Sometimes She Lets Me

by Tristan Taormino

  And I feel his fingers start to slide around my eager pussy, making me drip. He turns his whole hand to the side and glides it back and forth like he’s sawing me in half. His slick fingers separate and reunite, and my compliant lips stretch and form around his changing shape. He grins at me like we’re doing something right and like we’re doing something wrong, only I sometimes find it hard to tell the difference between right and wrong, and right and left. His fingers push and poke at my tight openings, and swim recklessly around my swollen clit. He feels too big to fit inside of me, but I know that he will because it’s all happened before. I let my mouth fall against his ear and my vision relaxes into his dusky hair, and it stays that way for a while. Everything’s all out of focus.

  I quietly gasp as his middle finger finds its way inside my cunt: partway in, halfway up. I writhe with it and against it, and my pussy opens up like a butterfly spreading its wings. I feel Angie’s legs stirring against mine. And I feel the roughness of Angie’s Daddy’s scratchy face against my cheek and neck. Sometimes I look in the mirror to see if I can notice little scrapes from his stubble, but it turns out to be a fun house mirror and I can’t see anything because my image is so distorted and I look so silly, and it’s so hard to tell how old you are in one of those things.

  I lean back, fighting the gravitational pull. I place one hand behind me on Angie’s Daddy’s knee, and one hand behind Angie on his other knee. His knees feel like basketballs in my hands. I hoist myself up and let his long meaty finger fill my cunt, completely. I ride it with a certain kind of deliberateness. I ride it like it’s going to save me from a certain kind of elimination. And I let my breath entrust and commit to this experience. I breathe heavy breaths, in and out. And something about all of the breathing makes me feel mature.

  I look at Angie’s hair. It’s draped along her back like a blanket. I carry that image with me as my eyes climb the wall and find a resting spot on the ceiling. I imagine being blanketed by her, hidden in the underworld of her hair. I imagine lots of things as Angie’s Daddy gets me off. And I hear him grunt as he drives a second finger inside of me. When I look down, I see my creamy wetness glistening on his knuckles and collecting in his big palm. And it looks like gleaming glossy moondust. His eyes become fixed like he isn’t really there, and his cock is hard beneath his pants. I feel a sweat building on my forehead as my pussy gushes and shakes inside his hand. I let myself collapse against his full chest, let myself feel little in the comfort of his bosom. And Angie rises, placing her hand on my shoulder, for balance. I can hear how wet her pussy is in his hand. He’s got the whole world there; I can hear it. And I want to feel it, but instead I feel that ache. It’s a sinking sort of feeling, a sinking shrinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. That’s right, he assures, you feel that? And I want to look right at her, but there’s this undercurrent of pretending that happens in the dream. And I think it’s just part of the game we’re all playing. I think it’s like going to jail without passing go.

  Sometimes Angie’s Daddy gives one of us a task to do so that he can have private time with the other. These are the times when he undoes his zipper and pulls out his huge cock, first through the hole in his underwear and then through the center of his pants. This time he sends Angie to do something upstairs, only my fingers are entwined in hers and I have to untangle them one by one to let her go, and then she’s gone. Angie’s Daddy squeezes my face with one giant hand and pulls it close to his. His hot breath blasts me like an automatic dryer in a public bathroom. And my cheeks are hot and scrunched and blushing. I can’t close my mouth because of the harshness of his grasp. And a teeny weenie marble spills out from the space between my lips, spills out and bounce-bounce-bounces its way down the hall and out through the keyhole of the front door—a piece of myself that will never come home. He stares me down until I soften and relent, my eyes plunging to the ground like little skydivers without parachutes. I could probably outstare him if I really wanted to, except I feel like I’ve gotten caught with my hand in the cookie jar and I’m not sure what the penalty is for that. But there aren’t any cookies to be had here. There aren’t any cookies, just Angie’s Daddy’s cock.

  He spins me around so that I am facing outward and my feet are planted firmly on the floor. Only I don’t like standing on the floor because I worry that something under the couch is going to reach out and grab my ankle, and that might make me scream. And my panties are around my knees but I don’t know how they got that way. He says, Special things for special girls, and maybe that’s all I need to know.

