Girls Who Score

by Ily Goyanes

  “Play with your tits,” I said.

  She complied eagerly, plucking the tight beads, pulling them then releasing them to spring back. “I have clamps at home,” I said, watching her eyes grow dreamy and unfocused.

  “I like clothespins. I’ll bring them.”

  “I have a little suction cup for your clit.”

  “Fuck, oh, oh, oh.” Her thighs worked faster and faster as she rubbed herself against me.

  The cock was so deep, her motions so hot, that my walls engorged, crowding around the shaft. When the rippling convulsions began, I bounced against her pussy.

  With fingers plucking one nipple painfully hard, she slid her other hand down my belly then gripped my swollen clit with her fingertips and squeezed, pinching it and pulling it, adding the extra edge of pain I needed to slam over the edge.

  I hung on the pipes, my arms aching in the their sockets, suspended as her pussy worked its magic, rubbing against mine, until at last her hips jerked, and she came with a raspy shout.

  I let go of the pipes and came down on top of her, the dildo curving inside us, pushing against our walls for release. I kissed her, smearing her lips with an imprecise smooch, then nosed under her jaw to nibble at her chin and neck.

  With our chests pressed together, we both groaned. Her arms came around me. “You’re some therapist. I can’t feel my knee at all.”

  Lazily, I flexed my bottom to grind my hips against hers. “Think you’re up for the second half?”

  I’d never showered so fast. We kept to opposite sides of the room, our backs to each other, but talked as we washed.

  “My house is just off Bandera.”

  “I live in the Springs.”

  “Then I’m closer,” I said, smiling because I couldn’t wait to get her home and strapped to my bed.

  “Then it’s decided,” she said.

  Water stopped. I turned the handle to stop mine as well.

  “No roommate?” she asked.

  “Not in a long while.”

  “Then no interruptions. Good.”

  I glanced over my shoulder and caught her staring at my ass.

  “What? It’s cute. I couldn’t help but notice.”

  I scraped my wet towel over my body and flung it into my bag. I wrestled to get my yoga pants up my legs then pulled a tank over my head.

  Hands slid around me from behind, cupping my breasts. Her thumbs flicked my tight nipples. “Don’t be mad, but I faked that fall.”

  Mad? With her pinching my tits, I couldn’t work up more than a groan. “Why?”

  “Like I said, it turned me on watching you plow through their line. I wanted all that intensity right between my legs.”

  I turned inside her arms and wrapped her in an embrace, hands sliding south to cup her firm ass. I swatted her butt, then pulled free and reached for my gym bag, which I swung onto my shoulder, in a hurry now to get her home. “I won’t tell. I like how things turned out.”

  NO, TELL ME HOW YOU REALLY FEEL

  ily goyanes

  I sit by my tree every day and watch them walk by. Tall and with an easy confidence I would never have, they look like they were created in a lab or something. Definitely not your average human beings.

  Especially the captain. She was just under six feet tall, with long, wavy brown hair that she kept in a ponytail almost 24/7, but I had seen it loose once when she was trying to bring up attendance at the volleyball games. The plan, apparently, was to walk around campus “engaging” the student body. Retch. She had come over to my tree that day and I, pretending not to notice her seventy inches looming over me, just kept sketching in my black Moleskin.

  “Excuse me? I hate to bother you…”

  I looked up at her from under my charcoal-lidded eyes. “Then why are you?”

  She turned red and stood there for what seemed like a full minute. “Um…” She started to say something then thought better of it and walked away, mumbling an apology.

  That’s right. Walk away, cretin. Don’t you know that jocks don’t talk to emo art-school girls?

  After that incident, she kind of tried to avoid me, but I would see her checking me out when she thought I wasn’t looking. But I was. I always watched her, especially at the games. I know what you’re thinking, an emo art-school chick attending a college volleyball game? Don’t be so closed-minded. Brace yourself—I also watch the Super Bowl and the NBA championships. Don’t let my sullen attitude and heavy black eyeliner fool you—I have school spirit.

