“Too much?” I ask, spanking her hard while I’m penetrating her.
She doesn’t answer, so I spank her harder.
“Too much?” I ask again. She shakes her head. I spank her harder. She is biting the sheets. I spank her again and again with my fingers thrusting into her. Then, in a moment of pause, I gently pull myself out. “Don’t move,” I say to her. I untangle myself from beneath her and she keeps her ass up in the air, waiting for me.
“Beat them into soft peaks…” the TV chef is saying. Her red ass is high in the air like a cherry lollipop while I strap on the dildo I have brought. “Don’t move,” I order her when I see her flinching in discomfort. She wriggles her ass higher for me and I adjust the dildo in the rubber ring. I climb on the bed behind her and grab her hips with both my hands to pull her ass back and higher into the air. I spread her knees apart slightly. Her cunt hangs down heavily from the weight of its hunger. I rub the dildo against her wet labia so gently she thinks it’s my hand. “Close your eyes,” I say to her, and when she does I open the lips of her cunt with two fingers and press the dildo up inside her, quickly, so that her body almost buckles. She is so moist and ready it slides right in, and I move it in and out until her sounds get deeper, her mouth widens as if on the same circuit as her cunt. Her throat opens too, so that her sounds are more hollow, deeper, as I thrust into her. I feel the flat end of the dildo pressing against me, too, and it makes me want to fuck her harder so I can feel it pressing into me. I grab at her hair like a mane, ride her bareback for a while, reaching around and squeezing her breasts while I push into her. We fall into the same rippling motion for a while until I feel like we are on the same carnival ride, the same garish, cheap ride.
I’m sure sleazy things have gone on here, in this room. It is a bargain-traveler, lunch-hour-with-your-secretary kind of place. The Bible hides in the drawer like a silent witness, recording stories. We’ve been in other places like this one, meeting halfway between our homes, in the middle of nowhere, because we might get caught by those who really own us. I can’t help it; I kiss her on every elevator, sticking my tongue into her wet mouth, then walking off when the door opens as if nothing ever happened. Of course, it is those who try to be the Easy Riders of sex who always capsize, and it is like that with us. When I am inside her in this room, I want to stay inside forever. I want to quarantine in her body.
When I thrust into her one last time, she starts heaving out noises I don’t understand. At first I think she is laughing, then I realize she’s crying. “Oh, sweetie,” I say to her. “Honey.” I stroke her back while I pull gently out of her. “What is it?” I am concerned. She falls onto her side and I am next to her, pulling her to me, squeezing her. “Oh, God,” I say. “What is it?” For a minute she is sobbing too hard to talk, and then she pulls me closer to her, sealing all the seams of our two bodies.
“I feel so naked,” she says to me. “Will you cover me?” And I do, I pull the blankets over her, pull her close, press my body into hers, stroke her gently and say, “Sweetie, I’m here.” This is because she likes to be protected, I think to myself, holding her against me. And whatever I fucked out of her pours out for a good ten minutes while the cook on TV whisks, beats, purees, and tastes the “exquisite balance” of what he has created. Meanwhile, we enjoy our symbiosis for a minute, the flow of her tears against my chest where I’m holding her, the intertwining of our legs. I think how I’d like to walk up to her on the street, where we would pretend we’re not together, then drag her into an alley, press her hard against a brick wall and kiss her there, feel the friction of her leather jacket against my breasts, the warmth of her flesh beneath the tough hide of her, the softening of her body beneath mine, time and distance melting away.
The cheap hotel has a certain neutrality, like household objects that are as basic and complex as the wheel. And she, too, has spanked me here with belts, with lobby magazines, with a single calloused hand. She and I like to switch our power game: we like to meet halfway. And I can tell, once her tears relent, that she is creating castles out of garbage again. She scans the room. I can almost see her mind concocting beautiful, B-movie fantasies.
“That table,” she says to me, pointing to the corner of the room. “I plan to bend you over that table and take you later. If you’re lucky.”
She and I, we like the simple pleasures.
I give her a conspiratorial smile. Then I kiss the moistness off her cheeks, counterproductively, as my lips make her wetter and the tenderness makes her cry more. Finally she just pulls me into her with our full bodies pressing tight and says, “I can’t believe I let you see me like this.” And then I think I love her.
The Body in Relation
Deborah Repplier
Vee stance, Salutation, Sink, Salutation. The surety of each move, the rhythm of my body strong with itself. Vee stance, Salutation, Sink, Salutation. Through the open window of the chapel, crab apple rises on the breeze, wafts in reminding it is May. Early May. I watch the instructor dressed in black, her body fluid, each move water pouring from a vase. She circles around the five of us, eager, awkward students. My dance card empty. She circles around and calls the steps, watching as we move through the beginning level.
I, at the beginning level. Two years later from you. I seek the balance in my body, in my life. Marvel at my two hands, open-palmed, before me. Fingers tight and fingers splayed. In T’ai Chi Ch’uan, it is the Yin and the Yang. The duality of life. The wanting and the not wanting. And the body in relation. The instructor starts at the front of the room, facing the wall, her back to us. At her neck, her dark hair tapers into a vee. Vee stance. Vee.
