For Mario I showed off some tongue tricks. Quick little figure eights just below the head, long gliding ice cream licks from root to tip. I saw Chris watching with narrowed, glittering eyes. Lust made him a stranger. It scared me. And it turned me on.
“Elizabeth, please stop now,” Mario begged. He tugged me down and rolled me over to face Chris to make a nice Elizabeth sandwich. I heard a condom wrapper tearing, the snap of latex. He pushed himself inside me so quickly I cried out.
“You’re on breast duty, Hansen,” Mario called over my shoulder.
“With pleasure,” Chris replied and scooted lower to take a nipple in his lips.
Mario pulled my leg up and over his thighs and began to thrust, all the while whispering in my ear. About how beautiful I was, so beautiful and smart he’d been in love with me forever. There was no woman in the world like me, with a pussy so hot and wet.
I closed my eyes and let the sensations flow through me, Mario filling my cunt, Chris flicking his tongue over one nipple, stroking the other with the pad of his thumb. But best of all were those words, so soothing and sweet.
My belly was on fire, and I was dying for Chris to rub my clit, but I sensed they’d drawn that boundary again. Still, I wouldn’t give up my dreams of world peace. I reached down and took Chris’s cock in my hand. It felt good, good to hold him and stroke him, and for that moment, we were like the fantasies, all of us connected, cock to cunt, breast to lips, hand to cock again, in one pulsing circle.
Suddenly Mario grunted and pushed into me with gliding, rhythmic strokes.
Chris looked up and met my eyes with a frown, my question mirrored in his eyes.
Did he just come – already?
We both smiled. Mario always managed to cross the finish line before we did.
Climax
But Chris and I were never far behind.While Mario disposed of the condom, Chris coaxed my body across the bed so my hips rested at the edge and then knelt between my legs.
“I believe it’s your turn to take the top half, Mario, my friend.” He grinned to let me know it was a joke.
But that is exactly what happened.While Mario fed me slow kisses and tweaked my nipples in a steady rhythm, Chris began to make love to me with his mouth.
I could tell right away he had a knack for it.
First he kissed his way around my swollen lips, then treated me to long, flat tongue strokes that felt like rolls of hot, wet silk rippling over my vulva. Then he teased and dallied, carefully avoiding my sweet spot until I pushed up against him and groaned in frustration. It didn’t take him long to find the right rhythm, quick up-and-down flicks in the little groove to the side of my clit. Except he’d stop now and then, just to make me squirm and moan my disappointment into Mario’s mouth. When he started up again, I moaned louder, because it was magic the way our mouths were joined in a column of flame running straight through me. By sucking my juices through my red lips, one pair for each, they were kissing each other too.
Chris pushed one leg up to my belly and held it there, opening me, stretching me so tight my ass seemed to lift off the bed. My thighs were trembling, and I knew I would make it. Relentless now, Chris’s tongue lashed at my clit, and I sucked Mario’s tongue like a cock until I couldn’t anymore, I could only roll my head back and forth, sobbing my pleasure to Mario’s soft coos – Come for us, Elizabeth; that’s right, let us watch you come – and that’s exactly what I did.
I looked down at Chris, still kneeling at the edge of the bed. He smiled up at me, his chin dripping. For the first time that evening, he looked truly happy.The golden boy of old.
“Let me do something for you,” I said.
Something in his eyes clicked shut again.The gold faded to gray. He shook his head.
Under the circumstances, it didn’t feel right to press the matter.
Curtain Call
Again, Mario did just the right thing. As we pulled on our pants and buttoned our shirts in mildly uncomfortable silence, he suggested we meet for breakfast the next morning, a final celebration before he caught his plane.
It was smart, the only thing to do really: make everything the way it was before as best we could.
At the door, Mario tilted my chin up and kissed me gallantly. Chris and I hugged, our usual goodbye, but he added an extra reassuring squeeze. It struck me then that we still hadn’t ever kissed on the mouth, the old-fashioned way.
Once they were gone, I turned and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored closet door.
