“Fuck.” Amanda whimpers, head dropping back as Josh leans forward to bite her neck. “Nat, ohmygod, Nat, touch me.” When Natalie hesitates, Amanda grabs her hand. “Love you too. Of course, of course I do. Touch me.”
So Natalie slides her fingers down between their bodies. She touches Josh first, making a circle around the base of his cock and feeling up to where it disappears into Amanda, skin slick from both of them. She gets her thumb on Amanda’s clit and rubs.
It’s over so fast after that, Amanda keening loud and long just like she did the night of the baby shower, that sound Nat wants to hear again and again. Josh closes his eyes and thrusts one last time. The expression on his face is so familiar, shock and almost melancholy, like he knows whatever this is feels too good to last.
“I don’t think the cast of Friends ever did that,” Nat says when everyone’s done, mostly just for something to say. Her hand is still between Amanda’s legs, everything wet and sloppy. She doesn’t want to move it. She’s afraid of what will happen if she does.
Amanda hums and moves it for her, swinging off of Josh to sit beside them on the bed. She squeezes Nat’s wrist as she goes, warm fingers. “They didn’t have our deep, loving bond,” she says mildly, one hand reaching up to scritch through Natalie’s hair. It feels the same as always, the same way Amanda has touched her for a million years. Her bare breasts press against Nat’s arm.
“Can we – can we hang out here?” Josh asks. He looks vulnerable, down on his back and his cock just starting to get soft. “Or one of the other rooms, there’s a king in the –”
Natalie flops down next to him, taking Amanda with her. “Oh god, shut up, rich kid. We can fit in the queen.”
Josh grins at her then, faint and affectionate, all three of them curled on the bed like puppies or children. Nat can hear the wind on the lake outside.
WHAT HAVE I TO DO WITH YOU?
Anna Maconochie
Anna Maconochie is an award-nominated short story writer, a filmmaker, and a DJ living in London. She has been published in the Erotic Review, Prole Books, The Wells Street Journal, The Dublin Review, storgy.com and The Bitter Oleander. She is currently writing more short ficition and a short horror film.
Dermot and I broke up over football. That is what I like to tell people. I can even pinpoint the match that set everything off. Norwich City vs. Man U. The argument took off when Dermot checked the score on his phone in the middle of sex. With me. I always switch my phone off during sex but I’m seven years older than Dermot, who is twenty-nine. I remember unplugging the landline in my first rented flat before closing my bedroom door and facing a boy. I still find phone jacks a bit sexual. Maybe Dermot’s dismay about Norwich losing contributed to his dwindling of erection. Maybe not. It’s too late to ask now.
“He’s a bloke, isn’t he? Blokes like football,” Jojo says to me. Jojo is my best friend, or at least the closest thing to it. I wasn’t a “best friend” person at school. But other girls like having best friends, Jojo for example. Maybe football is like that for Dermot, like stepping into a warm bath. Except there is nothing warm about Jojo today. Saying “blokes like football” isn’t the same as saying “blokes have testicles”, I argue. What Jojo really means, which she goes on to announce, is that your man will always have “things” that you don’t like and vice versa and that you learn to accept them. Especially if the “thing” is as big as the sky, so big that everyone likes it apart from you and a crucial score-kick from a dark handsome man can raise the actual GDP of whatever poor tropical country he hails from. She says I haven’t been patient enough with Dermot and his “things”; my knowledge of economics doesn’t fool her.
“Even if he spends more time on the ‘things’ than me?” I interject.
“Better than him copping off with some other girl,” says Jojo. But is it? I am now a bit stirred by football, the thing that took my baby. Except I’ll never know football. I’ll never sit in a huge stadium doing a Mexican wave like Billy Crystal and his friend in When Harry Met Sally as Billy tells the friend about his wife leaving him and the removal men knowing about it before he does. Football is like a town on my commute where I might run into Dermot; a town where I don’t know anyone but keep passing through.