  I sit high up in the bleachers waiting for the game to start, dressed in tight jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie emblazoned with the school’s crest pulled up over my head, obscuring my face. Yes, I have school spirit, but no one has to know about it. So, once a week during volleyball season, I don my “average person” disguise so I can attend the games without ruining my reputation with the coffee-house crowd.

  The announcer starts calling out the names over the loudspeaker. This is my favorite part. “Number Twenty-Three and captain of the Lady Blue Jays, Julianne Murphy!”

  She trots out of the hallway and into the gym/auditorium and stands there looking around. The bleachers are half empty, which is an improvement from previous games. I guess her efforts to engage the student body are working. She looks happy and I want to slap her. Doesn’t she realize that there is more to life than sports? More to life than just refining your, admittedly hot, body? What about cultivating your brain? I shake my head. Jocks don’t have brains, I remind myself. She dominates the court, spikes the ball into the faces of our enemies and brings home the win. I go home and rub my clit raw thinking about how much she annoys me.

  She’s eating lunch alone today. What a fucking miracle. Besides being stupid, jocks travel in herds. Especially Captain Murphy. There is always a group of sycophants around her, hemming and hawing, practically tripping over themselves to get closer to the golden girl.

  She’s sitting on a huge rock about ten paces from my tree and eating a wrap or some other trendy, pseudo-healthy lunch. Just looking at her makes me want to vomit. She looks my way several times pretending she’s looking at something in the distance. What, Cap’n? Looking at the gym/auditorium to see if it changes color? I told you. Jocks are dumb.

  I start sketching her. At first my strokes are sharp and deep, but then I lose myself in the sketch. I hear only pencil on paper—the entire school has disappeared. It is just me, my Moleskin, my pencil and my tree. She starts to take shape beautifully, almost as beautiful as she is in real life. I start shading when I hear someone clear her throat. Uh-oh. Captain Murphy must want to die.

  “Is that me? I mean, the drawing, is that, um, a drawing of me?”

  “Yes,” I answer her. I am mortified, but I recover. “We’re doing a project in one of my art classes and we’re supposed to draw still lifes.”

  She seems to relax a bit, probably relieved that I didn’t stab her foot with my pencil. Then something dawns on her, “But aren’t still lifes…”

  “Yes,” I say acidly. “Exactly.”

  She turns red again, and if I hadn’t known any better, I would have sworn that tears welled up in her eyes.

  After the still-life incident, I didn’t see her around for a week. The Cap’n and her cronies must have taken a detour to the gym/auditorium every day, because I caught neither hide nor hair of her. We won the game that weekend. Murphy was on fire; she was a woman possessed. Not a single ball got past her the entire game and when she went up to serve, I could see the other team cringe collectively. Our enemies did not score a single point. Go team.

  The following week, the jocks were back to their regularly scheduled programming. There was a new development as well. A new girl, one I had never seen on campus before, was being very touchy-feely with my Murphy, touching her biceps, stroking her hair, and making slut faces at her. Being the dumb jock she is, Murphy was basking in the attention. Although I did notice her looking over at my tree several times….

  We won the next several
games and we were up for the state championship. By the luck of the draw, I also had an interview for an internship at a museum in the same city that weekend. And by luck of the draw, I mean that all my scheming to get that interview, in that particular museum, on that particular weekend, had worked. Sometimes we have to make our own luck.

  We ran into each other in the library the Thursday before the championship game. I hadn’t seen that cheap slut around, but I was still boiling at the way Murphy seemed to enjoy the whore’s attention. Murphy sat at one of the long library tables reading books on Andy Warhol, Salvador Dali, and for some odd reason, Nan Goldin—who was an amazing photographer, but not a painter. I crept up behind her real slow and stood there inhaling her scent. She smelled like laundry detergent and wildflowers.

  “Are you enjoying your picture books?”

