Libations

by Penelope L'Amoreaux

  Shana whined in protest, but she didn’t need to worry.

  There was a prodding at her rear door. It was colder and stiffer than Lady Vin’s fingers. Slowly, the cigar shaped object pushed into her. Immediately she felt full. Shana’s asshole stretched along the smooth leather and Vin moved it in and out of her. Vin was being a little rougher, more forceful, pushing the plug deeper into Shana’s bowels than the finger.

  Shana’s breathing sped up as she was invaded by Vin’s toy. Her insides clenched around the cigar-shaped object, trying to pull it in, to fill her up.

  Anxiety crept into Shana’s chest. She had never asked Vin how much this was going to cost. She had so little in cash and even less in the bank. Still, as Vin kept stretching her, the sensations of the object being pushed and pulled inside of her, Shana thought, I’ll give her anything, if she just keeps doing this.

  The pressure in her ass built as Vin picked up the pace more, stretching Shana’s ass almost to the point of pain. But the discomfort was well compensated for by growing sensation of tension and pleasure and the eagerness for more. She felt her stomach tighten and her pussy ache.

  What am I doing? What was she doing, strapped and pants-less in some stranger’s tent, letting some gypsy shove things up her ass?

  As if in answer, Shana’s snatch began to tingle even though it wasn’t the hole being fucked. Her thighs squeezed harder, rubbing, lightning bolts of pleasure shooting through her clit. She had orgasmed before, but it had never felt like this.

  Shana almost felt afraid of the build up of pleasure, of what it meant to be so inexperienced and yet more aroused and dripping wet than before in her life.

  Just as her orgasm was about to hit, she suddenly felt hollow. Lady Vin had withdrawn the object, leaving her asshole gaping in protest.

  Shana’s whole body screamed. It had never felt such yearning, such desire before. Oh god, she had been so close.

  Weeping, Shana cried in frustration. This gypsy was a devil, a manipulator, a pussy-tease. It was cruel the way Shana’s snatch ached in need of release.

  More noise from the jar behind her. Shana yearned to free her wrists, to confront her anal violator.

  Why are you doing this to me? Not the sex--she had asked for that. The deliberate build up, only to leave Shana shaking and moaning and unfulfilled.

  Movement behind her. Lady Vin’s feet kicked Shana’s knees apart. She felt the silky friction as Vin sank between her legs behind her. Suddenly Shana remembered the giant red dick strapped to Vin’s harness. It was a monster, much larger than the cigar-toy that had just been in her. There was no way it would fit.

  I take it back! She didn’t want that thing in her, it was ok, she’d pay whatever, she wanted to be unfulfilled and remain a virgin. Tease me, leave me unsatisfied, just don’t stick that huge thing up me.

  It was too late. She felt its head at her stretched hole. Lady Vin had coated it in the same lube that she had coated Shana’s ass with. The large head pushed in, slowly.

  Shana felt the most intense pressure of her entire life. The giant dildo stretched her so entirely she worried she would rip in two.

  Moaning in protest and trying to move her hips, Shana hoped to let Vin know her fear, but the teller’s hands gripped Shana’s hips, holding her still, while the push continued. Just when Shana thought it was over, that it was too much, the head pushed all the way into her.

  She was full to bursting. Shana’s bowels cramped a little as the monster red leather cock continued pushing in. Then, suddenly, the pain was gone and what remained was pure sensation.

  Shana’s asshole was stretched completely, her moans and squeals sounding foreign in her ears. Never had she felt so full in her life.

  Vin waited, letting Shana’s body adjust to the girth of the dildo. Shana felt soothing fingers brushing her hair, trailing down her sweating back, but only vaguely. It was as if her ass was so full that she only had room in her body for that sensation, not other thoughts or sensations or emotions.

  All of her anxiety and embarrassment over her virginity was inside of that leather-wrapped cock shoved so far up her ass she imagined she would choke on it if it was one or two inches longer.

  Shana was unable to tell how much time had passed when she felt movement again. Lady Vin gripped her hips again, slowly sliding the dildo out. A slow ache built between Shana’s legs again. She hadn’t thought she could take the giant up her ass, but she had, and now she felt...sad? relieved? when it began to exit.