Dermot didn’t just watch. He played. Perhaps that justifies his love of football to me in some way. He used to play up in the countryside of East Anglia where his parents still live. I didn’t meet them as we didn’t go out for long. I never will, most likely. I mean, of course it’s not an immutable law that I won’t meet them. It’s just deeply unlikely and it’s strange to know that fact, like all the people I would get on with but won’t meet who live in Hong Kong, or all the girls I’m not friends with because I didn’t get into their school. He told me his father pushed him with the football – pushed hard. Clearly there was something to push – he was good at it during school, possibly the best. My parents never pushed me at anything. They were too busy writing and putting on plays. Now I’m a theatre-frequenting bankruptcy lawyer and I’ve helped them buy a flat. Dermot’s parents are schoolteachers. Chemistry and geography, I think. I sometimes imagine the conversations we’ll never have. I imagine his mother, who I’ve never seen a picture of, so of course she looks like him in my mind to the point where I almost fancy her – the same pale greyish eyes and reddish-blonde wavy hair. The first thing I said when I met Dermot was “I want your hair”. He took this as a come on but it just leapt out of me – I must have spent a fortune in my twenties dyeing my hair to look like that. I imagine Mr and Mrs McAllister sitting opposite me in their kitchen, while Dermot, their pin-striped, code-writing son, blushes like a teenager, wondering how he came to be with a well-off London girl. Even though he’s earning nicely too. Mrs McAllister is probably wondering if I dare discuss babies with him and might go so far as to feel sorry for me. Mr McAllister is wondering what sort of nick my body is in, possibly for the same reason, possibly not. These days, in the fantasies that persist even though Dermot is four months gone, they are talking about football and I go quiet (no point mentioning When Harry Met Sally to this pair – they’ve barely seen a movie in decades – this Dermot told me in the real world) and it’s “you’re awful quiet, Cressie”, really hoping I’m OK, do I want tea, knowing I can’t be OK because Dermot is leaving me and they already know I’m not the one who will come each year for Christmas and cheer at the edge of the field for their grandson in his first game. Soccer mom. They probably don’t know that term either. I don’t enjoy the daydream at this point, so I gear the plot towards Dermot taking me away from the dinner table up to his old bedroom where the trophies and the old stud shoes lie strewn and on the walls are pictures of him and The Team, whoever they are, mud spraying off a slide-kick like a paused TV commercial. His face in the photos is twisted with determination. I ask him about them, joke about seeing the exact facial expression in bed, but he doesn’t want to talk, he wants to be seventeen again, hiding with a girl in his room, making so few sounds his parents know exactly what’s going on. It’s ecstasy.
I end it with a dash for the train, claiming I can’t stay the night. He drives me to the station and we text during the journey – he misses me already. I switch trains at London Bridge so I pass Millwall Stadium going home to South-East London and think each time how much it resembles a giant paddling pool when you gallop past it. I think this in real life too but now Millwall is fused with the world of Dermot, a world I don’t know and he doesn’t know either because I’ve given him that world in my mind. I always imagine the put down I’ll deliver if I see him again and how he’d have to provoke me to say it, which I’m sure he won’t, he’s a nice guy really, but it’s always the same. What have I to do with you?
PEARS AND SILK
Veronica Cancio De Grandy
Veronica Cancio De Grandy ‘adults’ sometimes; sometimes with literature and sometimes with laundry. A singer, composer, editor, writer and managing director, she likes to introduce herself by first name only.
She loves to be read to and to listen to other people’s stories.
Silk, green, lacy and tiny: I have a pair of panties in my hand, and they are not mine. My curves could never be cramped into something this small. I’m almost insulted; you’re not even trying. They feel slinky and tender in my hand. I rub the fabric between my fingers backwards and forwards. It slides together easily until it catches the lace.
