by KT Morrison
“What a perfect pussy,” he whispered into her ear.
She kissed him again and he stroked between her legs, stroked her wet furled folds, brought out more of her dampness until his touch skated cross her flesh like it was dipped in oil. His finger pressed her opening and she gently closed herself up. Pressed her thighs together. That was far enough. She couldn’t do this. It wasn’t what she wanted. This kid was not what she craved. She didn’t want to have dumb meaningless sex with a good looking boy. What she wanted was something more distinct. Something this boy couldn’t provide.
“Mn-mnn,” she hummed and she shook her head, broke away and looked into his vacant and lustful eyes. She bent over and she put her mouth back on his cock and she sucked him, bobbed her head on him. He was rock hard and she could taste his semen now, taste the precum leaking from him. She sucked him til she knew she had him close, then she sat up and he sat up straighter thinking she was ready to fuck.
She said, “No, I’m married, okay?” Her hand found that long shaft and she stroked him again, got him under control til his head fell back against the head rest.
NIA
There was something about stroking a man’s cock when he was sitting down that drove her crazy. If he was really hard and his glans was swollen up ready to burst it turned her on like nothing else. It was also proof of size. If she couldn’t stroke it, it was too short. Too short for her favourite position. Her favourite position in the whole world, the one that made her close her eyes and hum, was to straddle a sitting man and to lower herself on to him. To control the action too. To hug his neck and watch his face while she used her hips to slide up and down his shaft. You had to be big to do that though. She had never done it with Geoff.
Sebastian had a big cock. A big cock she could ride. She watched it in her hand, gleaming with her spit and his precum, reflecting white light from the restaurant’s sign along its plump raised edges. She was so horny right now she could scream. She really could just get pleasure from belting out a high pitched wail in here to release the frustration, vent a little pressure. But she wouldn’t. Just like she wouldn’t climb on him right now and find out how good this dick felt fucking her in her favourite position. Using her hand was already too much. But she wasn’t going to stop.
“I want you to come for me,” she whispered to him.
He groaned and his head fell back. She kissed his lower lip and then she bit it. Her hand slowly stroked and squeezed. Slowly deliberately, making him suffer the pleasure, drawing out the time to his fantastic release. Her power was incredible. She pulled back and watched his face, watched what her hand made him do, how it affected him. He was going to come for her. His big dick was going to swell and he was going to spurt his pleasure out into this car. She controlled him. She could stop and ruin his night but she didn’t want to do that. She just liked to know she could. Up and down, agonizingly slow. He humped it through her hand, but she resisted—when he thrust she moved with it, frustrating him, making his face look mean. But he was a little boy in her hand. He would do what she wanted as long as he wanted to come. She squeezed his glans as tightly as she could, ran her thumb through the crease and over his hole.
She closed her eyes and imagined what this thing spreading her tight grip would feel like sliding up inside her. In and out as slowly as she was stroking right now. It would feel so good. She could ride it all night, keep him on the edge and look down at his face held in her hands. Like she would do with Dino.
“What a beautiful cock,” she whispered. He shuddered for a moment, she’d almost set him off. She said, “If I wasn’t married I would have this thing inside my pussy right now.”
“You are a bad fucking wife,” he laughed.
“It’s just my hand,” she said, feeling a little defensive.
“It feels so fucking good.”
She made a ring with her thumb and forefinger, fucked him quickly over the flange of his cock head. He streamed more precum, made him slipperier, her movements faster. He gasped and laughed.
“Show me what you’ve got stripper.”
“I’m going to come.”
“Show me. You flaunted this thing in my face all night, swung it around, stirred my drink. Show me what you got now, finish the show.”
“Ah,” he gasped, he was so close. She gripped him hard, all her fingers, stroked him eagerly.
“Show me what’s inside those big balls, you stud.”
