She starts to read. I cry.
I cry because I see her mouth form the words that I’ve written, because I hear the tenderness in her voice when she speaks my words.
She reads a few chapters. She takes her time. She forms the words carefully, imbues their articulation with a slow sensuality.
Finally, she pauses. She looks at me, and she’s crying too.
She says, “I like it.”
When I come back from my morning run, Tamara is still asleep. Her feet are sticking out from under the sheets. This is one of my favourite sights: tenderly domestic and deliciously sensual. I fantasize about straying from our scripted lives, about indulging in spontaneous intimacies outside the confines of our rituals, and . . .
Fuck Andrei.
I look at Tamara’s sleeping body and let the sight of her overwhelm me.
I stoop down and kiss her toes. I slip my tongue between them, slide it around each one. I nibble on them.
She moans, still asleep, and throws off the sheets.
The sun hits her skin, from her nipples to just below her luxuriant pubes. The prospect of transgression makes my blood rush, but I rein in my impatience and move with slow but focused intensity.
Cupping her heels, I raise her legs in the air. Below, I catch a glimpse of her moist vulva, framed by her butt cheeks and by the backs of her thighs. I bend down and breathe on her wetness. She gasps, still asleep.
I smell her and close my eyes. Her pubes tickle my nose, and I can’t help laughing.
That wakes her up.
I fear her reaction to this unscheduled intimacy, but she opens her arms in invitation.
I let go of her legs and fold myself into her sleepy embrace.
“You’re sweaty,” she mumbles. I’m still wearing my jogging clothes. “I love your smell.” Have we broken free? Can we write our own lives? Together. Finally, truly, together.
She disentangles herself and sits up. She hugs me, drowsily rubbing her face against my chest.
She pulls off my T-shirt, and she runs her tongue from my belly button to my armpit.
She squeezes my stiff cock through my shorts, and we both laugh. She smiles coyly, letting go of me, then runs her hand in circles around my crotch, never quite touching it. She gently bites my nipples. She moves as if to squeeze me again, but then she pulls away and slips behind me.
She hugs me from behind, bites my shoulders hard enough to hurt, sinuously licks my nape. I feel her breasts squish against my back, and I get even harder. Her hands start to slip into my shorts, brushing against my pubes, but, again, she pulls away, laughing.
I grab for her. I lock her wrists in my hands and push her down on the bed. I bite her nipples – alternating from one to the other – and she gasps and squirms. I pull her up and place her fingers on the elastic waist of my shorts. She pulls down my shorts, takes my dripping cock into her mouth.
She delicately scratches my chest while her mouth goes up and down the length of my penis. I could come right now. But I pull out of her mouth. I stick my thigh between her legs and rub her moistness against my skin while I play with her breasts.
After a while, I turn her around and push her down on the bed. I run my wet, hard cock on her skin, from her butt crack, along her spine, to the side of her neck. Her tongue slips out and licks me.
Leaving my cock next to her mouth, I reach down and grab her ass. I fondle it, kiss it, bite into it. I dip a finger into her moist cleft, and I tease her anus. She squirms and coos. I plunge deep into her asshole with my wet finger, and she screams in pleasure. I wriggle my finger inside her, slide it in and out tenderly. I look at her writhe with delight, and my heart swells up.
Eventually, she pulls her butt away and flips over.
She again takes my cock into her mouth. She pushes her crotch up against my mouth, and I slip my tongue inside her vagina. I pull back slightly and gently kiss her labia. I tease her by running my tongue on either side of her clit, never quite touching it.
Meanwhile, her mouth slides up and down my cock; her fingers play with my balls. Then, she lets my cock slip out of her mouth, and works on me with her hands.
I can barely keep from bursting. I struggle to hold on just a little longer.
I cover her vagina with my mouth and work on her clit with my tongue. Her breathing changes, and I can tell she’s going to come soon.
In a sudden, almost violent, move, I pull away. She whimpers.