How long have they been here? I guess I’ve been too caught up in my own world to notice. But really, how could you be so careless? The drawer was open. It’s usually where you keep your aftershave and things of that nature; the things that I never need to look at. I must have walked into the bathroom two or three times before I saw it, then the green caught my eye. I thought maybe you had bought some new product I didn’t know you were using; it would have been hard to guess since we don’t get close enough to smell each other anymore.
I’ve been wearing a new perfume lately – you’d like it – it smells of Jasmine and Myrrh. You’ve always been led by your nose. I remember when you would dig your face in my neck for hours at a time. Whenever I would walk in the room, you would cup my waist in your right arm and pull back my hair with your left hand, you always wanted to smell me before we spoke, I never asked why, but I would always melt when you did.
And now we’re here: two people who were once in love, who share meals once in a while, a passion for reading and a love of good music. Once a week, when we both get home at a reasonable hour, we might crack open a bottle of wine, put on a new record, toast to great beats and then, without noticing, we eventually end up on different sides of the living room, you on the computer and me on the chair, reading or correcting work that has carried over from the day. We haven’t even been doing that lately.
The delicate item in my hand is getting warm from being rubbed between my fingers. I want to know how it feels to wear them. I want to feel what she feels when she’s wearing them. I slip off my own panties, low-cut, cotton, lacy things that move with me when I walk and keep me cool in the summer. Silk makes you sweat, it makes you wet, it makes your smell more accessible to curious noses.
The lace is cutting off my circulation some, but I don’t care; they fit where they need to. I pull my camisole down to the underwear line and look at myself in the mirror. The colour goes with my skin. Is she dark haired like me? Maybe blonde, very pale, with such a skin tone that emerald would suit her.
I turn the light off in the bathroom and close the door. You’re away and won’t be coming home for a couple of hours. Are you with her? I don’t know, and frankly it’s not like we’ve been controlling each other in that sense. I’ve had my moments, but I’ve always been very careful with you. You’ve never known, you’ve never suspected, you could never imagine.
That night we were at dinner to celebrate my new book, my lover du jour worked at the restaurant, I told you I had to take a call and he took me in stall number three. When I came back, you asked why I was flushed, and I told you I had been discussing a negative review with my editor. You almost looked sad for me that night.
I turn off the light and strut out of the bathroom. I walk around the house doing mundane tasks. I answer some of my emails. I call the plumber; you’re never going to fix that leaky faucet. I make flight reservations for a week in Paris. I think I might be in the mood to walk around Montmartre. I input your credit card instead of mine. This one’s on you and you’re not coming with me. I smile.
When I start to feel hungry, I walk to the kitchen and pick up a pear from the fruit bowl. Bosc, they’re my favourite. I lean over the counter to eat it, wouldn’t want to get any juice on these pretty little things. The panties protest my position and rise up a bit on my cheeks and tighten between my thighs. The feeling is unexpected and my body jolts, I bite down on the pear, the juice overruns my mouth and trickles down my chin. Two drops land on me: one on my camisole and one on the silk. Now you’re going to know that I found them.
I really don’t care. I put the pear down on the counter and lick my fingers ’til they are free of pear juice. When was the last time she wore these? Do they still have her smell? I walk to our bedroom and lie down on our bed. The skin on my hips is delighted with relief when I slip off the silk constriction and run it down my legs. Hooking them with my finger, I let them fall onto my face.
As I take in the scent, I can discern pear, me and a slightly stale presence that is not my own. She sprays perfume everywhere I see. I chuckle; you never stood a chance with this one. Did this happen once or more? She must have made an impact if you kept her panties. Did you have them in your pocket when you came home? Was I here?
The smell is overwhelming my senses. When I close my eyes I imagine a young, fun girl, sitting across the table from you and beginning to feel herself getting wet despite herself. My hands are circling the tips of my nipples over my camisole, both at the same time. The panties are covering my mouth, nose and eyes. I can’t see, but I am watching this last moment between you two take place.
