“Why do we do this every year?” I say. “ ‘I’m gonna lose weight or be nicer or give my loose change to every bum I see on the subway.’ It’s like we say this when we are drunk and minutes away from a new year that is really no different than the day before it except the number changed. I’ve been waiting for that rooftop since the night after it happened. Maybe Claira is waiting too. We never talk about it. It’s like it happened to someone else. I’m fucking done with this boring shit we call sex. It’s like a constant rerun of the same show that you didn’t even like the first time.”
I realize that I am probably a bit more inebriated than I thought. I start to calculate the decibel of sound from the music compared to that of my drunken voice. Then, I look over at Claira and notice that although her ass was deeply concentrating on the beat and rhythm of the song, her eardrums were able to multi-task. She heard me.
I smile at Claira, but she just whips her hair back as a gesture of I’m mad at you right now but we have guests over and it’s new year’s and we will talk about it later.
I take the deepest swig of beer that my mouth can hold and swallow. Hard.
“Shit,” I say.
I slowly walk over to Claira and gently grab her from behind. I am still hard from my first glance of her dancing and her disappointment in me has no influence on its stiffness. I am aware that it is pressing into her.
“Do you think about that rooftop too?” I whisper.
She ignores my question and continues to dance, though I notice her ass pushing into me rather than away.
“Do you think about your hands on the pavement and your legs in the air? Balancing with my dick inside you?”
Her hair smells vaguely of cigarettes; she always smokes when she is drinking. I can also smell her conditioner, which is sweet and salty from her sweat.
“What about my cum in your mouth? On your thighs? Your fingertips on my balls? You remember that?”
Claira turns around slowly and throws my head between her hands aggressively. Her lips are no longer glossy or red from whatever lipstick she had on at the beginning of the night, but they are strong, fast, and determined.
“Yes, I think about that night too,” she says between kisses. Her tongue is almost as drunk as I am as it jumps waves inside my mouth. We are breaking records for length of time breath can be held. Usually she barely even puts her tongue in my mouth. Right now, she is counting all of my teeth and I can taste everything she has eaten, drunk, and smoked tonight.
“We never—”
“I know,” she interrupts. “Shit, we’re busy, Pete. It’s like everything has sped up and slowed down and we got in this routine of—”
My hands are wrapped around her small waist and her hands are around my neck, fondling my hair and rubbing my cheeks.
“Life,” I say. “Clair, what time is it?”
She looks at the small clock on our mantel and squints her eyes. “Eleven fifteen.”
“Everyone is pretty drunk right now.”
“Yeah,” she says, looking around.
“Beer supply is going strong again. We’re good on food still.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We could probably . . . just for a minute . . .”
Claira grabs my hand and smiles. She pushes her fingers into my knuckles, and digs her nails into my skin. We live in Brooklyn; our rooms are small like cupboards. Although everyone is centralized in the living room, we both stare at each other thinking the same thing. Rooftop. The first question I asked when we looked at apartments was: is there rooftop access? Many of them do, luckily this one is no different.
We walk up two flights of stairs, never letting go of each other’s hands. My imagination, which has always been solid, is force-feeding my erection. She opens the door and
“Fuck.”
There is no visible rooftop; there are so many people that it is impossible to even see the amazing view of lights and buildings surrounding us.
Amidst the coupled and group conversations, many men and women, women and women, and men and men are as close to fucking as two people can get.
“It’s dark,” I say. “Let’s just carve out a corner and do our thing.”
“Peter, it’s—”
I move in front of her and lead us to a spot around the corner by the chimney and cement-covered boxes. There are no lights around us, so we just start feeling each other.
I breathe my beer breath into her ear and slur as many dirty words as I can think of. She giggles and falls into me.
This time, I take off my clothes while she remains in her black dress and black stockings and red flower pinned to the left of her breast. I don’t care where my clothes fall; I don’t think about adding up the distance between those closest to us on this rooftop. By this point, we have less than half an hour left of this year. No time to digress.
When there is nothing left to take off, Claira goes right for my dick and wraps it in her hands. I pull away.
“Wait,” I say. I press my aroused dick against her and feel the textures of her skirt against its head. I reach towards the back of her and unzip her out of her dress. It falls against the rooftop. She has on stockings that go just above her knees and are fastened with hooks connected to her underwear. I push her panties to the side, still leaving them on, and push my dick into her. We are standing, though she immediately hops on me, with her threaded legs wrapped around me. I push myself further into her by pressing on her ass and pulling it towards me. Claira’s breasts are pressed into my chest and I lean down to suck on one. She is cooing and moaning in my ear. I need to stop soon or I will come.
She senses my need and resistance to keep going and hops down. She pulls her underwear off, walks behind me, and presses her wet pussy against the back of my thigh, while reaching around to grab my hard cock. She starts to give me a hand job, squeezing harder, sliding over me, occasionally teasing my balls. She is grinding against me and I almost spout out everything I have when I sense her juices slipping down my leg. She doesn’t let go. She goes faster and faster over my dick with a momentum that I don’t even think I’ve ever had. Then, she stops.
