Playing with Fire

by Alison Tyler

  His mouth opens to the cigarette showing tongue and teeth, his lips against the yellow filter. I hear the click-click of the silver lighter opening, the flick of the flame, that suck and hiss of tobacco and paper catching the light. In the flare, his blue eyes spark with yellow.

  When he hands the cigarette back to me, the end tastes like him, like what I’m hoping he tastes like: marshmallows burnt on the outside. No, like licking the stick the marshmallows were burnt on. Crisp and brutal and dark on the outside, the bright green of youth underneath. Bendable. Not something I can break.

  I inhale.

  He carries his wallet on a chain. I saw it earlier, the metal loops that swing from belt to pocket. It’s his secret rough-and-tumble, the only part of him that isn’t clean cut. When he moves, it clinks together.

  He bends his head to light his own cigarette, the end another small star that flickers between us. Click, the lighter closes.

  “Want to walk?” he asks. It’s not what he’s saying, but that’s what comes out. “Get away from all—”

  “Yes.”

  It isn’t until we step out of the circle of the fire, toward the dark trees that look not like trees, but like a wall, a tall dark wall with only one way in and no way out, that I realize how many people are around the bonfire. All of them doing the same things: Lighting their smokes. Drinking. Making choices that draw the dawn closer or push it away. Time travel. I’d forgotten all of them, busy trying to close the distance between his eyes and mine, trying to open it up. Space travel.

  Their voices carry as we slip away. Laughter and tales of shared experiences. The sharing of new experiences. Storytelling, ancient, revered. That is enough for so many. My story’s been told: Vanity. Infidelity. Infinite. That old, old tale. It is time to start again. A new telling.

  We walk. Somewhere between here and there, we leave the light of the fire and join the dark shine of the stars, the red-cherry end of our cigarettes. The trees are close enough that I can reach my hand out and feel them stirring. This one’s dark bark makes riverbeds beneath my fingers.

  My smoke is smoked, my head is swimming, but I don’t want to let it go. I suck the filter. There’s that taste again. Him. I hope. He takes it from me, pushes both cigarettes out at once on the bark.

  “You know what you’re doing to me? What you’ve done?”

  I could say no, but it wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be true. There will be no truth come the blue-dawn morning, so the time for truth is now, in his blue-eyed night.

  “Yes,” I say. “I know.” This boast, this brag of beauty: it is all I have. The lake looked into me all day and I know I cannot rival what lives there. I am not more beautiful than what sea nymphs dwell at its surface. I am not even as beautiful as the shiny, scaled fish that jump and scatter. But I say that I am all that and more, in the tilt of my hip beneath this too-thin dress, in the lick of my tongue across my sun-peeled lips. They’ll say I didn’t understand the consequences, but oh, I do. I understand every one. And still I go forth. Still I put one hand out to touch the long curve of him inside his jeans.

  He leans in and touches his lips to my mouth. It isn’t a kiss. No. It’s breath first. Just that. Then his lips harden, ask for something else; his tongue explores some inner reaches of me, something I couldn’t know before. Another universe filled with teeth as hot and white as stars.

  I suck his tongue into my mouth. Beneath the burnt tobacco and marshmallow, there it is: the young green. The taste of something unbreakable. I lean back against the tree-bark rivers, feel their banks shift and turn against my back.

  “This won’t go unpunished,” he says. “You know that, don’t you?”

  I’d say yes again, but my mouth is tired of that word. I want to be silent now. I want to close my eyes and feel the hard future tightening around my waist. I don’t want to think about her eyes watching or the man in my cabin or the blue dawn coming and the day that will arise from it. There is no hero in this myth.

  His hands loop my wrists. The chain from pocket to wallet is longer than I expected. He slides it from the belt loops of his jeans. The cold heavy metal wraps my waist and the tree once, twice. I could breath if he wasn’t at my mouth again, if he wasn’t brushing one palm across the pucker of my nipple. He pushes my dress up, waist-high, chain-high, and the wind and his hands lick my thighs harder than the fire ever did.

  His fingers reach in, sink into the place where underwear would have stopped them. I am slippery as the sea. More so. Not another boast, just truth.

