My lover senses this and he repurposes himself to lead me more slowly. His hands pull my panties tighter into my crevices. One hand rubs a nipple in deft circles as it pokes against the ebony lace; the other hand fingers my interior folds. With all his kissing, lolling, rubbing and pulling, I am in a frenzy. He rips at my lingerie and my breasts fly loose into his biting mouth. My panties are pulled free and flung to the floor. He shoves me back and spreads me wider with each wave. I cannot differentiate hand from arm from thumb, and I am so open only my tiny clitoral mountain stands out as he holds back my cunt terrain.
A blind, violet fog begins to roll in, and an atavistic vision of my animal past claws at the mist. I am struck dumb as I see my orgasm bearing down hard. It’s coming to overtake me, to hit me, to drown me and flip me head over heels, and then it does, turning me inside out, rolling me over and over in the sea foam, until I cry out to stop because I am blind and gasping for breath. I am blind with sea and sand and salt and he, now the sultan, laughs. My tongue is dry and I can make no sounds, or maybe I am rendered deaf. I beg for my senses to be restored, and I am given refuge in his arms and stroked to sleep.
As dreams replace reality, I cast my eye into all the rooms of my home. Good-bye my house, my cherry floors, my pear blossoms. I will miss you, and I will carry your memory always, in my lovemaking.
AUTUMN SUITE
Suzanne V. Slate
Sunday morning. We linger over our scones and coffee, letting the day take shape. It’s early fall, but we can already tell the day is going to be a hot one.
At last he rises. He kisses me, strokes my hair then goes off to the sunroom to play the cello. I scan the paper, flip through the ads, half listening to him tune up and start warming up on the easy pieces. I stare at a bouquet of roses I brought in from the garden yesterday, probably the last of the season. These roses budded a long time ago and are now in full bloom. They are deep red and velvety, and I reach out to stroke them, slipping my fingers between the soft petals, thinking of nothing. I tune in and out for who knows how long.
Suddenly I snap to attention. He is playing Bach’s Second Cello Suite, our favorite. It’s the Prelude. The music crests, then tumbles to the depths of the instrument, over and over, like a wave. At the top of the phrase he pauses slightly, on the edge of a precipice, before diving again into the flow. Without quite realizing, I begin to breathe in rhythm to the music.
He is in fine form today, playing with soul and passion. Is he thinking what I’m thinking? Does he remember I fell in love with him over this piece?
Back in college we had the same circle of friends, all musicians, and we all bonded over Bach. At first he and I were just friends. But then one day I was wandering through the music building, looking for an empty practice room, when I heard the Second Suite coming from one of the rooms. Spellbound, I crept to the door and peered through the small window.
There he sat, facing the window, head bowed low over the cello as he played. He played from memory, eyes closed. He cradled his cello close to him, catching it between his muscular thighs, which tightened and flexed as he moved in rhythm with the music.
He and his cello were locked in a duet, a dialogue, each coaxing more beautiful sounds and more intense feelings out of the other. The cello looked as alive as it sounded, a warm ruddy brown tinged in gold. It glowed in the dim light of the room and seemed to pulsate with life. But it was he who was bringing it to life, embracing it, caressing the fingerboard, squeezing its curved body between his thighs.
He grew warm as he played. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow and gathered on the ends of his thick curly hair. At one point he jerked forward and a single drop of sweat fell onto the front of his cello. I was transfixed. It was as if the two of them were working so intensely together that the cello was sweating along with him. No—it was more like he was drawing such stirring sounds from the cello’s depths, urging it to give up everything it had, that he actually made it weep with emotion. The tear dripped slowly down the cello’s golden surface as he played on.
That was the moment I fell in love with him. I wanted to be embraced and enveloped by him. I wanted him to coax out my mysteries, and I wanted to give voice to his.
I waited until the Suite was nearly over, then stole away.
Later, after we’d become a couple, I told him the story. We laughed about my “cello envy,” but it became part of our shared history, part of our lore.