I grab her feet and run my teeth against her soles. Her whimpers turn to moans. I spread her legs, my tongue licking her inner thighs. Her moans become sharp cries. I kiss her belly. My hands find her breasts, my fingers squeeze her nipples. My lips find her mouth. My cock finds the wet opening between her legs.
I plunge deep into her; and she screams, comes, and then whispers the syllables I desperately want to hear, the inevitable name: “Andrei . . .”
And then I come inside of her, and the jism spurts out of me in neverending waves. In my mind’s eye, I see the beautiful face of my dead friend.
What Happened to That Girl
Marie Lyn Bernard
Christy, my fourth and final foster sister, disappeared from our home on the morning of her eighteenth birthday, three weeks before both Jason and I left for college in Santa Barbara. Now apparently Christy’s a porn star. Jason called me this morning at 9 a.m. to break the news.
We ’re grown-ups now, the kind that don’t talk about things like Christy or things like porn. We have grown-up lives – I’m working on my masters in biology, Jay’s a computer programmer. I still masturbate to those eighties videos we’d buy at the smut shop out by the airport; I still salivate for the women in legwarmers, their bangs as fluffy as whipped cream. But when we talk about sex now, it’s a lot like talking about football.
I remember the afternoon of Christy’s departure vividly, even though Jason and I never speak of it. She shared a room with our other foster sister, Rochelle, but Rochelle was at tap class that afternoon and so we were free to lie in Christy’s bed and bask in the air she left behind: the lingering scent of drugstore Vanilla Musk and weed. We held her abandoned panties to our faces and inhaled. We closed our eyes and remembered her, mutually avoiding the fact of one another’s hard-ons, those nasty flags in our track pants.
I often reminded myself: Jason wasn’t my real brother and Christy wasn’t my real sister. Our family played host to a number of foster kids over the years and our house felt, at times, like some sort of privatized orphanage. My mother liked it that way. Perhaps she felt the guilt of the newly and unfortunately wealthy – my father was killed in a car accident while I was still a baby – or perhaps she was just restless without her husband. My mother has a heart like the Tupperware she hawked at neighbourhood barbecues: sturdy, durable, long-lasting. She has a fierce ability to endure heartbreak. I, her only biological son, do not.
Jason, the son of a Dominican teenager, was the closest thing I had to a permanent sibling. He moved in when I was eight and stayed. He was the kind of guy that never looked back, and I’m the guy who misses things even before they go, who clings to worthless relationships, dead-end jobs. Even when Jason reminded me that Christy would surely flee upon becoming legal, I imagined she’d change her mind, that our lives of varsity athletics and chicken dinners would quell her thirst for fast cars and drugs and the dark corners of the human psyche that enabled her to live so easily without love, and without family.
That afternoon was a mess of taboo. Resigned to unrequited lust in Christy’s bed, we pumped our hands around our own shafts, simultaneously, the air dense with the potential of our love. I worked my clean-cut dick and saw that it was smaller than Jason’s, which was uncircumcised and thick, the kind of dick I imagined girls wanted inside them, the dick that still makes me tentative to unveil my own.
A strange kind of dance, that mutual masturbation: our synchronized movements, my fingers rubbing the rim of the head, our exhalations swimming in a fog of long-deferred desire.
I still think of Christy every day, of how she was then: a year older than us with the reading skills of a grade-schooler and the coy wit of someone who didn’t need something so trivial as reading skills. She streaked her short black hair with skunk-lines of red and white, wore pigtails and stocking caps and bandanas during all the wrong seasons. I remember her slight body; her handful-sized breasts, her skinny pale limbs, her irresistibly full mouth lined with shoplifted glamazon lipstick. She hung out in punk bars, and hung out on my favourite couch, legs sprawled everywhere, playing Chutes and Ladders with Rochelle and yelling at the adulterers on television talk shows. When I dream of her, it’s those legs, wrapping around my back like some kind of giant, earth-shattering hug.
“Seth, you aren’t gonna believe this,” Jason tells me on the phone. “You’re gonna bust a nut. I was like – I don’t even know. All I know is, you gotta see this. You gotta see it, like, now.”