  He has two fingers inside me, his teeth twisting my nipple with that sear of pinch and pull. I struggle inside the chain. The tree bark scrapes my bared ass. I think it’s running sap, but that’s just me, wetting it beneath his fingers. He switches nipples, and the new pain is sharp enough to make me cry out.

  “Shush,” he says, without letting go of my nipple, sucking harder even.

  When he has what must be four, five fingers inside me, nothing left for my clit at all, he drops to his haunches. His mouth finds the hem of my pushed-up dress, sucks it until the fabric is wet against my belly. He slides his mouth down farther, over the bottom of my belly, over the part of me that I shaved smooth, just in case, until he reaches the wet cleft where his fingers wait.

  Somehow in the dark his tongue touches, scents, the center of me, touches the hot wet pulse in my center. I’ve had snakes there, all hiss and tongue, but they are no match for what he does for me. The tip of his tongue laps at me, sinking deeper and deeper until his stubble scratches the inside of my thighs. I buck against the chain around my waist, not sure if I’m moving toward him or away. I put my fingers on his head, deep in the soft, short hair, but he shakes my hands away. He is eating me alive.

  This time, I don’t cry out. I bite my lip to keep the voices inside. I wrap my hands backward around the tree, holding myself there as though the chain might break. If I were to come free now, I tell myself I would run, I would run back to the cabin and the man sleeping in the window light. I would go with the speed of light, with my winged sandals, and I would not be too late.

  When he finally stands, I unbutton his jeans, pull them open until the zipper slides apart and they drop. He takes his own underwear down. He is the curve and strength of the Archer against my thigh. There are so many ways to tell this part of myth, but they’ve all been told before. Choose your objects: Bows and arrows. The slide of sword. The king’s scepter. The queen’s pride. This sea, taking him in. The serpent, devouring. If I could tell it differently, I would. Reverse roles, be the one who enters or the one who chains.

  “Fuck, Cassie,” he says, as he slides in all the way, pushing me hard against the bark, lifting me as high from the Earth as my chains will let me go.

  I don’t tell him he’s confusing me with another girl. Wrong myth.

  He takes my head in one hand, the snake and wind hair, and he pulls my mouth to his. Night wraps us in her helmet of invisibility, but not even that can stifle our voices. My sound is the crackle of the bonfire, the empty tongues of sky and wind. His is the hiss of paper catching light, the tumble of twig, almost breaking.

  He fucks me, and kisses me with the tongue that tastes like me now, and for five seconds or five hours or five light-years, I am gone from this place, chained to my illusion of freedom. He gives me that, which is all I can ask. When he slides out of me, I slip down the trunk as far as the chains will let me. My feet touch back upon the Earth.

  He lights a new cigarette—click-click of his lighter, hiss of smoke. He doesn’t offer me one. I imagine he is watching me, but all I can see is the hissing flare of the red end. After a thousand hours, he flicks the end out into the dark air: Burning star, dying star. The final falling star of the night.

  “I could let you free,” he says. “Take you with me.”

  I want to say yes, but I know I’ve used up all my yeses. Try as I might to tell this story another way, it always ends with this.

  He turns, and for a moment, I think
I see the glint of silver sword at his side. A hero then, after all. But no, it is just his silver lighter. Click-click, as he opens and shuts it. And then he’s gone, stepping back toward the campfire, toward that place where stars begin to die.

  Somewhere, beyond my vision, a man in a cabin turns over in bed to find a promise has gone missing. The tree bark turns rivers to salt seas. There are no heroes in this story. Come the blue dawn of morning, I will still be here, waiting for my monsters. Bound by my own fate to the coming of the morn.

  CARRYING A TORCH

  Sophia Valenti

  When Bobby comes in after his date, I pretend to be asleep. With my eyes shut tight, I listen carefully to all of the sounds he makes: the gentle clunk of shoes hitting the floor, the hiss of leather being drawn through belt loops, the rasp of his zipper being lowered, and the swish of denim being pushed to the floor. After a few more minutes of rustling, when he’s divested himself completely of every last stitch of clothing, he slips between the sheets to take his place at my side. He’s deliciously naked, save for what I’ve been longing for all night.

  You see, I pretend to be asleep because if he notices that I’m awake, he’ll insist on taking a shower before he comes to bed, and that would ruin everything.