  He reels me in by the material of my dress like a fisherman reeling in his catch, only he didn’t need any bait, and he didn’t need any worms. And when I’m close enough he wraps his hands around my waist. His hands reach almost the whole way around my center. He holds me tight, and I am not slippery and I will not flop away. I can feel the round head of his cock bulging and pressing against my needy little fuck-hole. I can feel his desire. And I can feel mine. I bend my knees up onto the surface of the couch, still looking out, and I rest them on both sides of his large thighs. I am spread wide open; my red slit parted in two. I lean forward, placing both hands on the cluttered coffee table, for balance. He tugs on my feet to hurry this process of positioning. Now my panties have completely disappeared and they never do come back.

  He secures my hips and guides me toward him. I feel the fat bulb of his cock launching its way inside of me. And I am flooded with images; they roll over me like waves…Angie’s tickly lashes, her hand on my shoulder, the kiss, our tangled fingers, and Angie’s Daddy’s rock-hard cock…his rock-hard cock splitting me open and filling me full. His cock is deep inside of me now, and it feels like real rubber. It feels like a ride at the local fair and I’m going to stand in line to do it again. I catch my image in the television between the commercials when the screen goes black, and I watch my hair bounce back and forth against my shoulders. I watch my tits jiggle underneath the thin fabric of my dress. It’s the only clear image I have of myself in the whole dream. And even though Angie’s Daddy makes me feel like a little girl, the reflection I see is that of a woman getting fucked. And the proof is on TV just like the proof is in the pudding. Sometimes I see that image when I’m not even dreaming. I see it in those brief seconds when my television screen goes black. And Angie’s Daddy’s white shirt and big head make him look like a spaceman floating around in the background.

  His thrusts become faster and deeper and the coffee table starts to slide forward as he pushes me harder and harder. If he doesn’t do something soon, I will fall right on the floor, right between the couch and the coffee table. My arms start stretching out really far so that the tips of my fingers can still reach the edge of the surface. My body starts stretching too, and I feel like that image of myself in the fun house mirror—all drawn out and contorted. The edge slips away from me and I have no choice but to let myself go, to let myself fall. I land with my head right between his feet, and I can see clear under the couch. And what I see among the dust balls are puzzle pieces. Only I couldn’t reach them even if I tried. And nothing’s reaching out for me, and there’s nothing to scream about.

  Angie’s Daddy shoots his load like the blast of a rifle, right down the center of my ass. The thick lather drips down along my narrow crack, glazing my pussy like a doughnut. He forces my arm behind my back and makes me smear his come all over my skin, hand over hand. And it feels like real lotion.

  There’s a clunking noise as Angie makes her way back down the stairs. And it sounds like she’s wearing high heels, only they’re too big for her. I stand on wobbly legs even though I’m not wearing high heels, and Angie’s Daddy zips up his pants and clears his throat like there’s soot stuck inside. C’mon girls, he says with a contrived authority. And the three of us maneuver our way back into our original positions on the couch. I feel that sense of renewal, and I don’t want it to bottom out. I revel in the feeling of having a Daddy, even though it’s Angie’s Daddy. I revel in the feel
ing of being the apple of his eye, and the apple is clean and pure and there are no worms. I am full with my love for Angie. And it feels really real, even if it’s just a dream.

  But sometimes, I want to send Angie’s Daddy upstairs. Sometimes I want to press a button and make him mute. Press a button and turn him off. And I want for me and Angie to be together without him. I want to play a new game with new rules. And the new game doesn’t have any room for silly Daddies, silly rabbits. Sometimes I try to change the dream, but I know that it won’t change because it’s never happened before. And I wonder if a new game would just be too much for everyone. I wonder if it would make the world explode.