“Bring it over,” I say. “I was gonna study, but I mean, this is like, a special occasion or some shit—”
“Dude, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” I feel my chest. Hot. My forehead. Hot.
“All right, man, I’ll see ya.”
Hot. Hot.
By the time Christy moved in we were grown. Mom was always out – taking yoga, flitting around with her social circle of estranged housewives – so she didn’t care, really, that Christy pranced around the house in men’s wifebeaters, her nipples visible beneath the flimsy fabric, or that Christy sometimes didn’t sleep at home, or that Christy had become Rochelle’s mentor, or that Christy played loud music at inappropriate times. Christy went to school – diligently, dressed in my father’s old college hoodies – and she was always on time for dinner, so it didn’t matter.
And my mother didn’t know that Christy liked to bound through the bathroom door when I was washing up, announce, “Shower time!” and strip bare, naked all of a sudden and setting my veins on fire with her callousness, to jump into the shower, pulling the curtain tight just before my erection reached full-mast.
The first time, she peeked out only moments later, her smooth skin covered in droplets of water: “I’m sorry – does that bother you? I’m so used to like, well, living with a bunch of girls.” Christy had been in a home. Or rehab. These were the things we didn’t know about her, because she never talked about anything but the immediate present.
“Um . . . no,” I said, maybe too enthusiastically, and she grinned.
“I didn’t think you minded.”
But that was the closest I got to sex. Instead, I fumbled around with the breasts of my bright girlfriends, trying to get someone into bed before graduation. Even in the thrust of high-school love, I thought of Christy.
It occurred to me once – maybe she got naked for Jason, too? But I could’ve thought about that until it split me open, so I chose not to.
An hour later, Jason’s here, in sweatpants, grinning.
“Get ready for the best hour of your fucking life, dude,” he says, pushing past me to the living room.
“Can I see the cover?” I ask. “Is she on the cover?”
Jason hands it to me as he clears a spot on the couch, fiddling with the remote.
She is on the cover. Christy. Christy-of-the-shower, Christy-of-the-white-tank-top, Christy-of-my-wettest-wet-dreams. Honour Roll Cocksuckers. Christy, clad in a plaid skirt and saddle shoes with suspenders tight across her new boobs. Her face is covered in come and her hand is down her skirt.
“Hot, right?” Jason asks. “I always wondered what happened to that girl.”
All the time, I want to say, I wonder about her all the time. “Yeah, me too. Kinda makes sense, y’know?”
“Yeah, especially if she’s still into drugs.”
I brush off his accusation. “You’ve already seen the whole thing?”
“Nah,” he says. “I watched like, the first five minutes. I thought – uh – I should save the rest to see with you.”
A silence. We’re men now, I think, but weren’t we men then? In college, a buddy and I bought blow jobs from the same hooker, and I waited in the room during his and then he saw me get mine, and wasn’t this like that, except less so? And why should I feel unsettled anyhow, with the object of our desire so clearly a woman? But I prefer him being here. I’m drawn to that nakedness, that vulnerability that feels like family.
“Cool, cool,” I nod.
Honour Roll Cocksuckers is the opposite of seeing a movie star on the street. Christy, in pigtails and a skirt with breasts straining against her selectively buttoned shirt, is “taught a lesson” by the principal and then the janitor, and then both at once. The film unfolds at a pace that’s like your train charging past when it’s supposed to stop, like watching a game that you wish would go into a third overtime just to see if he can score like that again – over, and over, and over.
Bend her over, I yell silently. Bend her over and fuck her everywhere. I wanna see that round white ass, the same ass that lazed around the house on Sunday afternoons in boxer shorts, the ass connected to those legs laid absently across my lap as we watched TV.
The janitor bends her over the desk and yanks her panties off. She yelps. He smacks her ass and she yelps again.
A close-up: beneath the thicket of black hair that once coated her pussy lies a shaven, beautiful hole, lips like a canoe around the slippery line of her clit, better than I imagined. The janitor rubs his dick against her and slips in. She yelps again, and he smacks again. Then he fucks her madly, pounding her – it cuts to her face, her intense eyes and her skin still white as soap.