  She looked up at me in surprise and then a frown quickly consumed her face. I had never seen the captain frown and I didn’t like it.

  “I’m sure you’re way smarter than me, and obviously way cooler, I mean you must have completely wiped out the shelves at Hot Topic, but I’m not dumb you know. I’m here on an academic scholarship, not an athletic one.”

  Well, well, well. The golden girl had some sass. Hot Topic? God forbid, that’s where the Twilight crowd shops. I shop at thrift stores and estate sales. But, that was a good dig. Nice one, Cap’n.

  “I didn’t realize that they gave academic scholarships for finger painting. I do apologize.” And with that epic line I turned to make a graceful departure, but she grabbed my wrist. She must have felt the same electric current that I felt when our flesh connected, because she stopped right when she was about to say something.

  She shook her head as if to clear it of whatever she was thinking. “You shouldn’t be so mean.”

  She looked so sincere, and for the first time ever, I noticed that her eyes were a light brown flecked with green and amber tones. I almost wanted to give in and say, “I know, Cap’n. I know I shouldn’t be so mean. I just want you so much that it hurts.”

  Instead, I laughed. “I’m sure a big girl like you can take it, Cap’n. I just loathe still lifes.”

  I pulled away and she let me.

  I went home and cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. Once I got that out of my system, I fucked myself silly with my purple vibrator, reliving the close-up shot of her eyes on my face and the feel of her large, strong hand wrapped around my tiny wrist.

  It’s the weekend of the big game and I pack my car up for the four-hour drive. Murphy and her hangers-on are going on the team bus, I’m sure, but I will see her at the hotel. Of course I booked a room at the same hotel the team is staying at; what am I, stupid? I wouldn’t miss even the possibility of seeing Murphy poolside, her light golden skin and perfect body in a bikini, relaxing before the big game. I’m bringing special toys with me for this trip—I have a feeling that Murphy is going to annihilate the other team tomorrow night and I’ll be so excited that my pocket rocket just won’t do.

  The game was even better than expected. Murphy was all over the court, extending her body, jumping, diving and knocking the shit out of that poor, poor ball. The other team didn’t know what hit them. I’ll tell you, motherfuckers! You got hit by Hurricane Murphy, bitches!

  I feel so alive on my way back to the hotel that I want to pull my car over to the side of the road and scream out, “We’re Number One! We’re Number One!” I feel like stealing a goat, painting it in our school colors and dropping it off at the other school’s campus! Whew… I need to get a hold of myself. See, this is why sports are bad for society. They create a visceral reaction in our systems that takes us back to Cro-Magnon times. This isn’t me… I’d much rather drink espresso while listening to The Smiths “Girlfriend in a Coma” on repeat. But I feel so good! It wouldn’t kill me to have a small celebration in my hotel room, would it? I pull into a gas station and buy myself a four-pack of wine coolers. Woo-hoo! We’re Number One! We’re Number One!

  At the hotel I get wasted, at least as wasted as anyone can get on two wine coolers, then I pull out my special red dildo, the one that has an extension for my clit so I can fuck myself and play with my clit at the same time. I replay the game in my head. Murphy serves and everyone gets the fuck out of the way. Murphy dives for a ball and hits it up so that one of her lazy teammates can send it back over the net. Murphy spikes the ball into the face of one of the losers from the other team. Murphy, Murphy, Murphy… I fuck myself thinking about her strong hands and golden skin. I think about her amazing eyes with their flecks of green and red, I imagine them looking into mine as Murphy rides my cunt with a ten-inch strap-on, pushing and pulling, her long, lean frame covering mine completely as we make love. I mean, fuck, as we fuck. My pussy starts twitching rapidly, then contracting, and I hold the image in my head, of my barely over five-foot body buried under Murphy, looking up at her and into her eyes as we both come at the same—BANG, BANG, BANG!

  “What the fuck?” The knock comes again, louder this time. Not even thinking, I stand up and go look through the peephole. Uh-oh. Captain Murphy wants to die.