Now, hearing him in the sunroom playing our suite, the years have fallen away and I am once again standing outside the little practice room, seeing him with new eyes, falling in love all over again. Suddenly I have to have him.
At the threshold, I pause, not wanting to interrupt. He is playing the Suite’s most beautiful movement, the Sarabande. I close my eyes and lean my head against the doorway. In my mind’s eye I see the bouquet of red roses on our dining table, warm and ripe, and I envision them opening slowly in time to the music. As the music possesses me, my own nether lips begin to ripen and swell.
He plays on, giving full voice to every note, paying attention to the silences. He takes his time. When he plays a chord he digs his bow deeply into the strings, and the cello growls and cries in response.
I open my eyes. He is playing from memory, eyes closed, his breathing cresting and falling with the music. I can see it in his face—he is remembering, too. Objectively, I know the years have changed us both, but when I look at him now I swear we are the same people we once were, back in that music building so long ago.
The sun pours into the room. It is hot, and he is sweating. His robe has fallen partway open, and I see the muscles in his bare thighs strain and flex as he embraces the cello. My lower belly tightens and I part my lips. As the Sarabande concludes I sigh, and my whole body relaxes and opens.
He opens his eyes and looks directly at me. We do not smile; somehow, the moment is too intense for that. Without a word he gently sets his cello on its side. Turning toward me, he holds out his arms. I walk slowly toward him, untying my robe and shedding it as I cross the room.
I part his robe and kneel between his thighs. He spreads his legs wide, opening himself to me. I take his shaft in my hands and stroke it, rubbing it slowly against my face, my breasts, my hair. I feel his buttocks flex and his thighs press against the sides of my breasts as his cock slowly ripens. I pause and look up at him.
He is staring down at me with a look of wonder in his eyes. I’ve seen this look before—it’s the one he had the morning after our first night together in his dorm room. My breath catches in my chest, and my feelings are so intense I cannot maintain his gaze. I look down at his cock, now fully erect. A drop of precome glistens at the tip. I squeeze the shaft firmly, root to tip, and the drop rolls down the head and onto the back of my hand. I think of the drop of sweat on his cello. I lick the drop off my hand.
I need more of him. I rise and stand between his open legs. I slip the robe off his shoulders and toss it to the floor. The hot sun streams into the sunroom, bathing our bare bodies in bright golden light. We blink and squint a little in the glare. We are both dripping with sweat.
He pulls me toward him and I straddle him on the chair, wrapping my legs tightly around his hips. We embrace, kneading and stroking each other’s backs, hands slipping on our damp salty skin. He runs his fingers up and down my spine, coaxing shudders and moans from me. I run my fingers through his hair, and he cups my face in his hands, stroking my cheeks and eyes. We kiss deeply, mouths fully open, drinking each other’s saliva and tasting sex on our engorged lips. He flicks his tongue against my upper lip, and I gently bite his ripe lower lip. We feed on each other; we are insatiable. I cannot see the inside of his mouth, but I am envisioning its deep red hue and velvety texture behind my closed eyelids.
Sitting on him like this with my thighs wrapped around his trunk, I am fully open to him, all the way to my core. His hot cock stands stiffly upright between us, and I press against it with my clit, wetting it. I slide up and do
wn the shaft to wet it fully, top to bottom. In response, his thigh muscles flex sharply under my ass. As we begin to rock back and forth in unison, a column of hot air wafts between us, perfuming the air with our mingled sexual scents. I am intoxicated. If he were not clinging to me so tightly, I would collapse. The Cello Suite spins and echoes in my brain; our chests rise and fall to the notes of the Sarabande still playing in our heads.
Now he raises my hips off his lap, reaching under my ass and probing my slit with his fingers. He pulls my buttocks wide apart and lowers me onto his cock. Slowly I sink down and he enters, filling me all the way. I have never felt so open or so complete. I cannot tell where I leave off and he begins. As he plunges his cock into me, I answer with my tongue, probing deeply into his mouth. We are straining to merge into each other, to get inside each other.