(You in your white blouse, after a shower and your hair in a vee.)
Her hair is not sweaty, although she removes her over-shirt and stands before us in black. Sculpted biceps emerge from her short sleeves, already tan this May.
Outside, the city traffic, a siren in the distance, the wonder of a mockingbird in this city. (I live in this city now.) Inside, the choir practices in the room beneath us, chords rise through the marble floor, gyrate in the air as I swing my hips. My legs are firm from rollerblading, my weight balanced. Horse. And my hips sway with gyration, vibration. I notice the instructor notice my hips in gyration. She averts her gaze quickly, but not before I recognize the look in her dark eyes. Duality. I feel it in my own sometimes, my body sticky with sweat, passing young dykes on the corner, by the train station. I rollerblade the bike path to pass by, my hips swaying above well-defined legs. Look them full in the eyes; I don’t look away. I don’t look away from the instructor now although she wants me to, I can tell. Her Yin to my Yang.
She wears silver bands on both hands. Her middle fingers are crooked, I notice, when she stands before me to adjust my arms. She avoids my eyes until she is through touching me. When her hands drop and my arms are correctly positioned, she looks at me before turning to the next student. Meets my eyes. Salutation. This goes on for weeks, but each week, I notice, she lingers a bit longer, praising my grace. Her hand adjusts my wrist, slips lightly up my bare arm. The Yin and the Yang between us. The wanting and the not wanting. She meets my gaze silently, holds it as she moves away. The mockingbird. The siren. The choir. The look in my own eyes. I tell her I may not be able to make class next week, I have late business outside of the city.
(I live in this city now.)
“Come,” she says. “Come late and I’ll stay after class with you; we’ll make up what you miss.”
(I miss you. I miss the pain of your hands squeezing the flesh of my shoulders, the wall pressing hard against my back as your knee pushes my legs wide. Still I miss you.)
Late and in work clothes: T’ai Chi in short skirt, black nyloned feet. Jacket and heels tossed to the corner. Separate, Withdraw, Push, Drop. Separate, Withdraw, Push, Drop. We have become a class of three now. A gay man, a straight woman, and myself. And the instructor. The straight woman stands in front of me and I mimic her movements. Fluidity is something onl
y inside of me now. The instructor comes to me (open), demonstrates what she wants me to do.
“Do it for me,” she says. Scent of sandalwood between us, her hands on my waist, squaring my hips, my shoulders. A current runs through me at her touch; my nipples pierce the lace of my bra, strain through the silk tee. I focus on the piano in the corner, the vase of irises on top, knowing if I meet her gaze I will stumble. I startle myself (beginning level).
“You need to work on the new steps,” she says. And the others close the door behind them as they leave. She demonstrates once more what she wants me to do. This time her eyes do not leave mine, even when her body turns away. This time when I feel her hands against my skin, I do not try to control my quickening breath. The wanting. The not wanting. We stand in the center of the room; ahead the piano with its narrow strip of mirror sends our midriffs back. I see her fingers on my waist, crooked fingers, her black cotton peeking from behind my blue silk. She presses herself against me, her breasts against my back, her taut nipples matching my own. In the piano mirror her hands across my torso. And tighter. Tighter. Deep breathing.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” her tongue flicks my left ear. Lingering chills. Her warm breath.
In the mirror, I watch her hands glide over the fabric of my breasts, watch and feel my nipples pinched, straining through the silk. Gasping, I collapse against her. In the mirror, her left hand disappears. She is searching for something. I feel my skirt rise, her knee between mine from behind. Horse. Lift and open. Ankle. Wrist and reach. Her hand against me, searching. I feel her lips flit across my neck, biting, sucking my flesh. In the mirror, her right hand slips under my silk tee and pushes my bra aside. Fingers moving beneath fabric. My nipple on fire. My knees forgetting their strength. The mockingbird’s incessant courtship call. And the choir.
I turn away from the mirror.
(This road away from you begun.)
I turn to the instructor, learning. Leaning into her: press my mouth over hers encircle her body in my arms. Who is gasping now? My hands slip under her T-shirt. My fingers define the bones of her back. Trace the bones, slowly. Then hard.
“The door is unlocked,” she tells me, her fingers pushing aside the crotch of my panties.
“Lock it.” And my hips rise to her.
“No,” she says. “I can’t. Even if I could, the sextons have a key.”
Her finger inside me, thrusting. The scent of sex, sandalwood, our sweat, the crab apple. The taste of her lips.
“Take me in the bathroom,” I plead, and we walk, me backward and oh her finger inside me, the endless distance to the door: one animal, four legs.
Block and Grab, Press, Roll, Separate. Block and Grab, Press, Roll, Separate. The tumblers click in the lock and she turns to me. I know that look in her eyes. I know the look in my own right now, although I cannot see the mirror. She lifts the silk above my head and I am before her in my black lace bra. Her mouth moves to mine. The lace forced away, exposing my right breast. Her lips claim territory from my lips to my nipple. Her teeth send sharp gusts of pleasure-pain. The duality.
(My breasts untouched until...I live in this city now.)