  I am so livid, so enraged, so HORNY, that I just open the door and stand there naked, staring at her. When she sees me, she just stares at me with her mouth open.

  “Come in you dumb ox, this isn’t a show.” I pull her in and shut the door quickly. As soon as I turn around, I get smacked in the face with what seems like eighty-proof oxygen. The captain is sloshed, ladies and gentlemen.

  “Why…uh…why are you?”

  “Naked?” I ask the normally agile, but now weaving Murphy.

  “Y-y-yeah.” She looks at me and I can tell that whatever she had planned in her drunken stupor did not include me standing buck naked in front of her.

  I sit her down on the edge of the bed and take her shoes and letter jacket off. Standing in front of her with my hands on her shoulders I lean in and whisper in her ear, “Because I was just fucking myself thinking about your performance on the court tonight.”

  Apparently, forming an intelligible response is out of the captain’s hands at the moment and she lifts me by my waist and sits me on top of her. God, she’s strong. I start rolling my hips slowly and undulating against her body, brushing my tits against her face, softly sliding my nipples across her lips. Murphy groans and her fingers dig deeper into the soft flesh of my ass. “Put it in my mouth…please…”

  I oblige my champion and place one of my hard, pink nipples in her mouth while I keep gyrating against her. She’s a little sloppy, but mostly in control of her physicality. She rubs her teeth against my erect nipple, making me moan, and causing my already soaking pussy to secrete even more hot liquid, sticky fluid that is soaking into the captain’s gym shorts as I ride her muscular thighs.

  “I—I—always—wanted…” She tries to communicate what we have both been feeling, but I stop her. “Shh, Captain. Let’s not waste time with words. You’re here. I’m here. You won the championship game tonight almost singlehandedly and you have a naked woman sitting on your lap, willing to do anything for you. Just enjoy it.”

  And she did.

  RUN, JO, RUN

  Cheyenne Blue

  Run, Jo, run. Down London streets that are never silent, even in the hours just before dawn. Run, Jo, run, your thirteen-year-old feet pounding the pavement, the breath hot and rasping in your lungs, your skinny body bursting with the effort of your heart. Run, Jo, run, away from home where your parents are screaming at each other again, screams that end with breaking glass, and broken ribs, and the wail of the ambulance siren.

  Jo can’t help her mother, although she’s tried and the scars on her own body attest to her failure. So now Jo runs instead of fights, dodging the partygoers, and the late-night drunks, the shift workers alighting from big red buses and the occasional policeman who assumes a fleet-footed teenager must be a pickpocket and gives chase but never catches her and never will.

  Run, Jo, run, though the shadows of your life, away fro
m parents, teachers and social workers who are supposed to care for you yet never manage to be there. At sixteen run from home and never go back. At seventeen run from the lover who promised to care for you but defined care as power. Run from the world, and learn eventually that the only constant is you and your body, its strength and speed.

  Also learn that there are some things that you can’t outrun: the horror when you learn you’re pregnant, the sorrow when the baby is lost. And you can’t outrun the knowledge that life is passing you by, and you’re not ready for that. You’re not ready to be a thief, a con, a prostitute, even though you know they’re possibilities and they wouldn’t be the worst.

  So Jo stops running, long enough to enroll at technical college, long enough to learn that she has an aptitude for computers, long enough to return home and find her mother is dead and her father has captured a new lover. Long enough to learn and embrace her own sexuality.

  Never long enough to fall in love. Never long enough for that.

  And although she’s stopped running from things that scare her, Jo knows she will never stop her real running. Not until her knees give out, not until she’s shaky and feeble and can barely stagger a fifteen-minute mile. Maybe not even then. Running is when she is truly free.

  She joins a running club, hoping to meet a girl like her, a girl with whom she can run, but the preppy insistence on teamwork and the slavish devotion to the stopwatch isn’t her thing. After yet another evening nursing a glass of soda while conversation about road races she will never run flows past her, Jo leaves and doesn’t return.