To my surprise, I looked pretty. My eyes shone, my skin glowed with a twentysomething bloom. I gave myself a victorious smile. I’d done it. I’d become an adventures, a breaker of taboos. It didn’t happen quite the way I thought it would, but it never does.
On impulse I yanked the rumpled sheet off the bed and draped it around my shoulders, the best approximation of a “white heron in the moonlight” costume I could manage.
I wondered what Sally would do to ease herself to sleep if she’d just had sex with a man – or two – that satisfied her flesh but not her heart. I wondered if she’d be a little sad to finally understand why Mario’s relationships never lasted too long. Or if she’d struggle with her own fantasy that Chris really was The One, and though we’d both married the wrong people the first time around, we had plenty of hot times ahead if only he could wean himself from those antidepressants.
What would Sally do?
Of course she was a realist. She knew fantasies were powerful. They could push the boundaries, change your life so it would never be the same, make you richer than you ever dreamed possible. But you never let them catch you or hold you down.
At the end of the show, there was only one thing to do.
I stretched my arms out and turned slowly, then faster – gliding, turning, skimming, whirling – around and around, my white wings outstretched, until I swear I was flying up and away.
Meter Violator
Kelly Jameson
The first time I investigated a crime scene, two things happened. The first was I met a real crime scene photographer named Giovanni and the second was I fell in love with metal – all shapes and forms of it – and started masturbating to street signs.
I say “real” crime scene photographer because the crime scene was staged; I had almost completed training in a forensic academy in Nevada and my knowledge was being tested in the field.
The academy had spared no expense in setting up the scene. They built a semi-permanent structure, divided by one wall down the center, creating two rooms. Both of the rooms were open in the front so the fire could be seen. In each room, they’d completely recreated a real living space. My classmates and I helped to decorate the rooms. I put an old Shaun Cassidy poster on the wall because I couldn’t help myself. A large pumper fire truck was used to put out the fire in the burn cell fifteen seconds after flashover.
When it was safe, my classmates and I, suited up appropriately, then walked through the rooms. The couch purchased from the thrift store was burnt almost beyond recognition. The carpet too. Light bulbs melted. We looked at V patterns, calcinations, etc.
It was nighttime and Giovanni’s camera flashed and popped. Several female students followed him around with their own cameras, trying to imitate him. “First rule,” he said, “Shoot your way in; shoot your way out.” I avoided Giovanni. He has a larger than life presence. A tall, lean, handsome man. The kind my mother used to see in the market or on the street and then whisper to me, “Being handsome is a detriment.You marry a handsome man, he’ll just throw you over for a lingerie model someday.”
Giovanni has camera eyes. The first time he looked at me, I was holding fragments of a metal lamp in my gloved hand. Just as I put a tiny fragment of the metal in my mouth, I met his simmering hazel eyes. I ran my tongue over the metal, my eyes traveling over his dark hair, cut short to the nape of his neck, his nose, which was bent a little, maybe from a fight, his square jaw, his five o’clock shadow. I thought about the ribs of steel
buildings, the bars of zoo cages, the sharp steel points of tacks and nails, the discolored nature of steel joints on aircraft. In my mind, the man and the melted metal formed an atoll of inorganic substance that glowed; I felt dampness between my legs. I took the metal from my mouth and jammed it in my pocket.Then I got back to work.
I’m in my forties. Kind of shy.A girl with no steady boyfriend and a vivid fantasy life. I had no interest in fawning over a handsome photographer, even if I wanted to run my tongue over his Adam’s apple and trace the laugh lines on his jaw with my pale fingers.
Reflective signs never rust and have a street life of seven years.The obvious masculinity, the sly cringe of the metal, the heavy thrash death black gothic doom of a road sign somehow attracts me. I’m also attracted to emotionally unavailable men. Men who like to give orders. I spend my days hungering for someone to shape me into something else. Sometimes I disgust myself with my fantasies.
A CSI is required to work long hours, be agile. Sometimes heavy lifting is required. A CSI must be able to maintain equipment, stay up-to-date on all techniques and methodology, use deductive and inductive reasoning and perform a systematic search of the crime scene. Masturbating to street signs: optional.