We flex our hips in unison, our pubic bones connecting over and over, sending shock waves through my clit with each thrust. Sweat drips off my breasts and down his chest as they press rhythmically together, still in time to the invisible music that surrounds us. I lick his neck, drinking him in. After this long delicious buildup we come together in giant waves that wash over us time and time again. I cry out, long and loud, head thrust back and eyes squeezed shut. My orgasm is an endless unfolding—my mouth, my nipples, and especially my pussy blossoming. Behind my closed eyelids I see a deep red rose opening, its tender inner petals bursting into a flower that ripens and expands forever. I feel completely turned inside out, impaled on his throbbing red cock.
He usually comes quietly, but this time he climaxes with soft keening moans, head bent over my shoulder, sweat from his hair dripping down my back like tears from his cello. His come courses into me in waves. Gradually the intensity of our rocking subsides, and we sit locked in each other’s embrace, feeling our muscles relax and our breathing return to normal. We draw back and look at each other a little shyly, as if this was our first time. In some ways it feels like that. There are tears in our eyes. Tenderly, I kiss his eyelids, and he gently wipes the tears from my face. Though we usually talk and laugh during lovemaking, today we have no words to express what has passed between us.
He helps me untangle my legs from his hips and rise. I take his hand and draw him to his feet. Wordlessly, we walk to our dark bedroom and lie down together, naked, cooled by a gentle breeze from the fan. We drift off to sleep in each other’s arms, breathing in unison while the closing movements of the Cello Suite echo in my head.
CONTENTIONS
Isabelle Gray
Alicia sits naked, perched on the edge of the bathtub, her legs spread wide. She holds the sharp edge of the blade between her thighs and though the straight razor isn’t touching her body yet, she can feel its strength, what it could take from her, and the tension of the moment makes her heart pulse strangely. She holds her breath as she carefully guides the blade up the mound of her pussy. It makes a crisp, scraping sound as short wisps of hair fall against the porcelain of the tub. She works slowly, efficiently, occasionally splashing cold water between her thighs to wash everything away. She is making herself bare.
Drake comes home and is surrounded by darkness and an uncomfortable silence. He calls for his wife, frowns when there’s no answer. Drake loosens his tie and heads upstairs, his body tense with nervous energy. He finds his wife in their bedroom. She is lying in the center of their bed. She is naked, lying flat on her back. Her waist is twisted to the side, her knees pressed together and pulled toward her. She smiles and holds her hand out.
They met in their late twenties during a contentious divorce trial where they sat across the aisle as opposing counsel. Alicia always loved to argue—it was her best and worst quality. She would argue with anyone about anything at any time. She even argued when she agreed with someone. It was the thrill of being contentious Alicia enjoyed most, and it was the thrill of being Alicia’s sparring partner in the courtroom, in the bedroom, anywhere at all, Drake enjoyed most. On their first date—dinner and drinks at a new bistro downtown—Alicia and Drake argued about what to eat. He suggested small plates; she wanted meat, rare, bloody, with something starchy on the side. He suggested a designer vodka martini; she wanted the real thing—shaken and dirty, one part gin, one part vermouth, with orange bitters, chilled on ice and strained into a cold glass, garnished with three olives.
He drove her home and was willing to settle for a long kiss, lips but no tongue, hot but not too filthy. He didn’t want to seem too pushy. Alicia grabbed the starched collar of his button-down shirt and pulled Drake toward her. He could smell her perfume: warm, subtle, lilacs. She traced his lips with her tongue, curled her fingers into a tight fist around his shirt. Drake held his breath, his cock stirring beneath his slacks. “I had a wonderful night,” he whispered.
“Shut up,” Alicia said. “It wasn’t that great.” She crushed her lips against his, all teeth and tongue. He moaned into her mouth, tried to relax as he felt Alicia quickly unfasten his belt, slide her small hand into his slacks, wrap her fingers around the hard length of his cock. Derek tried to slide his hand around Alicia’s waist, pull her closer to him, but she released her grip on his collar, grabbed his arm with her wrist. She shook her head but remained silent. As they kissed, Alicia began sliding her hand faster and faster until Drake pulled away, his back arching, his entire body taut. He exhaled deeply and slowly sank back into his seat. Alicia pulled her hand out of his pants and slowly licked the silvery threads of come from her fingers. Drake shook his head. Before he could say a word, Alicia jumped out of the car and ran into her townhouse without looking back.