You take a stroll around the city. You talk about things that you like. You are telling her about your dreams in life and she is slowly falling for you. What she is producing as a result is this warm, sweet liquid that is pouring out of her. No matter how much perfume she’s wearing you’re bound to take notice if you get any closer. She becomes self-conscious. I dig my fingers into my breasts and grab handfuls of them.
You stop. She is animatedly talking about her love of art-house films. You have led her to a patch of grass. Gently, you place your hands on her shoulders and she falls to her knees. You descend on top of her and lock your lips to hers. She closes her eyes in an effort to control herself: you surprised her. I am running my hands down my stomach.
She can hear people walking by; their footsteps make her nervous. Will any of them be people she knows? Will any of them be me? She curls her knee in and cradles your hip. You can now see the wet stain on her panties, they have soaked through and her scent fills the air. You can smell it. I am smelling it.
My hands have reached my lower lips. I part them. I can’t see but I don’t need to, I know myself well enough. Your hands lift up her dress. She tries to protest but soon surrenders, defenceless to your caresses. You reach in under her panties, with your index and middle fingers you feel down her smooth and hairless surface and you part her pretty, pink opening.
I scissor my fingers around my clit and squeeze them together. All the blood rushes to the tip and it begins to throb. You have your thumb on her clitoris and you have put your fingers inside her. She digs her face into your shoulder to stop herself from moaning. She can still hear people in the distance. She can’t help letting out a soft moan – she is getting close. I am getting close. I can feel myself dripping down. I use the juice to slide easier around my opening. Circles – I like my fingers to work in little circles.
The grass is cool underneath her skin. She no longer cares who hears her. She contracts. I contract. I bite down on the panties, I can taste her, I can taste me, I can taste pear. The waves start. First the warmth spirals out from my fingers, to my skin and from my skin to my muscles. I’m tingling all over. She is trembling, her legs want to tighten and close, but your hands won’t let her. She can’t hold it in anymore.
I’m about to explode. We scream. Our hips rise up into the air taking our chests along with them. Our nipples stand erect and our mouths open to let out the only tool of release we have. You cover her mouth with your hand to muffle the sound. The silk panties make their way deeper into my mouth. Our screams are muffled. I spasm, she spasms, then we spasm again. Our hips come down.
She puts her head on your shoulder and looks at your intently. A little while later, you leave, she takes off her panties and gives them to you. I take them off my face, panting, exhausted from the violent spasms. I drift off into sleep for a few minutes.
When I wake up, I still have the panties in my hand; I lift them up to my face and inhale us together one more time. I get out of bed, walk int
o the bathroom and put them back. I slip on my own panties and close the drawer. The camisole is damp with sweat; it’ll dry. I’m going to the kitchen to finish my pear. I think I’ll spend the afternoon working on my latest book, and maybe I’ll even chill a bottle of wine for when you get home.
THE WITNESS
Laurence Klavan
Laurence Klavan is the Edgar Award-winning author of The Cutting Room and The Shooting Script, as well as the short story collection, The Family Unit and Other Fantasies. He has twice had stories included in Mammoth’s Best New Erotica collections. He wrote the libretto to Bed and Sofa, produced in New York and London.
“Happy anniversary!”
Gore felt a small plate, which probably carried cake, brush up against his fingers. He couldn’t believe it had been ten years; wasn’t it amazing how what you did every day added up in increments to your entire life? Like a crude comedian, he thought, asked to host a prestigious awards show, the tiny events didn’t deserve to be associated with something so profound. But maybe it was egalitarian and good: every instant played its part in extending and ultimately ending life, the way that all the people in Gore’s apartment played their parts in maintaining their arrangement. (And wasn’t it weird that such an unconventional living situation should be commemorated in such a traditional way, with a celebration, admittedly private and small? Didn’t it take the erotic appeal away from how they lived? Weren’t the others disturbed by the noisemakers, the cards, the clapping, and the candles? Apparently not, for they themselves had thrown the party and bought the cake, from which Gore was now starting to fumble a piece loose with his fork.)
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