his finger was working diligently, moving faster and faster until I felt myself beginning to come. My body was tightening, my cunt squeezing and contracting around him. He pulled my hair back, pulling my head up; I opened my eyes and saw the blood black water beneath me and all of New York before me. It was beautiful, being up so high, the entire world laid out beneath us. I wanted to hold on. I didn’t want him to stop but I couldn’t take it anymore. I pushed back against him. “I think I’m coming,” I said. “Don’t stop.”
He pushed into me harder and faster until I let go, my body exploding into spasms. He pushed once more, deep, and I felt his body go tight before he stopped, collapsing onto my back. We stayed like that for a moment, connected.
We lay naked on top of the Brooklyn Bridge, the rain pouring over us. He took my hand and held it for a moment. Another bolt of lightning shocked the life back into us.
“We should go,” he said. Then rolled over and kissed me.
We got up and began pulling on our wet clothes. There is almost nothing worse than putting on clothes that are already soaked. The temperature had dropped drastically. It was now freezing and I shivered each time a new breeze blew. We pushed our generators down the ramp, careful not to let them go too fast or too far ahead of us.
When we finally got down to the bottom Dee and Mikey were there waiting. “Oh, thank God you’re OK,” Dee said. “We thought you might have been electrocuted.”
John and I exchanged smug looks. “Then why didn’t you come to help us?” I asked.
She shrugged, “If you had been and there was still live electricity, we could have got electrocuted just walking up there.”
We all laughed because she was right; there was no point to all of us dying. Not when there was the promise of so much light.
Salvation
Jordan LaRousse
We lived in a small town in Tennessee in a weathered farmhouse with a brick driveway that wound endlessly between rows of dogwood trees. He was the pastor of the Baptist church. Tall, muscular, a shining bald head, and teeth that flashed as white as the southern sun on a hot July day. The youngest pastor our town had ever seen.
I was the daughter of an alcoholic and I needed salvation.
My reputation at the girls’ school all but barred me from setting foot over the threshold of Our Mother Mary Catholic church. I was too ashamed, so they assumed, to repent. They were right. I didn’t want to tell Father Ray, confessional screen be damned, about my tryst with his nephew in the bathroom at the diner during our shift break. I didn’t want to worry him with the details of how I took his God-fearing nephew’s God-endowed cock from his trousers and placed it delicately between my rouged lips and indelicately sucked it sucked it sucked it until he cried out the Lord’s name in vain. I would never confess.
Still, I needed salvation; I didn’t want to go to Hell. And it was with this in mind that I found myself in the Baptist church on the east end of town. My skin, the colour of fallen snow, my hair, the colour of autumn leaves when they are still gripping with life, stood out among the sea of black and brown. My body didn’t fit in. But my soul had found its rightful place. And I could sing, and sing I did.
It was here in this hot, sweaty profusion of almond-skinned bodies. It was here in this glorious worshipful place. It was here amidst the clapping of hands, the Hallelujah cries, the Amens that lifted the rooftop to the heavens. It was here that I met him. Him. My saviour. His name was Darrel Louis Walsh the Third. We called him Pastor Trey.
Pastor Trey was quick on the uptake. He saw the pretty little thing with the voice of an angel, as he called me, and swept me right up off my feet. Took me up right out of my sins and onto his wide, muscular shoulders, took me towards my salvation.
Although we spent hours upon hours with our tongues upon each other’s lips, our teeth upon each other’s necks, Pastor Trey refused to fuck me under the eyes of his Lord and saviour until we were truly and rightfully man and wife. In my quest for salvation, I agreed. In my quest for love, I agreed. In my quest for his cock, which I had only felt through layers of denim, layers of cotton, layers of corduroy and beneath layers of the fine blue suede of his favourite Sunday suit. I agreed.
Oh lord yes how I wanted to undress him, to lay my weary head on his chest and kiss his heated skin, to drink of his fruits, to bask in his love, to wake up with his horny, glorious hard-on pressed up insistently against the crack of my ass.
Despite the hemming and hawing of old Mr McGee from the general store, despite the piercing glares of several of his admiring parishioners, including the voluptuous Lucy and her slender sister Sue, despite the disgruntled grunts of my father, and the gossiping croons of my co-workers at the diner. Despite it all. We were married.
The ceremony was brief. A cloak-and-dagger affair. A marriage with few witnesses, despite my husband’s affection for the limelight.
He didn’t marry me for love. He married me because he desperately craved my pussy.