  Bobby and I have had an open relationship for a number of years. Our agreement was that we were both free to take other lovers, but aside from sharing names and general comments, we wouldn’t discuss the intimate details of our affairs or play in the same space. He was worried that I’d be jealous if I ever saw him with another woman. And in one respect, he’s right. But I’m not jealous of her—I’m jealous of him.

  What I’ve been longing for all night is to breathe in the subtle scent of Sasha’s perfume, her signature fragrance having anointed his skin as she writhed against him and marked him like the wild animal she is. It’s not something that can be bought in a bottle, although once when I passed through Sephora, I recognized familiar floral undertones and my pussy began to instantly moisten. I lingered in the aisle, breathing deeply and squeezing my thighs together until a fellow shopper spoilt my fantasy by spritzing a spicy cologne. But that perfume had only been a hint, a tease. Because it’s that delicious scent laced with the unique signature of sex that creates the heady bouquet inspiring my lust.

  One night, I arrived home early from what was supposed to be a late-night date of my own. As I opened the front door of our apartment, I heard the sweet moans of a woman coming from our bedroom. After slipping off my stiletto heels, I crept across the carpeted living room, barely daring to breathe. The door was open a crack, and I peered inside to see a candlelit Sasha thrashing wildly atop my boyfriend. She was gilded in golden light that made her bare skin glow like that of an otherworldly creature. Her hips ground down against his pelvis as she took her pleasure from him, and she tossed her mane of dark brown hair behind her and cried out in ecstasy.

  I didn’t want to be her; I wanted to be her lover. How I wished I had a hard cock of my own, so I could feel the hot, wet velvet of her cunt envelop my shaft, her smooth muscles clutching my erection as she rode me to the finish line. As she came, her pussy would be irresistible, and I’d have no choice but to shoot deep inside her. Unfortunately, I had no dick to speak of, aside from the slim red vibrator in my bedside table, but I did have a pussy that was desperately aroused from the sight of this sex goddess in my bed. It was as if I were glued to my spot on the floor. I didn’t even want to flinch, for fear I would cause this erotic mirage to disappear.

  With greedy eyes, I watched Bobby lift her off his dick and toss her onto the mattress. I was pleased to see that she was shaved bare—nothing to hide my view of her glistening sex as she spread her thighs and impatiently bucked her hips upward. She was still panting from her orgasm as he covered her heaving breasts with kisses. My mouth watered as I watched him tongue her tiny nipples, first one, then the other, making them temptingly erect. I reached underneath my dress to slip a finger into my panties and stroke my dripping slit, wondering how those rubbery nubs would feel between my lips, how they would taste under my questing tongue. My pussy was sloppy wet, and as I fingered myself, I felt my juice drip down my palm. Bobby’s lips traveled downward, peppering her nut brown skin with kisses as he grazed her flat stomach and her sleek mound. His head was blocking my view, but I knew the exact moment his tongue met her clit when she squealed. I pulled my fingers from my panties and sucked them between my lips, licking off every bit of juice as I pretended it was Sasha’s honey on my tongue. My senses were suffused with the scent of pussy as she announced another orgasm, and I lapped at my soaked hand as I fantasized that it was my flicking tongue that had pushed her over the edge.

  In a flash, Bobby was on top of her, fucking her fast and hard, which was my cue to leave. As hot as I was at that moment, I didn’t want to get caught with my dress bunched up around my thighs and my hand in my panties. I quietly slipped out of the apartment and headed for the street. Outside our building, I propped myself up against a lamppost and lit a cigarette, taking a long, slow drag as I replayed in my head the hottest erotic scenario I’d ever witnessed. I was on my second cigarette when Sasha emerged from the building. Even under the harsh light of the streetlamp, she was gorgeous. I savored the sight of her full, red lips, sculpted cheekbones, and shining hazel eyes. Her hair was mussed in a completely sexy way and her face was still flushed. How many more times had she come while I lingered in the semidarkness of the street? My pussy throbbed relentlessly as I contemplated what I’d missed. I glanced down at my watch and saw that it was my expected time home. Bobby must’ve given her the bum’s rush, not wanting us to meet in the hallway.

  I didn’t speak to her. I simply watched as she glided to the curb and extended an elegant hand upward, only to have a taxi immediately pull up in front of her. She flashed the driver an appreciative smile and gracefully slipped into the car, disappearing into the night.