  But Lady Vin wasn’t through with her. The fingers dug into Shana’s fleshy hips as Vin drove back into her, faster, and then pulled partially out again.

  Slowly but building speed, Lady Vin began to fuck her ass with that monster red cock. Shana’s bowels shook and ached, rumbling against the invading dildo. As Vin sped up, she was forced to lean forward, bracing her hands next to Shana’s shoulders, the tiny tips of her nipples rubbing into Shana’s back.

  Lady Vin was merciless, pounding into Shana’s ass, ignoring the grunts and squeals Shana couldn’t stop making. It seemed impossible, being pegged by this huge invasion of a dick, for Shana’s pussy to feel anything, but as before she felt the tingling and tightening of her lips and clit.

  She heard Vin grunting with the effort of fucking her tight hole and it made her moan in delight. As the pace picked up, Vin’s skin slapping into her ass as she pounded away, Shana let go of her thoughts, of the anxiety in her chest, and just let herself enjoy finally being fucked.

  Her pussy clamped, churning, the orgasm so close but not coming.

  Suddenly Lady Vin pulled free. Shana was deserted, a huge, aching and empty asshole and an angry pussy, wet and tight.

  Frustration ripped out of Shana in the form of a scream, primal and desperate. She bucked and snarled against her gag, empowered by her rage. How dare this fortune teller leave me like this, worse off than before!

  Then Lady Vin’s hand lightly slapped Shana’s ass. She was not forgotten. Shana stilled. Based on the way things had been going, she wasn’t sure what else Vin could shove up her ass.

  Nothing came. Nothing but two finger slipping into Shana’s aching slit. She cried out, ecstasy blooming. Vin’s other hand slid up her thigh, and then fingers danced over Shana’s clit.

  The biggest orgasm of Shana’s life ripped through her. Her scalp tingled, her asshole ached, her pussy came and came and came, Vin’s skilled fingers coaxing it on.

  The orgasm finally subsided, leaving Shana gasping and weeping. She felt drained and cored. Her ass was sore, stretched and much used. Shana lay there as Vin untied her gag and hands. She felt Lady Vin’s hands on her shoulders, helping her to sit up. Once up, Shana fell into the fortune teller’s arms, sobbing. The teller let her stay there a moment, arms wrapped tightly around her.

  Vin finally released Shana and stood. Shana looked up at the gypsy goddess in front of her.

  “You are deflowered, empty and clean. Your future is what you make it.”

  “But you didn’t take my virginity,” Shana protested.

  “No, you did not specify which virginity you wanted taken. The other is yours to gift to someone as you choose. Now I think it won’t be such big deal, hmmm?” Vin winked.

  Shana stepped away from Vin, delighted. She stretched and closed her eyes, feeling the dual emotions of fulfillment and yet, hollowed and clean.

  “What do I owe you?” Shana’s voice was low and raspy, full of exhaustion.

  When she opened her eyes, though, Lady Vin, her toys, and her chest were gone. All that remained was the brown skirt, pooled on the floor where Vin had let it drop.

  Coarse Grind

  “Come into the kitchen, I have something I want you to see.”

  Despite your voice calling through the open doorway I remain on the couch. The truth of it is I came over to break up with you, not try some new foodie concoction of yours. Always with the food. Just thinking about it irritates me-- I cross my arms in front of my chest.

  The fo
odie thing is one item on a long list of pet peeves that have rolled over each other

  over time, collecting speed and negative emotions reaching an apex two hours ago when you called and invited me over. Listening to your low, raspy voice, I was hit by the avalanche of my distaste for you and damn, it was time to really do it. To leave.

  In the car on my way over I did that thing you hate: listing pros and cons. You claim it is a trivial judgment, breaking someone down into petty actions and molds instead of accepting the package as a whole. Guess what? Your condescension went straight into the “Con” list. Along with your obsessive desire to try crazy new foods (most of which are gross, by the way), the way you brush your teeth for exactly two minutes every morning, the way you frown when you pick my underwear off of the floor--maybe I wanted it there, asshole, the way--

  “Come on.” Your demand cuts through my thoughts. Oh, right. The way you boss me around like a child.

