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Desire

Page 78

by Mariella Frostrup


  His hips jerk forward in a really unmistakable way.

  And he says things back, oh, Lord, he says things back.

  “Right here? Right here, huh?” he asks, only he does it like he’s suddenly a whole other person. This guy has all of this gruffness at the back of his throat, and even though it seems like he’s inquiring he isn’t really at all. He knows already. He can tell how good this feels. But just in case he does what he can to make sure.

  He exposes the whole of my spread pussy, and licks long and wet right the way through all those flushed and swollen folds. No hesitation, no holding back – just his hot tongue working its way up and up and up, and holy fuck when he gets to my clit...

  I almost want him to stop there. Just give me a chance to catch my breath or at least take in all the other stuff first. My body is already jam-packed with tingles and shivers of intense pleasure. I don’t really need any more.

  It’s just that he quite clearly wants to give me more. I gasp his name and he flicks at the underside of my stiff little bud in a way that makes me wish I could be silent. If I was silent, he wouldn’t then move on to this slow, teasing circling kind of thing that just about finishes me off. I get that tightening sensation in my thighs and my clit jerks at the contact – all things that usually mean I’m probably going to come.

  But that can’t possibly be right, can it? Usually, it takes me hours. I have to be in the exact right mood and in the exact right position, with the same pressure applied for about seventeen days. And if the phone rings or the TV gets suddenly loud, forget it.

  Yet somehow, here we are. Him barely licking me and me all tense and trembly. All it takes is the sight of him really going for it – spurred on, I think, by filthy things I never thought I could say like fuck my cunt and do it hard and use your fingers – and I’m suddenly shivering. I’m rocking against his face and moaning more filth.

  “Ohhhh God, keep doing that keep doing it just like that I’m gonna do it all over your face don’t stop don’t stop please don’t stop,” I tell him, as though some other person has briefly taken over my body, too. This girl is sexually adventurous and easy to please, and she has no problems voicing those concepts.

  Probably because of how much he fucking loves it.

  He just doesn’t need it to keep him in the moment. He isn’t just interested in some clinical way, in that part of his brain that wants to assess my levels of relative arousal. He loves it. I can tell he does by the way he moves and breathes and most of all:

  The way he looks. He pulls back briefly as I come down from the most intense and sudden orgasm of all time, and I get a long, cool drink of his glorious expression. His cheeks are actually pink. His mouth is as wet as fuck and so open I can only think about a hundred lewd things, like stuffing a cock in there. And his eyes...

  No one has ever made eyes like that at me. He leans his head back against my thigh for a second, as though to catch his breath. But I don’t think that’s what he’s really trying to do. I think he just wants a moment to devour my orgasm-flushed face and my still-shuddering body and that hand I seem to have placed very high up on his leg.

  And though he says, “You know I’m going to have to make you talk like that some more, if you really want to do that,” I can see the truth so clearly. Yeah, he might be anxious about doing this. True, the whole thing makes him tense.

  But underneath that is some almighty fucking reservoir of love, for everything and anything even remotely sexual. His body practically rolls the moment I even hint about touching him there. He gets close to biting my thigh, and I can see his fist clenching. I can see it, but I don’t think it has anything to do with nerves.

  I think he just doesn’t want to put his hand where it really wants to go – in my hair, or over the nape of my neck. The very idea of encouraging me in some kind of forceful way is making him tense up, but that’s okay.

  I know how to help.

  “Show me,” I tell him. “Show me how you like it.”

  “I hardly remember,” he says, but I know that’s a lie. The hand he puts on the side of my face tells me so, and so does the one he slides under his sweatpants. He eases them down just a little, just enough, and there it is. His thrillingly stiff and swollen cock, barely an inch from my lips. All I have to do to take it in is lean forward with my lips parted, and I almost do. I get very close.

  And the only thing that stops me is his reaction.