Drake called the next morning, and when he asked her out for a second date, Alicia hung up the phone. He showed up at her door three nights and two messages later with a dozen sunflowers and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. His jeans were perfectly pressed, and there wasn’t a speck of lint on his dark blue blazer. Drake smiled brightly when Alicia opened her door. He grinned as he took in the sight of her: her dark brown hair hanging just past her shoulders in heavy layers, her big blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. She wore a low-cut tank top and a pair of men’s pajama pants rolled at the waist, leaving the flat of her stomach exposed. Alicia grabbed the bottle of gin.
She said, “I don’t believe in romance.” She tried to close the door, but Drake quickly stuck his foot in the gap.
“I can make you a believer,” he said.
Alicia raised an eyebrow. She opened the bottle of gin, took a long sip, and set the bottle on the small table near the door. “That’s highly doubtful. I’m not one of the faithful, worshipping at the altar of love.”
Drake took her hand in his, turned the palm up and pressed his lips against the soft heel, the sensitive center, the webbing between each finger. Alicia tried to ignore the shiver at the base of her neck.
She curled her index finger against his chin. “I’m not convinced,” she said.
Drake squeezed his way into her foyer. The décor in the room to his left was slick and modern—black leather couch, small coffee table, empty flower vases in geometric shapes.
He dropped to his knees and kissed just above Alicia’s navel. Her body was warm and he could feel her breathing against him. She gently rested one hand on the top of his head. “You may need to learn a few tips on how to force your way into a woman’s house.”
Drake slid his hands beneath the hem of Alicia’s tank top and up her slender torso, enjoying the lines of her body. When he reached her breasts, he gently dragged his thumbs across her nipples—small, hard, perfect. He kissed her stomach again, squeezed her breasts together. Alicia allowed herself to lean into the man kneeling before her. Drake sat back on his calves and drew his hands down Alicia’s body, slowly pulling her pants down, following with his lips, kissing her thighs, her knees, her calves, and then he nudged her legs apart. Alicia kicked her pants away and opened herself to him. Drake held her ample ass, enjoying the heft of the soft curves in his hands. He pulled her to his lips, kissing the neatly trimmed mound of her
pussy, squeezed her ass harder, flicked his tongue just once against her clit. Alicia flexed her toes and began running her fingers through Drake’s hair. He smiled and traced each of her pussy lips with his fingers then pulled her lips apart. When his tongue found the salty soft pink, he sighed, and Alicia lifted herself up on her toes.
“I’m not enjoying this,” she said, “but I want your tongue inside of me.”
His cock throbbed, but Drake shook his head. “Not yet,” he said.
Alicia bit her lower lip and tried to step away, but Drake held her firmly, sucking her swollen clit into his mouth. She hissed as her knees buckled. Drake held her clit against his tongue, sucking hard and fast, and the pleasure of it was so perfect, so painful, it took Alicia’s breath away.
“I am hating this,” she muttered through gritted teeth, spreading her legs wider.
Drake chuckled, his deep voice filling the space between them. He slid his tongue between her pussy lips to the tight, puckered edges of her cunt. He wanted to memorize the taste, the smell of her, how her thighs were hot and strong against his cheeks, how he could feel how much she wanted him, how her body betrayed her. He swirled his tongue against her opening in languorous circles as Alicia drew deeper and deeper breaths. At the exact moment he fully buried his tongue inside her, he slowly worked a finger into the tight folds of her ass. Alicia groaned loudly. She bit her lower lip and willed herself to stay silent. Drake began thrusting his tongue in and out of her cunt, and every few strokes he brought his mouth back to her clit. Every time Alicia was on the verge of coming, of riding the delicious crest of pleasure she was afforded by Drake’s lips and tongue, he paused, allowing only his breath to fall against her.
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