Just beyond the glittering man-made world that is Las Vegas is an environment of another kind. This is the environment I live in, work in, sweat in, masturbate in, eat in, and sometimes choke on. I live alone, except for Macey, my fourteen-year-old dog, who has trouble walking. Sometimes her legs just go down; she recently sat her rear-end right down on a Lincoln Log cabin my seven-year-old nephew had built. She’s in good health otherwise; her eyes are bright and her appetite is good and I’ve taken to driving her around with me whenever I can. But I can’t take her with me to crime scenes.
So months later, having successfully passed my training courses, I’m investigating a real crime scene in a remote area where a girl who was last seen at a restaurant/night club turned up in rock climbing clothes, dead at the bottom of a small gorge. She’s wearing a pink Moosejaw shirt, dark pink pants, matching gloves, and boots, and there are ropes at her feet.
I’m convinced I’m in the beginning stages of Pick’s disease. Not much is known about Pick’s. Poor social judgment, inappropriate sexual advances, or a coarse and jocular demeanor may be seen in people who have Pick’s disease. Some patients are hypersexual, and some, like small children, may put anything they pick up in their mouths. Attention span is poor; patients can be instantly distracted by anything they hear or see. Later in the disease, patients usually become mute. Restlessness gives way to profound apathy. The patient may not respond at all to the surrounding world. Eventually, they enter a terminal vegetative state.
Maybe it’s not so bad, I think, looking at the young dead girl. Maybe the vegetative state is a place of gold, silver, water and neon. A place where you can’t fall down. A place where you can’t get too high.
Seven million acres of spectacular natural landscapes – from forested Alpine environment to dry desert landscapes – surround Las Vegas. This immense area includes Lake Mead National Recreation Area, Spring Mountains National Recreation Area, Desert National Wildlife Refuge Complex, Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area, and three million acres of public lands.
I once fucked a metal detector on a little-known back road in the Spring Mountains National Recreation Area.
Cameras pop and flash and I see Giovanni. I haven’t seen him since my training. He makes his way over, looks down at me as I carefully scrape material from beneath the girl’s fingernails into a plastic bag. He watches. The whole scene plays like a haunted smeared cocked thing in my head. Most of my life I’ve felt outside myself, like I’m off in the distance somewhere, watching what I’m doing in a clinical, abstract manner.
The dead girl was hiking with a group; a male in the group reported the accident. What a waste of a pink happy life. Things are never as they seem. Shoot your way in; shoot your way out. Record everything.
“You’re too mechanical,” Giovanni says. “You get too mechanical, you make mistakes. You get too emotional, you make mistakes. Be more careful,” he grunts, and walks away. I feel like crying and I get the impression he carries loneliness around with him like a camera case.
Hours later I’m one of the last to pack up my equipment and head out onto the dark highway. The headlights of my Dodge Dart reflect road signs along the way. I pull off a shoulder, gravel on the side of the road crunching beneath my tires, mountains rising like monolithic beasts behind me. I switch off the lights but leave my car running.The area is deserted in the early morning hour.
Signs are thick aluminum with engineer-grade reflective sheeting applied over the surface.They have a thicker edge on the top and bottom. The material is less prone to scratching, chipping, and fading.This one has fallen down. No one seems to care. It’s at least six feet tall. Giovanni is probably at least six feet tall. Length is dependent on the number of letters required. The smaller the name, the smaller the length of the sign.This one, flat on its back, reads “Girls of Glitter Gulch.” True retro Sin City. I know the actual place. It’s a downtown topless bar. A tourist trap where girls in sequin gowns strip down to G-strings. A place with pink bubble lamps, brass swans, black lighting. The décor and drink prices haven’t changed since the 1970s. I like it. I licked one of the pink bubble lamps once; it has a much different taste than the metal lamp burned in the staged fire I investigated.