I learned this quickly.
We ate apples dipped in honey beneath the full moon, but there was no real honeymoon. The night we were married he took me to our new home. The weathered farmhouse at the end of the long brick driveway. The air was musky. Wooden. The windows had not been opened for years.
There was a mattress stuffed with straw on the floor. It was here that I first made love to Pastor Trey. It was here that we consecrated our marriage. It was here that I spread my legs before his tongue and let him weep deep and long prayers between the folds of my sex. It was here that he flipped me onto my knees and plunged himself deep into my pink cunt. It was here that I cried out and begged for him to fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me!
He loved me there in
that bed night after night, morning after morning, afternoons too. We spent hours pressed together like a hot iron to a strip of fabric, rubbing back and forth heatedly. We spent countless minutes pressed together like two pages in the centre of a book, comfortable, still and warm.
Outside the farmhouse, though, he grew distant. On the streets of our little town he begged for me to pretend not to know him. He said that he’d been getting threats from the sheriff, threats saying he would lose his pastorship, lose his job, lose his life if he married that white girl. Problem was we were already married. God had consecrated our relationship even if the sheriff had not.
I made exclamations of my dedication to him. I made protestations of my hatred for our bigoted little town. Saving a month’s worth of tips from the diner, I bought bus tickets to Atlanta where we could walk the streets, my white hand in his black hand, without consequence. But Pastor Trey did not want to leave his congregation. He did not want to leave voluptuous Lucy and her slender sister Sue; he did not want to leave old Mr McGee from the general store. He told me we had to bide our time and hope that times and sentiments would change.
Between his greedy mouthfuls of my pussy, between my singing his praises, between all of this, but before my orgasm, he told me I could no longer sing. Starting Sunday I would no longer be welcome at his church. It was for my own safety, he said. He breathed his fears between my thighs, said he believed his congregation could read our surreptitious glances, could feel the energy zipping between cock and cunt, could sense the saliva he had left on my left nipple in the moments before the church bells rang. If they knew of our marriage, he fretted, his flock would leave him. They’d flock out of the church’s gate and disappear into the Tennessee hills. He’d be left behind, alone, without purpose.
I smiled at the thought. Let the congregation flock. Let them go so we could go to Atlanta. We could be free to be together. We could raise children. We could buy a proper house with proper neighbours and a proper bed. He could become pastor of a city church, preach tolerance and love, we could fill the chapel like a crayon box, thirty-two colours of creation.
His eyes grew as dark as a violent southern storm. A glint of lighting shot through. A menacing cloud washed over his smile, turned it upside down.
“We are never leaving this town,” he said.
I sat at home that songless Sunday, wondering. I thought of Pastor Trey preaching in his freshly ironed suit. The one I had laundered after accidentally leaving my fragrant juices on the knee when he had fingered my wetness. The one I laundered after accidentally leaving my lipstick kisses on the collar. The kisses left behind from when he had gripped my face between his palms and professed his undying love for my pussy.
I thought of his praising and healing and preaching and of the huge breasts of voluptuous Lucy and the small pert ones of her slender sister Sue bouncing up and down up and down beneath the taut fabric of their dresses in the front row of the church. Their eyes supposedly raised towards heaven, but surely eyeing the crotch of my beloved husband. If he had married Lucy she would be on stage beside him, singing. If he had married Sue they would kiss in front of the entire congregation if they wanted to. Man and wife showing off their holy matrimony. My green eyes shone with jealousy, my red hair flamed with rage. He was my man I his wife, and our matrimony was holy. I wasn’t going to hide it anymore.
I put on my Sunday best. My green floral dress that showed off the colour of my eyes. My wide grey hat. My white gloves and black handbag. It was too hot for a bra and my breasts were small enough to go bare. I rolled on my nude stockings and hitched them to my garter belt. I slipped on the more comfortable pair of pumps because my husband had taken the car and left me out here at the end of a long driveway, at the end of an even longer dirt road. I knew that if I hurried, I could walk that road to town in about an hour and would arrive at the church after the salvation was served, but before the lemonade and crumb cake.
The Tennessee sun was hot on my skin as I walked. My anger made me hotter. My longing for Pastor Trey’s hot touch made me hottest of all. I damned the dress, damned the nylons, and damned the pumps that rubbed at my feet in all the wrong directions. Yet I walked furiously, arriving at the church just in time to see the worshippers stream out from the building, mingling on the lawn in their pretty dresses and sharp suits with lemonade in right hand, crumb cake in left, dropping cinnamon crumbs into their white napkins.