“Fuck, ah,” he roared. His come shot out so hot and fast it made a noise. She jerked him faster and faster, crushing the tip of his glans with her thumb. He spewed hot semen in streams that she saw glinting and flashing in the light then disappear all over the inside of her car. He kept cursing and hissing, thrusting his cock into her hand and she pleasured him. Being gentle and good to the end of his cock as he rode it out. Her hand was steaming hot and wet from his discharge. It was all over the back of her hand and in her palm. She kept stroking him, even though his pulses had stopped.
“Did you like the show?” he asked her.
She didn’t now. Now she felt awful. She held her hand up in the light that came in the windshield and saw his come in strings between her fingers. This dumb stripper’s come. Fluid from inside the testicles of a man who wasn’t her husband and who she didn’t love. It dripped in heavy blobs. Her panties were sopping wet, she almost came from jerking off this stranger. What the fuck was wrong with her? She was a mom. This is the car they drove their daughter around in, this was the spot for her car seat.
“You gotta go,” she said, trying not to let him hear the fear in her voice.
“What?”
“Please, just—”
“You okay?” he said and he leaned to her. She recoiled.
“Please, please, just please get the fuck out right now!”
He put his hands up, said, “Okay, whatever.” He pushed his cock back into his fly, jumped around in the seat doing the zipper up. She sat and watched him, her eyes trembling, her sperm soaked hand still held up and dripping.
“Hey—” he said, then thought better, shook his head in disbelief, stopped, said, “Go home to your husband, whore,” and slammed the door.
The tears came. They were hot like his semen, spurting from inside her body, streaming down her cheeks. Her hands shook and she fumbled with the lid of the console in front of her between the front seats, trying to open it. She got it, pulled out wads of McDonald’s napkins that were in there, heisted from drive-thru bags during the years and never needed until now. Now they were desperately needed.
NIA
She got shakily out of her car, ashamed of what she’d done. She was on the verge of tears but she wouldn’t cry because of his dumb stripper words. All she hated was that she did that dirty thing.
She stood up and straightened her dress, sniffed and threw the sopping napkins into the grass at the front of the car. She turned back and she saw them.
Angie and Donna standing under the white backlit sign of Giusseppe’s. They were standing there, she knew them by their black shapes and their hair and noses lit by the sign above. They were holding their sides and they looked like they were shivering. She froze. They stared at her. Then Angie’s voice, shrill and corybantic, it broke the night like a siren rising up at the end fraught with wrath, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
She felt a chill run through her, ripping at her scalp and scribbling across her back, wriggling and zipping along her asshole. She clenched her pelvis, clutched at her bladder that suddenly wanted to give it all up and send all its contents streaming down her thighs. Her mouth fell open. She couldn’t speak.
“Nia!” Donna cursed, like she spat it.
They both stepped down off the curb and crossed the pavement to her, their shadows stretching out to get to her first, the black cutout shapes looking to claw at her and drag her down to their world, down to the core of the earth.
Their expressions grew clearer as they got close. She still couldn’t budge. They were approaching
with venom, like they weren’t going to stop, just march right over top of her. As they got close she wanted to flinch, they seethed, she could imagine being hit.
“Nia, you fuckin...” Donna threw her hands up, she was at a loss for words, she shook her head, her auburn hair swinging around her. She was incredulous.
But Angie was mad, she came right to her and it looked like she was going to put her hands on her. Donna grabbed the back of her dress and stopped her, turned her to the side, her momentum kept one leg going until it kicked up in the air and her shoe almost slipped off her foot.
“Stop it!” Donna cried, “stop it, please.”
Nia came to, she cried, “Nothing happened, n—”
“Bullshit, Nia,” Angie hissed, “we fucking saw you.”
She felt shrunken and useless, standing in front of her two friends she’d know since they were kids. She’d had pillow fights with these two, sleepovers, cried on each other’s shoulders over dumb boys, she’d held Donna and let her cry into her stomach for three hours the night her father died from a heart attack. The two of them in the antiseptic hall of York-Finch, her holding her seventeen-year-old friend still in her pyjamas and slippers in the hospital, dragged out of bed in the middle of the night by her hysterical mother.