I lay down on my back, on top of the fallen sign. Stare at the stars. I removed my CSI trappings before leaving the crime scene and wear the jeans and pink T-shirt I had on underneath the protective plastic. I unzip my jeans. I slide my jeans and white panties down to my knees and push up my T-shirt and bra so my ample breasts are exposed. I put my one hand between my legs and another on my breast and fantasize I have a stripper’s body and I’m dancing on stage at Girls of Glitter Gulch in black light. I strip down to a G-string, lean over, lick the metal base of a pink bubble lamp. I’m surprised it’s Giovanni’s face I see in my mind, in the black light surrounding the stage; he has his hand in his pants and is watching me, masturbating, his olive eyes half slits of pleasure, ordering me repeatedly to bend down and spread my legs for him.
The rounded bolts of the sign dig into my skin. In my mind, I run my tongue and hands over Giovanni’s ductile, malleable flesh. I hear the irritation in his voice, the scolding. “You’re too mechanical. Be more careful.”
I’m moaning, pinching my nipples, about to come, when a flash shatters the night, illuminating for a split second the brown rocks at my side. I sit up, rubbing my eyes. It’s Giovanni. I didn’t hear him drive up. He’s looking at me with such intensity in his eyes I can’t tell if it’s lust, hate, or disgust. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t smile. “Egyptian weapons made from meteoric iron in 3000 B.C. were highly prized as ‘Daggers from Heaven’,” I say as he drives away. He doesn’t hear me, of course.
Back at my apartment, I sit with Macey curled on my lap and watch TV. Later, Macey sleeping in a black-and-white furry ball on the couch, I still can’t sleep. I go into the bathroom, close the door, get out the paddle. The one I fashioned with a metal handle and drilled holes in. I push my panties down, bend over, spank myself. I think about Giovanni, but it’s not working. I need Giovanni to hold the paddle and do the spanking. I don’t want to need Giovanni to hold the paddle and do the spanking. I put the paddle back and get into bed and stare at the ceiling. I put Warren Zevon in the CD player and listen to “Excitable Boy”. I’m just an excitable girl on a contemporary exploration of non-containment. I feel ugly when I wake up in the morning, lost in the vastness of the words and thoughts in my head. My tawny curly hair with its dyed blonde highlights is sticking up.
A few days later I’m at the crime lab when a manila envelope arrives for me. I open it. I see that it has nothing to do with the crime scene of the dead rock climber in pink. Beneath my desk, I slip my shoes off and rub my stocking feet together. My feet are sweaty. I c
an smell them.
There are several stunning photographs from what appears to be a junkyard.
The dead girl? Turns out she was the granddaughter of a stripper who used to take bubble baths on stage at one of the joints in Las Vegas in the 50s. It wasn’t the Girls of Glitter Gulch. A twenty-one-year-old woman whose background checked positive for DUI. In addition to rock climbing, she apparently liked to grab state troopers’ genitals and sometimes punch them in the face when she was drunk. Inherited a lot of money from her stripper grandmother too.
I hold photos of old broken down appliances in the night: a rusted out automobile; part of a boat; discarded computer keyboards; a bicycle; an old baby carriage. I can see that Giovanni has to get inside a piece until it’s part of him. Work himself into it. His photos have that directness because he’s at the heart of it.
I flip through all the photos and get to the last. Quickly look up. No one is outside my office in the hallway. The last is a shot of me masturbating on top of the road sign. I shove the pictures back in the envelope, drop them in my desk drawer, go to get a cup of coffee in the break room.
“Do you have those reports yet?” my boss barks. I look at him blankly. He looks down at my feet. “And where are your shoes?”
“I’ll have those reports soon, sir,” I say.
“We can’t afford delays in this office,” he growls. “Cases go unsolved that way. Have them to me within the next fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, taking what can only be described as flaccid, acrid coffee back to my paper-littered desk. I put my shoes back on. I stand up, reach forward, click off the lights, filling my office with the pale glow from the computer. I try to imagine my boss spanking my naked bottom, but it doesn’t do anything for me. He’s only five-foot-two and has a mustache that is threatening to take over his pinched, constipated face.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9 Page 15