And I saw him, my husband, as he embraced woman after woman close and tight, their breasts pressing deep into the muscles of his chest. His hands leaving warm dents in the soft flesh of their backs. His breath close to their ears whispering his encouraging words.
My eyes shone green with envy. My hair coiled in red curls of rage.
I stomped stomped stomped up the sidewalk, stood behind my husband’s back as he embraced yet another woman. Watched her hands scrunch into his suit, the one I had freshly laundered. I tapped on his shoulders and he spun around flashing his hot-sun grin.
His grin toppled, left side down, when he saw me standing before him in my green floral dress, my wide grey hat, my nude stockings, my sensible pumps now scuffed with the dirt from the long road in.
His grin toppled, right side down, as I threw my arms around him and kissed him solidly on the cheek, on the chin, on his neck, on his chest and proclaimed him my husband, my beloved, the love of my life.
The sound of crumbs from the crumb cakes falling. The sound of ice clicking against the sides of plastic lemonade cups. The sound of uncomfortable shuffling of feet against grass. Ahems and hahs. Silence but for those sounds.
My exclamations became more brazen. “My husband, let’s go home,” I announced. “Let’s go make babies; this is what man and wife do on a Sunday afternoon. Remember the lovemaking we shared this morning? I want more. I want to take you in my mouth, in my pussy, I want to take your width in the tight space between my ass cheeks.”
These announcements flew from my angry lips like a colony of bats taking flight from a dark cave. Without thought for my dear husband’s reputation, my words flew haphazardly.
Abruptly he took control of the situation. With a smile that cracked deeply at the edges he grabbed my wrists in one large, strong hand and declared me possessed by the devil. He declared me overtaken by demonic rage. He laid his other hand to my forehead and began a prayer even as my rage spewed forth.
A crowd gathered around us, and soon the shouts of Hallelujahs and Amens rang in my ears. I collapsed in the arms of my husband, completely overcome by heat, by emotion, by the compassion of his flock that he refused to leave behind.
The prayer done, and me subdued at last, Pastor Trey saw his escape. He wished his congregation a blessed Sunday, advised them he would call my father to come fetch me home, and he took me over his shoulder and up the steps into the church. He sat me down on a pew and turned to shut the massive doors behind him. I heard the deadbolt slide locked. I heard his ragged breathing, his anger washing up anew. His footsteps echoed in the empty room and he stood before me with dusty stripes of light crisscrossing his massive chest.
I felt weary from my long walk, exhausted from my jealous rage. Yet his gleaming eyes, his fisted fingers stirred me into arousal.
Wordlessly he pulled me to stand before him. He laid my wide grey hat on the pew and encircled his arms around my waist, brought me deep into his embrace. His hand slid to the back of my dress and a long zip, an eternal zip, sounded as he slowly pulled the metal apart. He worked the flat of his hand into the space made by the parted fabric and gripped me harder still. His searing palm on the flesh of my back throbbed with energy.
After a still moment like this, he dropped his arms and pushed me away, took the shoulders of my dress down and let the entirety of its fabric fall to the floor and pool around my sullied shoes.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered. His voice strangely quiet in a room where it usually boomed and rang from floorboard to rafter. “But you have ruined me.”
&nbs
p; A familiar sense of shame burned deep in my heart upon hearing his words.
I stood vulnerable in my stockings, my garter, my panties, my shoes, my gloves. Yet my naked nipples poked defiantly at him, like two fingers claiming it was his fault that he was ruined. Not mine. All I had wanted was for him to be my husband, proud for me to be his wife.
He knelt before me, wrapped his arms around me and grabbed my two ass cheeks in his two strong hands. He poked his pink tongue into the fabric of my underwear. Poked and prodded and found the nub of my clit beneath the cotton. I felt the heat of his breath, the moisture of his saliva as it seeped through the cloth. His hands kneaded my behind and spread the cheeks wide.
“You have ruined me.” He looked up at me and I saw his eyes shining with tears. He released my cheeks and brought his hands to my garter. He carefully unsnapped each snap, until all eight had been released. Then he eased the garter down over my hips and pooled it on the floor with my dress. He slowly rolled my panties down my legs and those too, he left pooled about my feet. He took my left hand, set my pocket-book down and took off the white Sunday glove finger by finger. Then just as deliberately he tugged the glove from my right hand too. I now stood before him in my stockings and dirty shoes, my other clothes discarded at my toes.
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