“Huh, huh, uh, huh.” I’ve lost the ability to speak. What I meant to say was—
“I want you to eat me out,” she interrupts.
I can barely walk, let alone squat to reach her pussy. But my dick grants me access to bending, as I find myself on my knees rubbing my face between her thighs. For the first time since being outside, I can feel the cold air stick to my balls and shrink my dick. She is resembling a crumbling bridge, twisting and curving backwards as I force my tongue along the furrows of her lips and casually against her clit, lingering. After being with Claira this long, I’ve learned her favourite spots to be touched and in what order they prefer. Her clit being most sensitive, she prefers I hold off until the last possible moment. Tonight, we are chasing minutes and time has no patience for leisure or precision.
My jaw tenses as my tongue teases her hard clit and fingers coast inside her. I skate in and out of her slippery bush, which I occasionally bite into with my teeth. Her hairs are rained on by her excitement and I lick my lips against her salty curls. Claira’s knees begin to buckle and I know from experience what is about to happen. She lets out the most amazing burst of liquid from her pussy like high tide at the beach. She squirts out almost sixteen months’ worth of orgasms. She comes on my face and I slowly remove my fingers from inside her. I throw them into my mouth and taste her on me. She grabs me and we kiss. My dick crawls into her drenched pussy and I pump maybe five times before coming immediately.
“Eight, seven, six . . .”
I can barely walk down the flight of stairs to our apartment; my dick is panting between my legs. I can only imagine Claira is quite sore too. No one even flinches when we walk through the door, hair tousled, clothes carelessly fastened and smelling, no, reeking of sex.
I look at Claira and see that she has joined in on the countdown.
“. . . three,
two, one . . . happy new year!”
Couples grab each other and show gratitude with their lips. I kiss Claira, feeling her weight fold into me. Outside, I hear fireworks explode against the sky and the howls of drunken cheer.
Whiter Than Snow
Zander Vyne
Katie stood on the front steps of the church. Looking up at Gothic gargoyles, stone angels and soaring windows, she shivered.
Her friend Johnny hadn’t lied; Saint de Sade’s was amazing.
She held the heavy door open for a remarkably authentic-looking group of fresh-faced girls dressed in nun’s habits and walked inside.
The door closed behind her with a dull thud, and she hesitated in the cavernous entry hall, her eyes adjusting to the dimly lit space, her heart pounding.
And they left the church, free of fear and ecstasy possessed, and they suffered no more for they were filled with awe, a sign hanging on the wall read.
Katie was trying to recall the last time she had been free of fear, ecstasy possessed or filled with awe, when a young man wearing flowing robes appeared from the shadows.
“Katie O’Malley?”
She jumped, startled. “Yes?”
“You’re late. Come with me.”
She followed him, walking into a chapel filled with old air, hushed whispers and candlelight. Stained-glass windows, lit by the dying sun, glowed with rainbow hues. Neat rows of polished pews flanked a crimson path.
The confessional waited down front – a wooden, closet-like box with two doors.
Katie shivered, rivers of excitement gripping her belly with greedy fingers. She was giddy, nervous and, for one anxiety-ridden moment, she wondered if this experience would be more than she could handle.
“Close the door behind you, and latch it,” her escort said, holding the confessional door open.
She wondered why there was a latch at all, as she obediently stepped inside and fitted the bar into its loop. Was it there to keep people out or to keep her in should she change her mind and decide to run – not enough to stop her but enough to slow her down? She forced this alarming thought out of her mind, surrendering instead to her almost overwhelming thirst for the things she’d come here for. For years, she had tried to leave her sins in the past, but still they lurked like monsters in her closets. This was the only thing she had not tried, the only thing she thought might work.
Inside the confessional, it was shadowy and quiet. She pulled the kneeler down, wincing as her knees settled onto the hard, uncushioned wood. No comfort for the sinners at Saint de Sade’s.
She heard footsteps, then a door opening and closing with a squeak. She held her breath and peered through the screen dividing the confessional, her gaze searching, her ears pricking with sounds heard – rustling clothing, a breath taken and let go.
“Hello, my child. I will hear your confession. Out of thine own mouth will I judge thee.”
Jesus, this was intense. Johnny had told her what to expect, but the combination of her profane desires and the stark reality of this place shook her. Saint de Sade’s prided itself on offering only the most authentic experience; it said so right on their website.
She wondered, in the moment it took her to answer, about the priest. Why had he chosen to serve in this way? How had he reconciled things she could not, both within herself and with the teachings of the church she had long ago abandoned? Her organized mind searched for order, in what was rapidly sliding into the surreal, and could find none.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began in a rush.
Pushing her thoughts away, prompted by the priest’s opening words, her own came easier than expected. “It’s been a long time since my last confession,” she said, rather than admitting she could not even remember the last time she’d been in any kind of church.
She confessed. Some things were very hard to tell him, but she did; it was why she’d come. She told him everything, all the secret things she had held onto all this time. As the monsters came out of her closets, she began to cry.
He listened, silent, apparently unmoved by her tears or her crimes.