“Baby...Ang,” Nia struggled. She was guilty.
“You’re going to ruin my wedding with this. Everybody talking about what happened here...”
“They won’t. Donna, I didn’t do anything, please...”
“You did! We saw you kissing him.”
Angie said, “You’re a fucking slut.”
Donna stopped her, pushed her away, Angie moved but kept her eyes on Nia. “Don’t! This is what I mean. This will ruin my wedding!”
Angie said over Donna’s shoulder, “You’re fucking married.” Her eyebrows were high, she rolled her head around, locked on Nia, pointing at her with her long red fingernail.
“I didn’t do anything, please, believe me, how can I...it’s okay...” She turned on them, her head fell forward, she walked and she clasped her forehead, she fumbled with her keys, clicking all the way around the car.
“Don’t you dare leave, Nia,” Donna said.
She got into her car. No tears. She was dead. She started the car.
Angie banged on the window, she yelled, “You can’t drive, Nia!”
She put the car in gear while the girls tried the door handles but she’d locked the doors. She backed out. Angie tried to block the way but she chickened out.
“Nia!” Donna yelled.
They slapped at the windows, their rings sounding like they could break the glass. She chirped forward, able to make a turn out of the spot because the parking lot was empty. She had to just get the fuck out of here. She drove slowly off, watched her best friends in her mirror, throwing their hands up and pleading for her to come back. She turned out of the little industrial plaza the restaurant was in, her lights shining on the guardrail and the bullrushes, the hotel behind, where she should be kicking her feet up right now and enjoying one last glass of wine or two with her friends.
She turned right, her left signal on. She corrected it. A police stop right now and she would be done. License suspended. What would she tell Odie? She crawled up to the intersection. There were no cars coming along Highway 7 and she darted across four lanes of vacant highway and bumped over a curb she didn’t see, pulled into a Petro-Canada on the other side of the highway. She stumbled in to the store and she bought some Wet Wipes and a can of Coke. She went back in her car and that was when the tears finally came. She sat in the backseat of her Volvo with her fists clutched up to her face and sobbed into them. Sebastian’s semen had splashed on the back side of the passenger seat. Long wet streaks and then a seam of white globs that spread along the curled leather lip of the map pocket.
She’d jacked off a stripper after a bachelorette. One more time for the fucking cheap seats: she’d jacked off a stripper after a bachelorette! What a fucking piece of shit. And of course her friends caught her, caught her with the shame plastered right across her stupid face. Ruin her wedding? Ruin her wedding? How could she ruin it if they were the only two who knew and they didn’t want it ruined? She kicked the back of the driver seat. Why couldn’t they hug her and tell her they loved her? Why wouldn’t they want to tell her it was going to be okay? Why would they hate her? How could they be so cruel?
GEOFF
It was two in the morning and he heard someone in the kitchen.
He’d been woken from a fitful sleep. He’d dreamt of Nia. It was a warm and sensual dream where he felt all the love for her he had and it washed over him in light, imbued the edges of his vision with a hazy white brume. She’d turned to him and she loved him—a statement to him not with words but with absolute fact. Everything in her face told him what she felt. Her hair flapped in a breeze. They laughed, and she was shared. Quick pornographic pulses; her thighs parting, another man’s veiny hand caressing that smooth feel of her lower back, her head tilted in passion. He woke up with a smile on his face. His erection had somehow worked its way out the slit in his underwear and his glans pressed the inside of the bed sheets. He felt the tip cool, out in the bare world, his balls warmly tucked still in his sleepy underwear.