  Angie’s Daddy lights a cigarette and slowly fills the room with a thick gray haze. And he’s there like a big boulder that I can’t move, like a big boulder that crashes into me from time to time. I peek around that vast chest of his and look at Angie. I lean into him, stretching my elastic arm across his body to hold her hand. I try to tell her that I love her. Elephant shoe! Elephant shoe! And Angie’s Daddy gazes vacantly at the hushed images on the screen. I keep looking at Angie. Every few seconds that bright light is flashing against her, affecting and disrupting her appearance. Eventually, the smoke will blur her features entirely, and it will be like looking through a hazy, shifting cloud. Remember this, I say to myself. You have to try really hard to remember.

  VOODOO AND TATTOOS

  Lynne Jamneck

  It started out so innocuously. Maybe that’s why it turned out so fucking hot.

  I’ve had enough of bartending in my life that when Annie asked me to pour drinks at a conference she was in charge of, my immediate instinct was to think—fast—of the first best lie I could offer in order to avoid the prospect.

  “I—someone has to feed my cat.”

  Annie found that excuse pathetic, and gave me a look that said so. “Kyle, that cat died two years ago.”

  “Fuck, you remember.”

  “Of course I do. I was at the funeral.”

  “A little respect, please. Princess Leia was no ordinary feline.”

  “Sure she wasn’t,” she said sweetly. Sarcastically. Annie wasn’t an animal lover. Curious, then, that she’d refer to her lover as a “tiger” in bed. Makes you think.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “Is this the fancy-schmancy do you’ve been planning for the last two months?” Annie was head of conference planning at the Sheraton Belgravia Hotel on Chesham Street in London.

  “I’m thrilled. You remembered.”

  “How could I not—you’ve been yammering about it nonstop for weeks.”

  “Oh fuck off, Kyle.” Then she went all sweet again. “So then you know how important this is to me, to my career.” She sidled up next to me, running a long finger along my forearm. “I need the best bartender in London, and you’re it.”

  Annie and I have never slept together. We’ve come close once or twice in moments when neither of us had been thinking. She was way too driven, and I liked Guns N’ Roses. But she knew just how to play me.

  “I take it the Sheraton pays well?”

  “Oh, yes. And I’ll get you a uniform… Just do us a favor?”

  “I thought I already was.”

  There was the sweet smile again, laced with sarcasm. “I can see why you manage to fuck any girl you want. Your wit surpasses even my own. No dear, what I meant was the hair.”

  “The hair?”

  “Yes. Yours in particular. Just…try not to look like Ringo Starr on a bad day, okay?” I wouldn’t argue with Annie. I’d just lose.

  The night of the conference I showed up in my monkey suit at exactly 18:30 as Annie had instructed me. I’d never even asked her what kind of clientele I’d be serving overpriced cocktails and martinis to. It turned out to be some corporate thing. Loads of women in power suits. Blah blah.

  When I went in through the service entrance somewhere in the bowels of the hotel, a group of waitresses eyeballed me. A couple of aviation blondes, their black roots starting to show. I smiled favorably and one of them brushed past me just a little too close. A spotty male looked at me like I’d stolen his wallet. Probably the usual bartender. I smirked. Annie could get away with anything. Probably because she was so fucking good at her job.

  The conference started at 19:00 sharp. Between then and 21:00 I pretty much did stuff-all except verbally abuse Annie in her absence for making me show up so early. Control freak. Another reason why I would never have sex with her.

  At some point, a woman sneaked out from behind the heavy conference room doors. She looked around furtively before making her way over to the bar. I was busy wiping down whisky tumblers, probably for the third time in an hour. When she saw the coast was clear she launched herself across the empty bar area, weaving through the unoccupied tables. and pulled out a bar stool.

  She smiled disarmingly. “You’d be out of there too if you had to listen to that tosser.”

  “I take it the speeches aren’t very entertaining.”

  She looked right at me and smiled widely. “Fucking understatement of the year, lassie.”

  “You have a great smile.” Stop flirting with the patronage.

  “Thanks.” She looked as I dried off the glass. “God, you have really good forearms.”

  Oh. My.

  I’d rolled my sleeves up before washing the few glasses my perfectionist eye hadn’t deemed clean enough. If Annie saw me like this she’d have a continental fit. But taking in the present company, I didn’t really care.

