If that’s what he wants, I thought, that’s what he’ll get. But I was still frozen, unable to move.
I had always thought of making myself come as something very private and special, my little secret. When, at the age of thirteen, playing in the bathtub with one of the shower sprayers on the end of a flexible hose, I had first discovered how to do it, I had actually thought I had invented it, and that I was the only one in the entire world who did it. When I learned that it was completely normal, at first I just didn’t believe it, and then I was disappointed. I still liked to pretend I was a young teenager discovering how to do it for the first time. I liked to tease myself, as if I didn’t know exactly how to make myself come.
Sometimes when I needed the extra stimulation, I’d touch myself a little while Brian and I were having sex, but I didn’t like to do that – I was afraid he’d feel that he wasn’t adequate to satisfy me. And somehow that didn’t count – it didn’t have anything to do with the private act I kept for myself.
Now I wanted to show that act to him, but hot as I was, I was still doing nothing. Why couldn’t I take even the first step? What was I afraid of?
The performers in the video were making a lot more progress than I was. I had never seen anything like what was happening on the screen. Both women were naked to the waist. The redhead, her large breasts waving to and fro, knelt in front of the man and took his cock out of his pants. It looked even larger on the television than in the pictures on the box. Incredibly, the redhead put most of it in her mouth. Even more incredibly, rather than gagging and choking, she seemed to be enjoying it.
The blonde was kneeling behind the man and kissing and licking his butt. In case anyone might have missed the point, the camera cut to a close shot of the woman’s tongue moving up and down between his cheeks.
Where do they come up with these ideas? I asked myself. In seven years with Brian, I had never thought of doing something like that – and I had never gotten the idea that he was hoping I would. But maybe he was. Maybe he was secretly longing for me to stick my tongue up his butt. I thought I should be outraged at the very idea, but I wasn’t. In fact, I couldn’t believe how hot I was.
Almost without being aware of it, I reached under my skirt. My panties, soaking wet, had ridden up into my pussy, and they were tickling me. I just need, I told myself, to adjust them.
But as soon as my hand was at my pussy, I realized I was fooling myself. I’m really going to go through with this, I admitted to myself with a sigh. In fact, I was afraid it would all be over too quickly: I was already ready to come. Through my panties, my pussy felt hot and soft and full, like your eyes just before you start to cry. My breasts ached, and with my other hand I began to touch them.
I was so hot that I didn’t know what I wanted. I wanted to close my eyes and I wanted to keep watching the porno tape. I wanted to make myself come as fast as I could, and I wanted to make it last forever. I wanted Brian to come into the room and make love to me, and I wanted him to stand there and watch me as I drove him completely crazy.
Was Brian as hot as I was? How could he just stand there? I wanted to turn and look at him, but I just kept staring at the television, where the man and the blonde were both kneeling in front of the redhead and licking her pussy.
Was Brian looking at the television, or looking at me? The thought that he might be watching the tape instead of me got me angry again. I’ll give him something to watch! I thought.
Careful not to look in Brian’s direction, I stood up and unfastened my skirt. It dropped to the floor, and I sat down again. Imagining Brian’s face as he watched me, I slipped my fingers under the elastic of my panties and onto my pussy. It was all I could do not to come.
In the porno tape, the threesome were busy arranging and rearranging themselves, like skaters going through their required figures. I couldn’t believe all the positions they found. I couldn’t believe that people actually allowed themselves to be filmed doing what they were doing. The screen was filled with mouths and hands and breasts and pussies and cocks and butts.
I couldn’t believe how hot it was making me. I got out of my top and opened my bra. It felt good finally to have my hands on my bare breasts. Watch this! I thought, and pinched the nipples, rolling them between my thumb and let my forefinger, as I’d just seen the redhead do on the tape. Each time I did it, a jolt of electricity ran down my body into my pussy.
Suddenly I didn’t care that much about what Brian was seeing or feeling or doing. I just knew that I had to come. I stood up and took off my panties. My juices were all over my pussy lips. I couldn’t believe how wet I was. I sat down again and rubbed myself in just the right place.
Usually, I didn’t put my fingers inside myself. But on the screen, the two women were up on their knees, kissing each other and playing with each other. Behind them, the man was taking turns, going back and forth between them. There were close-ups of his big cock going from one pussy to the other. It made me feel empty inside, and I brought my feet up and let my legs fall apart and stuck two fingers inside and put my thumb on my clit.
It felt great, and I was almost there, but I wanted to feel it from behind, like the women. I got up onto my knees and reached behind myself and used both hands at once.
On the tape, everybody was coming. The man pulled out of the redhead and his cock began to spurt. He used his hand to make his come land all over the women’s butts. The women were groaning and shaking and heaving.
Just at that moment, I heard a footstep, and suddenly I was filled with embarrassment, as if it was my mother who’d caught me, rather than my husband. Ridiculously, my hands stopped moving, as if I could deny what I was doing.