Her hands yank, my skirt lifts, my thighs push wide. Both hands. Breathing. Breathing. Sandalwood. Sex. She is searching. Her mouth is on my nipple. Her eyes never leave mine. My hips are gyrating and I can tell she likes it, although she is not watching. My legs are wide but she does not enter me. She rubs me, pressing, rubbing, parting. She pours liquid fire into my body.
“Please,” I moan, my hands pulling wrapping pushing her arm against me. Begging, please.
She cups my cunt, moving the flat of her wrist against my clit. I am open and wet and empty. She steps back, lifts my skirt to look.
“Hey,” her hand moves to the virgin tattoo on my hip. “Blue hummingbird,” she smiles at her discovery.
The counter is cold against my ass. Her tongue insistent, again. I feel her pelvis, black jeans rubbing between my legs. I lift her T-shirt over her head, freeing her nipples beneath. Silver hoops. My hands open palms against her flesh. Fingers splayed. Tug and oh. Press, Roll, Separate. Gasp and gasp. Her hand to my cunt, again.
“Please,” I beg.
“Please what?” she whispers back. Ohhh and fuck.
“Please fuck me, now.” (I live in this city now.)
Her mouth into mine. Her tongue. Her fingers into my cunt, to her knuckles.
“I’m married,” she says, turning inside of me, her fingers gyrating, untwisting me. “I’m married.”
(We were married too.)
Her hand is hard. Hard and then nothing. Empty ache. She slips her fingers to her lips, sucking, tasting me on herself. Slips one to my mouth.
“Should I stop?”
NO and NO and NO. She rewards me with her hand. “Shhhssshh,” she cautions, “The sextons will hear us.”
“Oh God,” I gasp, her Yang to my Yin. “Oh God, how many?” I want to know. Lift and open. Wrist and reach. Three she tells me. “And your wife?” She rewards me with another finger. “Please.” My mouth so dry, my tongue barely moves across my lips, my body empty, aching, searching. Still not enough.
Wrist and reach. Wrist and reach.
And in that moment, she gives me all of herself.
Push, Drop...Single whip, Adjust. Push, Drop...Single whip, Adjust. Beginning level.
The surety of each move:
water pouring from a vase
my hips gyrating
her hand seeking the wanting
the not wanting
sandalwood sex...the rhythm of my body in relation
strong.
All of herself in that moment. Enough.
from The Blue Place
Nicola Griffith
There used to be several distinct kinds of gym. When I was growing up, school gyms—in whatever country—were sunlit and silent, the air dead and dusty with the scents of climbing ropes, ancient pommel horses sweat-soaked and bare on the handles, and a thin, greasy overlay of plimsoll rubber scraped off on the wooden floor during countless skiddings and bumpy landings. All very genteel and closed off. Working gyms in the city were meatier, more burly, with dim overhead lights, chalk dust, laboring fans, and metal everywhere: clanking nautilus, ringing free weights, clinking dog tags. Male sweat and Ben-Gay. Hoarse huff-huff of pumping, the occasional burst of loud boy conversation: the game, the fight, the conquest. Dojos, on the other hand, were defined more by body sounds: the slap of open hands on arms, thud of bare feet on kick bags, the heavy, almost soundless impact of a rolling fall...and the voices, karate kiais like the cry of a stooping hawk, the very particular half-swallowed hut-hut , like a gun with a sound suppresser, of a whole school of people going through their katas, the endless, rhythmic susurrus of breath as half a dozen students meditate in zazen.
The precinct gym in City Hall East was less than a year old: beautiful sprung wood floor, whispering air conditioning, full spectrum lighting. I took off my shoes, stood in the middle of the floor, and closed my eyes: soft hiss of air conditioning, faraway rumble of East Ponce traffic, slow turning thump of my heart. I breathed deeply, in and in until my belly swelled with air, out again through my nose, in, out, letting my hands rise a little with each inhalation. Then I stretched up, and up further, held it, came down, palms to the floor. Held it, held it, and on the outbreath bent my elbows further.
I moved through my routine automatically, stretching tendons and ligaments and muscles, and after twenty minutes I was as flexible as a whip.
There are only four schools of Shuto Kai karate outside Japan. I had learned it in England, on Tuesday evenings and Sunday mornings in an old community center whose concrete floors were always still sticky with spilled beer and cigarette ash from the event the night before. I had studied with five men under the instruction of a truck driver with a sturdy Yorkshire accent and a real love of the art. He taught me the way of the empty hand. I would kneel in zazen on that unheated concrete floor in the middle o
f winter and extend my arms. He would lay a heavy pole across my wrists, and the battle would begin, the battle of breath and pain and will. The first five minutes were easy, the next ten just about bearable, the next thirty a nightmare. Sweat would roll down my neck, and Ian’s voice would boom from the walls and rattle the children’s drawings pinned there. “Breathe through the pain! Breathe! With me, in and out. In and out.” And my shoulder muscles, which had already taken me through two hundred push ups and an hour of sparring, would burn dully, then sharply, then with pain bigger than the world. And the only way through it was the breath. In and out. Falter and you are lost.
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