The principal approaches the front of the desk, fitting his body between her arms and shoving his dick into her mouth. She moans and tightens her glossy lips around him.
I look at Jason but he won’t look at me. Maybe this is too much, I think, maybe this isn’t right, Jason with a dick like the Hispanic janitor’s, and me skinny and white like the principal, me at her front and him at her back, me fucking Christy’s throat and him, now, pulling his dick from her cunt to tickle the rim of her asshole, which flexes, eager for penetration.
When he breaks into that tiny hole, cupped by her perfect cheeks, I can’t take it any more. I slowly unbutton my pants and extract my dick . . . and rub. I have no inhibitions now; just a kind of drunkenness.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Jason doing the same.
The janitor lies on the floor and Christy mounts him. The principal takes her from behind while her ass bounces over the janitor’s dick.
“Double penetration,” Jason says. I smile too, and feel better everywhere.
The moment I pop is bright white, like Christy’s spotless ass.
I look at Jason smiling at me, his hand unapologetically smeared. He goes to the bathroom, and I’m limp, rendered half conscious by the power of porn. By Christy and the Honour Roll Cocksuckers.
The movie moves on to other girls, other scenes, as Jason and I navigate the tender terrain of our situation. He brings washcloths and we clean up. He sneaks me another smile and I feel okay, a safe distance from our frightening adolescent desires.
When Jason speaks it’s like the end of a football game: “Some good shit, man, right? She did good.”
“Hell, yeah, she did.”
Jason nods solemnly. I zip my pants.
“But dude – I didn’t even tell you the best part.”
“I don’t think I can handle anything else,” I say, laughing. I’m in a dark room surrounded by ghosts, and naked girls are fucking on television.
“OK. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Jason says. “Get some work done, schoolboy.”
Jason takes the movie with him, and I’m back in my apartment feeling like I’ve just had the best sex of my life. I dream of smacking Christy’s ass, of punishing her with her skirt over her head. I wake up wet and alone.
Jason picks me up after the exam. “We’re going on a road trip, my man.”
“A road trip?” I’m groggy, half awake. “Where?”<
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Jason grins. “You’ll see.”
The rocks in my head knock around wearily, too worn out to imagine anything. I fall asleep.
I wake up as we pull up to a nondescript office building. Jason calls someone as we lumber out of the car, and I fix my hair in the window’s reflection.
“Where the fuck are we, dude?” I ask. It’s painfully sunny. I’m thinking of Christy, of all the bodies that came in and out of our house, no one ever sticking. I feel the emptiness that pounds when I think of her, of Jason, of my mother, of the difference between knowing where you’ve come from and knowing you’ve come from nowhere.
My mind is still murky as we ride the elevator up to “Untitled Scream Productions”. Jason’s grinning like a kid on his birthday.
I rub my eyes. Is this real? Will I see her, knowing now what it’s like inside that quivering pussy? Will I slide my hand along her taut stomach, tickle the Playboy bunny in her bellybutton?
There’s an empty desk and Jason buzzes in. We’re greeted by the principal. He and Jason are – apparently – friends. I’m dizzy, everything in slow motion like an acid trip. It’s one of those moments where life slows down and opens itself up like an orgasm and everything in you turns into so much air.
I am following Jason, feeling like I’m in a children’s book, the kind where you feel three times smaller and follow imaginary friends into strange rooms.
This sparse room, with black leather couches and a view of the Hollywood Hills, is strange. Because Christy is in it.
Right there. There she is. She’s wearing grey sweatpants and a white tank top, her full breasts peeking out of the sides. I liked her real tits better, but I don’t care; being near her is more than I can bear. I don’t know if I’m going to get a hard-on or throw up.
“Blast from the past,” she says, but it sounds like a come-on. What has Jason set up? “It’s my brothers.”
She hugs us, and squeezes me as she hugs. I’m already hard.
“Things haven’t changed, I see,” she whispers in my ear, tapping the head of my dick.
The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica Page 51