  Feeling petulant, I consider staying on the couch and forcing you to come to me. I don’t consider it long, though. I came here to talk to you, to leave. Gathering courage and some feeble attempt at patience, I make my way into the kitchen.

  You stand there, leaning on the marble counters. You are wearing an apron to protect your bare chest and a smug, shit-eating grin. Pro: You have an incredible body. I would be more aroused if I didn’t know that you knew how good you look, how much you turn me on. It takes considerable effort to not roll my eyes. In your hand is a clear grocery bag filled with some sort of greenish bean.

  “It’s a present. For you.” Raspy, lilting.

  Your tone suggests you are trying to sound coy, seductive. My fingers lift to my temples

  and rub, trying to stave off the irritation and tension headache I feel building.

  “Don’t feel well?”

  You don’t know the half of it, buddy.

  I inhale and close my eyes, preparing to launch into the carefully crafted break-up speech I worked on in the car.

  “I’ll fix you some coffee.” Actually, that sounds nice and I am glad you suggest it. You know how I love my coffee, bold and black. Thinking about the warm drink fortifies me and my intentions.

  I look back at you, at your boyishly tousled hair and sinewy arms underneath that apron. I watch as the taut muscles move beneath your skin as you begin to work around the kitchen. You are all hard lines and ripples in all of the right places. I feel a flush creep up my chest watching you move, knowing how well your body moves with mine.

  One of the reasons I’ve delayed ending this is how incredible you are in bed. I’m torn between admiring your body, which unlike your personality, has never let me down--and feeling incredibly irritated that you refuse to wear a fucking shirt in the house. Like, always.

  I sit on a bar stool and watch. You place the bag of beans on the counter. I don’t recognize them, but that doesn’t mean much. You’ve been trying to serve me unrecognizable food for months, ever since you started watching “No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain” and reading food blogs like some sort of goddamned religious text.

  You are bending to grab something from a low cabinet. The view is spectacular. Your long, strong back faces me, the muscles rippling under your tanned skin. The one hobby you have I like, rock climbing, has its perks. Namely that sensual back and your bulging forearms that are so strong and primal looking. Your ribs and abs lead down hard, planed surfaces to one of the greatest asses on a man that I’ve known.

  If you could stay like this forever, silent and working, I wouldn’t want to leave you. But you never stay silent.

  You rustle around some more, unable to find what you need. I feel a small twinge of

  extra annoyance. I thought you were making me coffee, not cooking. Maybe I should just get on with it.

  Before I can begin, though, you reappear, a large frying pan in hand.

  “Here we go.” You crank the flame on the stove and put the pan on it with no oil--no oil!

  “Look, I’m not hungry, I just want some coffee.” My irritation is obvious in my voice. I can’t hide it anymore. Instead of hearing it, hearing me, though, you reach and grab the bag of beans again.

  “Do you know where coffee originated?” you ask me. Jesus. A fucking quiz? Nothing is ever simple with you. I sigh heavily.

  “I don’t know,” I tell you. “Somewhere in South America?”

  You chuckle, enjoying knowing something I don’t. It wouldn’t be fun for you if you couldn’t hold something over my head, remind me of how smart you are. Well, I know something too, buddy, and you won’t look so fucking pleased when I tell you.

  “Coffee originated in Ethiopia, or at least in Africa. These--” you hold up the bag and

  give it a shake, “are raw coffee beans. Not easy to get locally. I have some connections, though.”

  I roll my eyes. You just keep grinning. Opening the bag, you pull one out and hand it to me. In my fingers, it looks long and feels softer. I smell it--subtler, greener smelling than I was expecting. The bean is completely unlike what I imagine when I think of coffee.

  I start to hand it back to you, shrugging, but you motion for me to keep it.

  “Look, I have some things I want to talk to you about, could we just have normal coffee? Brewed? I know you have some in the cabinet.”

  Ignoring me completely, you lean on the counter, bringing your face close to mine. I have to fight not to recoil in rage. (Never listening to me- big con).