  “No, no don’t – wait,” he blurts out, his body suddenly as tense as mine was before all of this started. That hand leaves the side of my face, and for a second I’m sure that’s going to be it. His expression tells me it might be. He’s frowning and near afraid, shuddering like a struck dog. I have to say something, I think, if I want to pull him back.

  But he gets there before I do. He’s the one who puts everything on track again. He lets himself wrestle with it, and then just as I think he’s going to give in he puts a hand between my legs. He sinks two fingers into my cunt, all the way up to the knuckle – and when he lets out some breathless words it becomes obvious why.

  “God, you’re so wet,” he says – though maybe says is too small a word. He revels in it. He strokes and fondles and feels it. His head goes back just to know that he made me this way, and it lets him carry on. It stops him stopping me.

  I get to lick his gorgeous cock – as thick as my wrist all the way around and so amazingly red at the tip – while he rolls around in the evidence of my arousal. And when that isn’t quite enough, I’m there to help. I feel him tense, and all I have to do is moan, or stop sucking just long enough to tell him to do it harder.

  “Fuck my pussy, oh yeah, you do that so good,” I say, and he likes it enough to buck into my working mouth. To arch his back and pant things in return.

  God, the things he gasps in return...

  “You’re just creaming all over my hand,” he tells me, as though I can realistically take something like that. We’ve just spent the past two months barely holding hands, but sure, go ahead. Talk dirty to me. Fuck my pussy and say those things.

  It only makes me suck him harder, mouth as wet and messy as I can make it. So eager to make him come before his mind catches up with whatever we might be doing that I kind of forget the paroxysms my own body is going through.

  Though I remember once his thumb finds my oversensitized clit. Oh yeah, I remember then. I have to turn my head away and keen over it, body suddenly a trembling, shuddering mess, but the fact that I do doesn’t seem to matter. He just bucks into my slippery grip. He fucks my hand, spurred on by my very vocal permission.

  Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it? The very best sort of permission I can offer. The truth of my wanting, in my slick cunt clenching around his fingers and my cries of unadulterated pleasure. I make sure to never say no even though I kind of want to – sometimes the sensation is so tart and sweet it reaches unbearable levels.

  And yet there’s a kind of freedom in that. A freedom in not wanting to push him away or tell him that’s too much. It shoves me onward to even greater heights and a more intense sort of pleasure, thick and pulsing and oh so good.

  I can almost feel what he meant by creaming. I can tell how slick I’ve gotten, and how plump. I can hear it and smell it and feel it running down between the crack of my ass, and even if I couldn’t, he’s here to tell me. “Ahhh God, you feel good,” he says, and he doesn’t mean the hand I have on his cock. Or even the tongue I work around the thick head, lapping and licking and generally making a greedy meal of the thing.

  He means my cunt.

  He tells me he means my cunt.

  “There’s nothing so sweet as your pussy,” he says, and I just have to give him something in return. Something as lovely as all the things he gives me.

  “Except maybe your cock,” I tell him. “Your cock in my mouth, and the feel of your hips moving, and the knowledge that you want this, too.”

  “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “It f
eels more than good.”

  “I had forgotten. I’d forgotten what it’s like...” he says, between long firm strokes that send me just as wild as his mouth did.

  “To what?”

  “To get lost in – oh Jesus,” he gasps, and I almost laugh. It sounds like he’s gotten lost in our Lord and Savior. Only the sight of his head going back and the feel of his hips bucking keep me on the right track. The one where I work his cock harder and faster in my slippery grip, because I know he likes it.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” I tell him, and he likes that even more.

  “Oh, fuck, fuck,” he spits out, that thick shaft swelling against my palm in a way I could never mistake. Not even when it’s him. Not even when he fights it. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,” he says, but I’m going to make sure he does.

  “What if I tell you that I love you stroking me and fucking me and licking me?” I ask, partly because I want him to go over, but also because I do, oh, Lord, I do. His thumb is on my clit now, even though my clit is way too sensitive to take anything like that. And those fingers he has inside me – they’re curled, as though he wants to beckon me closer.