The heavy aura of her confessed sins surrounding her, Katie wiped away her tears, feeling an odd mixture of shame, fear and relief.
“That’s all. Everything,” she said, her breath hitching. “Can you help me?”
She’d intended to confess it all, and had managed to get out even the most agonizing things, but worried maybe she’d lied even to herself – justifying some sins, forgetting others. As she waited for the priest to decide her fate, she wondered if the price of atonement would be more than she could bear or the necessary punishment more than he could offer. Maybe her sins were too great to be forgiven.
It suddenly felt intensely sexual to her – her confession offered for the priest’s empathy, the give and take bleeding together. The agony of her want was tinged with exquisitely painful guilt. Being penetrated this way was a passionate, rending mind-fuck – without fingers, tongue or cock – and she longed for more.
“You have suffered greatly wearing the yoke of your wrongdoings. I can help you cast it off only if you truly wish to be free of its weight, and do exactly as I tell you. Stand up. Come close,” the priest said, his voice nearer as Katie obeyed.
Her knees quivered as she pressed her cheek to the latticed wall of the confessional. She thought she could feel his warmth on the other side, and closed her eyes. This was what she wanted – something real, something she could feel in a way she understood.
There was a nickering of wood sliding over wood and a sudden stirring of air as he opened the old-fashioned screen partition, exposing her from breast to thigh. “Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Sprinkle me with cleansing blood and I shall be clean again and, after you have punished me, give me back my joy again. So sayeth the Lord.”
The words sparked a frantic flutter in Katie’s heart as the priest slid his hand between her thighs and squeezed her pussy, his thumb exploring through her skirt and panties. She whimpered, frozen in place. Pangs of fear clashed with her excitement as the priest spoke of blood and fondled her.
This was already so much more than she’d anticipated, though exactly what she needed.
“Did you know blood in the moonlight glitters black?” The priest asked the question in his now familiar, soothing tone.
She didn’t, but she pictured it now and moaned, her thoughts a disorganized jumble splashed with ebony, blood-soaked images. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Exit the confessional, and go through the open door behind it. It will close, and you will kneel there and wait.”
Fumbling with the latch, Katie bolted from the confessional, avoiding the eyes of those in line. She was very aware of the red flush on her cheeks and the obvious press of her hardened nipples against her shirt. She prayed there wasn’t a visible wet spot on the front of her skirt and, looking down, was mortified to discover a dark smudge.
She walked through the doorway and kneeled as instructed, one hand curled protectively over the damp circle on her skirt. Waiting, her knees touched the ground but the rest of her seemed to fly away, separate, with no anchor, no salvation. Dizzy, she spread her fingers on the cold stone floor for support.
She wondered if there was mercy to be had and if she would want it. Would she rather keep this burning need inside or give it to the priest? She decided she wouldn’t want benevolence, even as apprehension blossomed in her belly, her imagination rampant with dark fantasies of the punishment she’d come for – feared as much as longed for.
She craved an elusive saviour, who would not be swayed, who would know what she needed. The stained-glass windows overhead and the sweetly drifting choral music would not make this one soft. He would do what needed to be done.
Never before had Katie felt so close to what religion had promised but not delivered – as she hath done, so shall it be done to her; eye for eye, tooth for tooth. Until she felt it, the monsters in her closets would haunt her.
She fidgeted, wondering how long she would have to wait. The thought of kneeling in the open for a long time, alone except for the occasional passer-by, mortified her. She imagined rising and running out the doors of the church. Home. Safe. The thought made her giddy and ashamed, all at once.
She didn’t rise, and the priest came to where she kneeled, her eyes cast downwards.
He lifted her chin, his fingers curling warm and intimately beneath, until their gazes met.
He was younger than Katie had expected. He wore his dark hair long, held back in a neat ponytail. His black shirt was fitted with a crisp, collared band of white.
Once more, she rode the edge between anxiety and pleasure. Everything about the priest was as expected and yet shocking all the same.
“Clasp your hands behind your neck.” His assured, gentle tone compelled her to lift her trembling fingers, linking them behind her head.
“Lovely.” The priest’s fingers circled her throat. His thumbs pressed for a dizzying moment to the hollow between the curves of her collarbones.
He leaned closer, close enough for a kiss. “Here the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.” His lips captured her gasp with one tiny suckle of her bottom lip.
“Remove your shirt.” His whisper was warm on her cheek.
The shock of his words hit her like a slap, causing goose bumps and a thrill of pleasure mingled with anxiety. She shed her snug T-shirt, folding it neatly, pushing it against the wall.
His gaze dropped to her bare breasts, and she fought an urge to cover herself with shielding, cupped hands. She felt bare, vulnerable in body and spirit.
Her fingers gripped her knees as he clasped a collar around her throat. It was black leather – not too loose, not too tight, but just right. The smell was sharp and distinctive. A ring hung from the front and the priest lifted it, dangling it from his fingers before attaching a leash. Metal rasped closed against metal, everything made momentous by the lack of discussion, by the surety of the collaring and leashing, the quick efficiency and matter-of-factness of it.
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