But it was too late. I was already starting to come. If I didn’t keep stroking myself right then, it would be a fizzle instead of an explosion, but I would still come. After all that, I had to save it. I moved both hands as quickly as I could. I came so hard I think I passed out for a moment. The next thing I knew, Brian had his arms around me, kissing me, running his hands over me. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so passionate. He lay me down on the couch, and he got out of his clothes like a magician. I glanced down at his cock and saw the semen smeared all over its head: he’d come in his pants, just from watching me. The thought made me hot all over again. And he was already hard again, or he’d never gotten soft. Either way, he entered me easily. He felt huge, as big as the man in the video. We didn’t even bother to turn off the porno tape.
HER FIRST BRA
(excerpt from A Body Chemical)
Cris Mazza
1981
There was one more card from Millard in November, a Thanksgiving card that said hope to see you again . . . someday . . . somewhere. Dale picked it up from the floor under the kitchen card table and said, “Who’s this from, your mother?”
“Yuckity yuk.” Leala was slicing hotdogs to go into canned beans. Dale ate lunch at about 10 a.m. when he got home from delivering tortillas to restaurants.
“Well, who is it?”
“It’s a photographer I did a session for. I guess he liked me. Whose mother should we visit for Thanksgiving?”
“A session? What’s that mean? You’re working as a model? Since when?”
“About six months.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought I did.” She put a plate of tepid franks-n-beans in front of him then started sorting through the mail, putting the utility and credit card bills in one pile for Dale to pay from his checking account, the rent and food came from hers. She had a session that afternoon. The guy on the phone yesterday asked how old she was and she’d answered I’m very bold, why’d you ask? then the guy digressed to something else, the color of her hair and eyes, how tall she was, her measurements. She’d changed her ad again. It said, young, versatile female model for private photo sessions with imaginative photographers, you won’t believe what your camera can do.
“How much have you made?” Dale asked.
“Not much. The rent went up, remember?”
“Well let’s make out a budget or something, maybe we don’t have to sell anything to buy grass. Or Christmas presents for that matter.”
“Sessions aren’t predictable, Dale. We can’t budget for them. I thought you were off grass, anyway.”
“Well they use it for cancer patients, don’t they? Maybe it’ll help.”
“Help what? God, what a hypochondriac, it really gets old.”
“I’m getting this shortness of breath all the fucking time, dammit, I’m hot then cold, then I start sweating my fucking ass off. What would you call it?”
“Maybe it’s menopause.”
“Har-de-fucking-har.” He put three huge spoonfuls into his mouth in rapid succession before chewing and swallowing. “So you wanna go away for Christmas vacation this year?”
“No, not now.”
“Then when?”
She picked up his empty plate and put it with the dirty pan beside the sink. “Dale, I tried to tell you once what’ll probably happen, what I’m saving for, but you wouldn’t believe me. That’s fine, you can pretend. Sure, everything’s normal, right?” She boosted herself to the counter and swung her feet into the sink to shave her legs. “Luckily I don’t even think you’ll miss me.”
The photographer handed her two fifties before she came through the door. The session was at his house – he had his living room furniture pushed to one side and a corner converted into a set resembling a dressing room in a fancy department store. A three-sided mirror and stool, clothes with tags draped over accordion partitions, big umbrella lamps preventing anything from showing a shadow anywhere.
“Okay, listen to this,” the guy said. He had long hair parted in the middle, the kind that either looks dirty or if it’s clean, is so fine it’s like baby hair that was never cut. He also had one of those halfway mustaches that usually only sixteen-year-old boys can grow, more baby hair. “Okay, listen,” he repeated, “it’s like, you’re shopping, it’s a big day because . . . you’ve come to the store without your mother –”
“My mother?”
“Yeah, listen, you’ve come shopping, you took a bus or rode your bike, but you came to this upscale store where you get one of those personal shoppers. You see, you’re here to get your first . . . training bra.” Suddenly he ducked his head and looked through a camera on a tripod. She wasn’t even on the set yet.
“Does anyone even use training bras anymore?”
“Sure they do, and listen, you’re all excited, this is a big day for you, milestone, know what I mean? Today you become a woman . . . and all that.” He stood up but continued to look at the set, not at Leala.
“And I suppose my dressing room has a hidden camera or two-way mirror. And then what, my personal shopper is a man?”
“Maybe,” he said slowly. “We’ll see. The important thing is, this is such a big day for a girl. It makes her feel like anything can happen. Um, hang your old clothes on the hook there, like you would in a dressing room. And here you go, try these on.” He pulled a plastic Sears shopping bag from behind one of the partitions.
“I doubt Sears has personal shoppers,” she said, looking inside. There were three or four practically cupless bras and matching underwear, one set white with purple flowers, one baby blue, one with pink polkadots, and one set basic white with lace. The bras were just stretchy material with elastic straps and hook in back.
“You can have them when we’re finished,” he said. “Do you have any that nice?”
“No I can’t say that I have any like these. In fact, I don’t have a bra.”
“You don’t?” His face and sad brown eyes and repulsive mustache seemed to leap at her, but he hadn’t moved closer, just was looking at her. “Oh, good, that’s great. Perfect. Like . . . this’s real, isn’t it? Your first bra.”
“Yeah, whatever. Where should I change?”
“Well . . . the dressing room, of course.”
She looked back at him for a moment while he touched his limp hair then touched his mustache then put three fingers over his lips and dropped his eyes.