  It feels like drowning in pleasure.

  But not as deeply as he is going down.

  “No, no, ohhhh God.”

  “Or that I love sucking your cock. I love it, I love it.”

  “No, I’m too – I won’t –” he chokes out, his body now so tense I can see veins standing out at his temples. His neck is a thick column. His free hand digs into the bed. It’s agony to watch him go through this and even more so when it occurs to me:

  It isn’t just that he fears what desire will turn him into.

  It’s that he doesn’t think he deserves to feel it at all. He could give in now easily, with no harm to me. Nothing he does in this moment will magically make him a monster. He just fights it anyway. He refuses it all the same.

  I need to shock him out of it, I think.

  But the person I really shock is me, when the words come out.

  “I love you, Noah,” I blurt, and when his eyes suddenly meet mine and his back arches and everything teeters right on the edge, I tell him again. Only this time, I do it because I know it’s true. And he knows it, too.

  “I love you,” I say.

  Then I watch as he comes, and comes, and comes.

  THE RED HOUSE

  Neville Elder

  Neville Elder is an English writer, photographer and musician based in New York. In 2001, he followed a woman to New York and fell in love with a city. He lives at the unfashionable end of Brooklyn, with a mean old cat called Cato.

  You don’t have to be autistic to have a photographic memory. It’s really common with children up to the age of five, but they grow out of it. With kids, it’s a sensory thing, like a mental muscle memory. I was told I would grow out of it too – but for some reason, I didn’t. I remember everything. It’s like having Netflix in my brain. As a kid I used it mostly like a VCR. I memorised TV shows, whole episodes and re-ran them whenever I wanted.

  That’s how I got Emily to like me. We’d sit in the nook in the big fallen tree by the creek and she’d pick episodes of Little House on the Prairie. We were both 16, and I thought the show was pretty lame, but Emily adored it.

  Do the one where Mary goes blind.

  With or without the credits?

  Um... Without.

  She laughed when I did Michael Landon’s voice in my freshly broken tenor.

  And for all these years I’ve had this in my head: the few minutes I spent with Emily in the red house, an old farmhouse that’s part of an artists’ colony in upstate New York. Whenever I feel stressed, or need to escape, I stream this memory and the world around me floats away.

  Don’t come in me.

  Does it hurt?

  No, I’ve done it before.

  When?

  That’s how it starts. Then she’s crying and there’s the sound of running water... Watching this unfold on the screen of my brain could dull the sharp teeth of loneliness.

  At least it used to. A year or so ago I started forgetting things. Little stuff, keys, calling people back – I put it down to my age, my forties. And it’s not like I’ve slowed down with the drink and the drugs.

  I forgot about a meeting I had with people about a new production that’s just begun in Toronto. I was on the phone with the director and I got confused.

  Wait, what? What crash scene?

  Top of page 50?

  What are you talking about?

  At the meeting, yesterday? You green-lit it?

  What meeting?

  Anthony? You’re kidding me right?

  Jeff? come in here would you? What’s this meeting with Doug about a fucking car crash yesterday? Why wasn’t I there? What the fuck’s going on?

  You were there...

  What?

  Yesterday at Doug’s office in Santa Monica. We were both there, you wrote it in the book.

  I was dumbfounded, because when I looked down at the production book open on yesterday’s page, there in my loopy handwriting, it says:

  “Doug office S.M. 11-12. w/ Jeff more $?”

  And when I try to remember it, all I see is a blank frame at the end of a reel.

  I’d forgotten a whole meeting where I signed off on a $50k stunt! I freaked. I had Jeff cancel everything for the rest of the day. I pulled the blinds, lay down on the couch and smoked some pot. I played the film of the red house with the projector behind my eyes. But this time my summer of love looked underexposed; washed out. Emily didn’t give a fuck about getting sunburned. In my memory, her nose and forehead were always a bright peeling pink. This time, she was gray.