  She was a sort-of redhead. More like copper, flecked with golden brown. Her eyes were dirty emeralds and a crooked trail of freckles were scattered across the bridge of her nose. Her mouth appeared both demure and possibly foul at the same time.

  “You got any Jameson back there?” she asked. “Make it quick, before the bastards notice I’m gone. Double, on the rocks.”

  “So you’re Irish,” I nodded, pouring the whisky with a steady hand.

  “What on earth makes you think that?”

  “Trace of the accent. Mild, but there. But in all my time as a bartender, an Irishman wants whisky, he wants Jameson.”

  “Then you know the Irish were the first to distil whisky.”

  “That’s up for debate.”

  “Okay. You have something against the Irish?” She swallowed a mouthful of whisky and looked at me. Her eyes held mine for just a moment longer than need be.

  “Hardly.” An involuntary charge of arousal jolted up my thighs.

  “One more. Quickly.” She moved her glass closer and watched me pour the amber liquid. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look a little out of place here.”

  “Thank god for small mercies.”

  I could see the kinky smile around the edge of her glass. She swallowed the whisky in two, three quick successive tips of her wrist, then said, “Better prepare yourself. There’s a lot of bored women about to come out of that conference room in serious need of booze. Hot little thing like yourself…” She slid off the bar stool. “You’re going to have your hands full.”

  “Annie! Annie!”

  She didn’t see me at first, but how could she? The bar was packed. Women, everywhere. Then finally a gap as I served another Bacardi with a twist of lemon and everyone seemed to have a drink. For now.

  Annie walked briskly over to the bar and tapped nonchalantly on the glass top. “Martini, doll.”

  I scanned the room whilst making her drink. I can prepare martinis in my sleep by now. Then I spotted her. Irish freckles.

  I placed the glass on a serviette and slid it across the counter. “Who’s that?”

  “What? Where? Oh.” Annie gave me a smarmy look. “Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised; I did expect you to get your leg over. But I’m afraid you’re out of luck on that one. That’s Jamie Gallagher.”

  Annie looked at me expectantly. “I get the feeling I’m supposed to know who she is.”

  “Jesus Christ, Kyle; don’t you ever watch the ne
ws, read the paper? Jamie Gallagher—as in Gallagher, Sabatini and Larue? The law firm?”

  “Can’t say I’ve heard of them. Besides, isn’t she a bit young to be a partner in a law firm?”

  “Jamie? She’s thirty-two. I think. Anyway, like I said Kyle, forget about it. She’s got a girlfriend with more piercings than you do. Tattoos up the woo-ha. Bad timing on your part.” She took a lascivious sip of her drink. “She likes ’em young.”

  “Fuck. Double whammy. And to think, I just turned twenty-four last week.”

  Annie smiled. “Poor dear.”

  “Her girlfriend’s here?”

  “Yes. Probably waiting in their hotel room. She’s not the type to go round in a business suit.”

  A woman came to the bar and ordered another vodka tonic. Annie watched, amused, as she blatantly tried to flirt her way into my pants. Sure, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel flattered. Problem was I couldn’t keep my eyes off Jamie. And I found it intriguing that she didn’t drink after having come out of the banquet hall for the second time. What made the whole thing even more unbearable was that I noticed the stolen glances she directed my way, too. A quick look over the shoulder of someone she greeted with a hug, or an upward turn of the head when she bent down to say something to a friend or acquaintance sitting at a table…

  Now look, I might be young, but I’m not fucking stupid, you know? Sure, I get teased all the time by superior femmes like Annie, and I become brainless at the thought of solving riddles or thinking logically. It’s easy for me to let people think I’m a sweet butch who’d rather swing a wrench than fiddle with a pressure cooker. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s women. I’ve been learning my entire life.

  So I’ll tell you this much: every time Jamie looked up and we glanced at one another I could see there was a certain purpose to her. Not just in her eyes, but in the way she brushed the copper from her forehead; the two open buttons of her crisp, starched shirt; and the way her hands touched herself, slightly self-consciously.