  “Trust me, baby,” you say as your calloused fingers trace my jaw line. “This is worth the wait.”

  Your finger drags back up my jaw and then your hand is in my hair. You grab a handful and tug just a little harder than playful. I give a reluctant shiver--even in my anger, my body responds to your touch, your closeness. I want to stay angry, but I feel myself getting wet.

  “Fine. Make me your coffee. Then we talk.” You stand again, your smirk saying what you don’t, which is that you know how to play me so that I sing your tune.

  You move back over to the frying pan, which is now so hot it is smoking. Picking the bag up, you dump it in, a rush of green. Immediately the beans begin to pop and roast in the pan. You speak to me while you cook.

  “Look at the bean in your hand.”I had forgotten I was still holding it. Frowning, I peer down at it. It is shaped similar to half of a peanut, but on the flat side it curls in like a conch shell. Still aroused from your hair-pulling, my fingertip traces the folds of the bean. I imagine your mouth on me, licking the same patterns and folds between my legs. Oh.

  “You’ve noticed it, then? Its feminine shape and imagery is the reason many of the coffee ceremonies in Africa are also sexual and fertility ceremonies.”

  “So coffee looks like a pussy. So what?”

  You turn from pan roasting just long enough to frown at me.“There is no need to be crude.”

  But I catch it--the dark look in your eyes. I’ve pushed a button. You almost never get angry at me. The truth, though, is that those few times when you do, those are my favorite times. When you get angry, I get wet, because nobody anger-fucks like you.

  Your spatula bangs the pan just a little harder and your stirring a little rougher. I cross my

  legs to ease the ache that is beginning between them.

  “Look,” You say, your back turned to me, “I am trying to show you something. There is history in this, and ritual. It transforms something ordinary into the extraordinary. Will you please just let me show you?” I hear the hitch in your voice and another shiver goes down my spine.

  This is the moment. Do I keep quiet and let you show me your stupid ceremony, then sip my coffee and tell you that we’re over? Or do I provoke you further? One last fuck, a good-bye fuck, closure for me and spiteful to you, because I’ll leave when its over and you are the most vulnerable and guilty after taking your anger out on my pussy. I want you to take your anger out on my pussy, I realize, and that makes my decision.

  “It is just a fucking coffee bean that looks l
ike a cunt. I don’t understand what the big

  deal is.”

  The gauntlet is thrown. I hear your sharp intake of breath. You keep stirring the beans, which are beginning to darken and blacken, but your spatula moves at violent speeds. I am not sure I trust pan-roasted beans, but it really doesn’t matter, does it, when now all I am thinking about is how to get your attention. I am done with beans. I want you to fuck me so I can be done with you, too.

  We wait in tense silence, me sitting and you furiously stirring. I keep waiting for you to stop, to pick up the fight that I’ve started. I want you to ravish me. Instead you keep working the beans in the pan.

  The kitchen is filled with a smoky smell that is more like the coffee smell I am familiar with. Finally, after we’ve been sitting in our silence for about twenty minutes, you take the pan

  off of the stove and dump the beans into a colander in the sink. I see them, then, dark and shiny, falling in a noisy cascade. They are beautiful, like tiny chocolate opals.

  Even seeing this, I’d still rather buy some from the store. I’m irritated with you again. The ache in my cunt has long since subsided in disappointment. You didn’t take the bait, and now I was going to have to drink your stupid coffee and dump you and leave caffeinated and single but unsatisfied.

  From a cupboard you take a mortar and pestle. Using a cup, you dump some beans in and

  stalk over to me, slamming the full mortar in front of me.

  “Grind,” you command. Immediately I look into your eyes, surprised. I thought I had missed my chance. But you’ve been over there smoldering in anger while you cooked your damn coffee, and you are ready for a victim. My pussy drenches itself when I hear your irritation.

  It is my turn to smirk as I take the pestle and start breaking down and grinding the beans. My hands turn and grind slowly, trying to entice you. You just roll your eyes, but I see your cock beginning to harden in your tight jeans.

  I watch you go and pull out your French press. From your back pocket you pull a small plastic baggie. In it are some leaves your dump into the press.