  With a sigh, I headed back up to our apartment. Bobby, already in the shower, called out a greeting to me when he heard my keys hit the dresser. I offered a hello as I stripped out of my clothes, noting the rumpled sheets. I climbed into bed, feeling the residual warmth of the recently parted lovers as I writhed in their love nest. I turned my head toward Bobby’s pillow and for the first time detected Sasha’s luscious scent. I rolled over and buried my face in the fragrant pillowcase, tilting my hips to hump the mattress and rub my swollen clit against the mussed bedclothes. I clutched the pillow, imagining that I was grinding myself against Sasha’s supple flesh. Surrounded by the smell of her, I came in no time, stifling my cries with the fluffy sham.

  By the time Bobby turned off the water and emerged from the steamy bathroom, I’d slipped into my robe and appeared to be working on a crossword puzzle, although in reality my mind was still preoccupied with images of the naked Sasha. He asked me if I’d had a good night, and I peered at him over my glasses as I truthfully answered, “The best.” I saw a momentary flash of envy spark in his eyes, but I simply smiled at him and returned my attention to the newspaper in my hand. He didn’t ask me any more questions, having had his emotions already unexpectedly tweaked. It was the first time I’d ever seen him act that way.

  Since then, Bobby has avoided asking about my dates entirely, perhaps having been surprised by the light he saw in my eyes that evening, even though he didn’t know the true reason for my excitement. One of these days, I’ll tell Bobby that I spend my nights out with other men longing to be in his place instead. I’d trade it all in a second to be the one to tease Sasha’s pert breasts and lick her dripping pussy until she writhes and moans so prettily.

  After we come home from our respective dates, he’s often hot to fuck—but so am I. I think he’s trying to prove to me that he’s a better lover than any of my other boyfriends. And I suppose that judging from my reaction, he thinks he’s successful in his quest, not realizing that I’ve been dreaming of him for hours. While he’s been out and wondering what I’m doing, I’m wonderin
g what path his lips have taken and where his fingers have teased and pleased her—and where and how they eventually fucked. As I wait for him to return home, I mull over the possibilities and picture myself in his stead, my name on her lips rather than his.

  So its nights like this I wait for, when Bobby comes home from seeing Sasha and slips into bed, thinking I’m already asleep. With the skills I honed during all of those method acting classes I took as an undergrad, I pretend to be in a deep sleep, but then I stir when he’s on the edge of a dream and I feel him shift his weight on the mattress. It’s that blissful moment when he’s nearly lost in that twilit world that I snuggle closer to him and tease his neck with well-placed laps of my tongue. He groans through his sleepiness and turns toward me. I take his half-hard shaft in my hand and stroke it slowly, kissing his chest as I feel him swell in my hand. Before he’s awake enough to protest, I slide downward and take his cock between my lips, sucking slowly and savoring the hint of Sasha’s pussy that’s been left behind. I take his cock down to the root as he tangles his fingers in my hair, encouraging me to deep-throat him. I know I can make him come in a minute, but that’s not what I want.

  I slowly pull my mouth off his dick, hearing him moan as the cool air hits his shiny-wet shaft. Desperate to feel him inside me, I urge him onto his back, then throw one leg over his hips and straddle him, my cunt hovering temptingly close. I reach down and grasp his cock, guiding it between my slick pussy lips. I’ve been wet for hours, waiting for him to return home redolent with Sasha’s scent. I bury my face in his neck, breathing deeply as I grind my hips against him. It’s those little hints of her and the knowledge that I’m going to ride him the same way she did that edges me closer to orgasm. Bobby thrusts upward to meet my crashing hips, and I feel a spark of pleasure deep inside that begins to smolder and spread. It’s a delicious fire that is stoked by my cherised memories of Sasha and the laundry list of all of the dirty things I’d do to her, if only given the chance. I pivot my hips, seeking more contact with Bobby’s body. I sit up and continue to grind against him, mimicking Sasha’s passionate earlier dance and feeling my orgasm crash over me like a tidal wave. Bobby groans when he feels my cunt clutch his shaft, and I keep riding him until I feel the warmth of his come bathe my insides. Breathless and satisfied, we part and soon surrender to sleep.