  I panicked. I went back to New York and had a doctor do some tests.

  It’s unusual to still be Eidetic at your age.

  Is that right?

  Let’s do a scan.

  My MRI looked like the photos from the Mars Lander; early-onset Alzheimer’s – whoop whoop. The irony was fucking beautiful. She told me to lay off the booze and the drugs, see if that helped. I won’t lose my mind overnight, she said.

  I quit the drinking and the blow and I went to some 12-step meetings. They taught me how to pray and told me what I should be looking for was God. I laughed in their faces, they took it pretty well; they’d seen my type before. But some of the things they said stuck with me – the spiritual motif – their “serenity” was like how I felt when I remembered the red house. So I sat with them in their circles and I learned their prayers and occasionally I would close my eyes and chant with them. But I missed the comfort of annihilation, so I went back to the booze and I tried to write down everything about the red house before it disappeared, to give me prompts for the key moments. Sort of like a treatment for a movie.

  *

  In the summer of 1987 my parents rented a bungalow in an artists’ colony outside Williamstown, New York. All hippy-dippy when it was founded, by the eighties they’d all sold out and either worked in advertising or taught graphic design at Parson’s or NYU.

  I was the only kid there except for Emily, also 16, virtually feral. She was a tangled up terror of a girl, with wild blonde hair and freckles. She literally ran away from me when I initially said hello. At the Fourth of July potluck when the residents gathered for fireworks and potato salad, my dad gave me sparklers. Her eyes lit up when she saw my magnesium wand dancing in the dusk. I handed one to her and that was it, best friends.

  For the next few weeks we crashed through the backwoods of the colony unsupervised. Dirty from the creek, scratched from brambles. Our ankles and feet were scabbed from our mothers’ evening ritual of plucking deer ticks from our flesh.

  When Emily tired of Little House, we’d sit cross-legged in the tree and she’d practice hypnotising me. She’d stare at me until my peripheral vision would narrow into a tunnel and tingling sensations slowly flooded my crotch and my prick stiffened inside my trunks. She’d then flick at it with a finger. Hard.

>   Dirty bastard, one of these days I’m going to strangle that snake of yours.

  I would climb down, flushed with shame, and stand in shade of the fallen Beech tree up to my ankles in the water. She’d watched me from above as I jerked off.

  One morning just after dawn, we sat in the nook and instead of flicking my hard cock, Emily pulled it out of the leg of my trunks and rolled it between her cold hands until it jumped like a frog. It dry heaved once and sperm spewed out all over her bare thighs. A thin strand of come connected my softening prick to her dangling fingers like a vine as she rotated her hand in the sunlight. It looked like dew on a cobweb.

  On the lazy August afternoons when the adults were out of sight, getting high or fucking – or whatever they did during those long dog days – we took to dry humping on the faded Persian rug in the abandoned art studio in the attic in the red house – the big farmhouse that existed long before the hippies arrived was used as community space and storage.

  In the shaft of light from the high window, specks of dust circled us like the faithful ascending to heaven while I lay on top of her and rubbed my sharp erection along the soft gutter of her damp shorts.

  The day she gave herself a black eye running into a low branch, I watched silently as her mom wiped her face and tears.

  Jeez, Emmy what did he do to you?

  Me?

  It wasn’t him Mommy, I ran into a tree, that’s all.

  Ran into a tree?

  Her mother glared at me.

  You didn’t break the skin, but it’s going to be a shiner.

  She lifted Emmy’s chin and took a Polaroid to show her stepfather.

  He’s coming up from the city this weekend, aren’t we lucky?

  The camera flashed again.

  That’s if the SOB can take his dick out of his students for five minutes.

  Her mother stared at me as she flapped the photo the way you’re not supposed to, but I didn’t say anything. I watched Emily’s face appear in the photograph. She stared out through her rapidly darkening socket. With her chin still raised in the pose and her mouth turned downward, she looked scared.

 

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