“Of course, silly me.”
He dragged another stool over so he was sitting behind the camera. After her jeans and t-shirt were hung on the hook and her socks stuffed into her shoes (he said leave them under the stool, and let one sock come trailing out of the shoe a little), she glanced at the camera while putting on the flowered bra and underwear with her back to him, but of course she showed in the mirror, tits and trimmed bush. “Your first bra,” he murmured, the camera clicking, zipping to the next frame and clicking again. “How does it feel?”
She turned to hide a laugh as a small burp. The bra actually fit her but the underwear was not bikini style. She could see in the mirror that the high-waisted underwear made her tits look even smaller, the bra like an elastic headband put around her chest.
“Oh god,” he moaned, “god-in-heaven.” The camera clicking and clicking. Her adrenal gland released, the chemical shot through, leaving behind a vibrating hot jello-y place in her middle. She turned slowly back and forth in front of the mirror, stretching to check her ass over each shoulder which also stretched the bra.
“Oops!” One tit popped out when the bra rode up. “Where’s my personal shopper, I need to know if this one fits.”
The guy was huddled on his stool, his face almost to his lap, no longer clicking, sort of whimpering.
“Come on, please, mister? It’s my big day, help me pick one that fits.”
He slid off the stool onto his knees and shuffled towards her. His head came up to her stomach. His eyes were murky and glistening, sweat on his upper lip had dampened the disgusting little mustache. He held her around her waist with one hand, pulling the flowered underwear tight against his chest, bending her knees slightly and throwing her off balance so she had to hold onto his shoulders and lean backwards slightly. With two fingers he eased the bra back over her exposed tit.
“There, it fits like that,” he breathed.
“Are you sure?”
He moved his hands slowly up her body until he was holding her around the ribcage, a thumb on each nipple. He moved the thumbs back and forth, hardening the nipples under the stretchy purple-flowered material. His face tilted up. His two watery eyes right behind each thumb. “Yes, this is how it goes. Like this. Like this.”
“I know sixteen is a little too late for my first bra, but my mother said I wasn’t old enough,” she said, making her voice airy and higher. The flowered underwear were wet between her legs. She tried to grind her twat against his chest a little but the zingers of adrenalin were zapping her almost continuously and she was in danger of falling over backwards.
“No,” he whispered, “sixteen isn’t too old. Not too old at all. You had to be ready. You knew when you were ready.”
“I’m ready.”
“Today you were ready. Today was the day. Oh, but if only your little titties wouldn’t grow any more,” he sobbed, “so impatient for this day, but now they’ll be ruined.” He slid his hands to her back and pulled her stomach against his face, blubbering against her skin below the bra.
“Hey, mister,” she breathed softly. “Today’s not over yet.” She touched a bald spot on his crown with a single finger. “Remember, today’s my big day. And there’s still a half hour of it left.”
He lurched to his feet with her in his arms. “Like a baby,” he smiled through his tears down into her face. He bent and kissed her gently, touching her lips with the awful mustache, while carrying her out of the set and down a hall. The room they went into was dim, but after placing her on the bed, he turned on the night stand lamp and she could see the white lace canopy, the matching white lace lampshade and bedspread and curtains, antique-looking dolls in white or peach or baby-blue satin dresses lined up on a shelf, plus little troll dolls and glass princesses, horses and china puppies, a brush and comb set on the dresser, a life-sized white teddy bear sitting in a corner.
“This isn’t your room is it?” Leala asked, propping herself up on her elbows. He was kneeling again, beside the bed.
“No . . . it’s yours.”
“Huh? Oh . . ..,” she lay back slowly. “It’s the room my mother doesn’t know I left to go buy my first bra, right?”
“That’s right.” He took off his shirt. He was as skinny as Dale but not a single hair on him, except his armpits. “Just touch them against mine while they’re still little, while it’s still the big day.” He got on top of her, still wearing baggy green army-surplus pants. She couldn’t feel any hard-on, but his hips were far below hers, on the mattress between her knees, so she wouldn’t’ve anyway. He pressed his gaunt chest against hers, his head down against her neck, then without raising his body eased the bra up so her bare breasts were against his chest. He rocked slightly so their nipples brushed back and forth. And he started to tremble. She could feel his heart like a fist on a windowpane, banging to get out. His swaying continued for five or ten minutes.
Leala’s adrenalin buzz was long gone. She checked her watch by raising one arm in the air behind his shoulders.
Then he was easing the bra back over her, with his chest still pressed to hers. “Okay,” he whispered in her ear. “I didn’t hurt you.” He backed up off her and stood beside the bed. “I’ll leave you in your pretty room, with your bears and dolls.” He clicked off the light and retreated toward the door.
“Hey!” Leala sat up. “I would like a doll like one of them. Where could I get one?”
“A doll shop.” He was a shadowy form by the door, putting his shirt on.
“How much would it cost for me to get one?”
“Some of them are as much as $200.”
“I could just get a $50 one, though, couldn’t I?”
He didn’t answer, buttoning his shirt, then he looked up, but she couldn’t really see his eyes. It was too dark.
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica Page 38