Now he listened and there was no doubt that what had woken him was the sound of someone in the house. Someone was in his home and they were trying to be quiet. His skin crawled, his scalp flexed, his hair stood up on his neck. His beard bristled, his thick hair trying to stand on end. His heart started to pound and he was still frozen on his back, looking up at the ceiling, eyes wide in panic. His hand worked under the covers and he tucked his steely cock back in his underwear, felt that his balls had gone in hiding, safely away in some sort of corporeal witness protection program.
Another thump. He pictured two youths down there, woollen masks, going through their things. Or the Lindbergh abductor, time-travelled to take away the love of his life, spirit her out her bedroom window, the last the house would know of Odie was her shadow, clutched in the arms of a kidnapper’s shadow, sliding along the white oak tree he’d painted over her bed.
He jumped up, crossed to the door now. He was no hero but when it came to Odele he would eat the skin off someone’s face like a Florida flakka zombie if they tried to touch her. He opened the solid wood door, knew where to stop it before it made its signature creak. He listened.
Would kids wear woollen masks anymore? Probably not. And if it was a robber, the real haul was his studio. Ten thousand in equipment, reasonably. Fuck, he should yell down to them, tell them they’d missed the big score. He had insurance. A brief bright flash: Nia. It could be Nia, coming home early from her bachelorette. Maybe she didn’t drink. Maybe she missed him and wanted to wake up in bed tomorrow morning and spend the day together. Fuck he missed her. Her new job robbed him of his most wonderful joy. Took away the person he could spend every minute with forever.
His mouth opened to call down, an innocent little gasp, Nia? But the fear of hearing a man’s voice in response stopped him, kept that sound trapped in his lungs. Then a shadow. It passed along the wall, someone coming, someone coming to the stairs. He watched it cross the wall, bump soundlessly over the bannister, slide across the family photos that lined the side of the stairwell. It was thin, the person was small. They had a mane of hair. He sighed. Nia? He bit his lips, seeing a brief flash of some skinny teen with long hair and a wispy moustache, he has a Marilyn Manson T-shirt, and there’s a straight razor in his right hand...
Then there was hair, black, thin body, black dress, beautiful legs. Fuck, it was Nia. He collapsed against the wall next to his bedroom door. His heart pounded harder than when he was waiting, anticipating. The relief flooded through him.
She padded through the hall on bare feet and as she opened the door he loomed, mad for some reason.
“You were about to get knocked the fuck out,” he said.
She screamed and she jumped back, he lost her in the dar
kness and he heard her thump into the wall across the hall. He jumped out, apologizing, putting his hands out to find her.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, shit, Nia, sorry,” he whispered. His hands found her, felt her forearms. They snaked around him, held him gently but firmly. He could feel her sobbing. She was crying into his neck.
He said, “Nia, God I’m so sorry, honey. Baby, sorry,” he said and he rubbed his hands on her warm back. He rocked her back and forth. She kept crying. He got a sudden jab in his belly. She wasn’t crying because he’d scared her.
“Nia, what’s wrong?” he asked her. He held her out from him but she hid her face. She tucked herself into her mane of hair but a sliver of moonlight fell on her chin and mouth and he saw it twisted up in a silent cry. “Oh shit, oh no, Nia, what happened?”
She fell into him again. He helped her into the bedroom, and she lumbered to the bed, her shoulders slumped, her head fallen forward. She climbed up into their bed and he went up with her, his arms looking to grab her and pull her to him. He was dying inside thinking of an ounce of her pain. Sympathetic tears welled up in his eyes, harsh and fast, one spilling over his lid and he felt it roll down his cheek and it dripped from the tip of his chin. She curled up and he held her, pressed his chest to her back. He was still hard, a thundering pulse racing through his erection but he kept it back, kept it from pressing up against her. He held her tight and closed his eyes. This was like twenty. This was like when they were young. She’d come to his apartment or she’d call him to hers and she’d burst out in tears. Short-lived, furious at first then easing as he consoled her and told her she was right and everyone else was wrong. He’d always given her license in a way to be whatever way she wanted. His heart pounded thinking that maybe she had gone through with her encouraged freedom.