She’s still so skinny, but she’s a woman now; why is she still so skinny? Still so pale, living in the Valley and still so pale?
But I don’t care. I want to bend her over the table, fuck her with the wrath of all my mornings of blue balls, all the times she riled me up and left me dry.
I want to fuck her for not leaving a note. I’d said that to Jason, too, then, that she didn’t leave a note and he’d scowled and said, It’s not like she killed herself, and besides, look, she left all her panties.
“Sit down, boys,” she says, and we sit on either side of her.
She makes small talk, asks us what we’re doing, how Mom is, tells us she dropped out of art school, that she’s been doing porn for a year now and she really likes it, that it’s her calling, that she lives with Matt, who co-owns the company with Jeff, who’s a friend of Jason’s from college, and that she was surprised, really, when Jeff told her that we’d called. She thought about us, she said, from time to time, not all the time but sometimes, and felt a little bad about leaving without saying anything, but she was just a kid, not that she was all together now, but that she knew things, some things, like why people leave notes when they leave for ever, and why people tell other people where they are going and why they don’t.
Then she has her hand on Jason’s inner thigh, tickling near his dick. He leans back and closes his eyes.
“I wanted to do this then,” she says, getting on her knees in front of Jason. She breathes hot between his legs.
There’s something sad lingering in her face, something that makes me angry and mixed up but then she’s pulling Jason’s huge cock out of his pants and scratching his balls, wrapping her lips around his dick. Did Jason pay for this? I wonder. Is this why we’re here? Or is she just doing this because she wants to – because she wants us?
Is she so good at performing on cue?
She undresses and I’m wide-eyed at her new breasts. I want to watch all her other movies, over and over again for hours and hours, for as long as I live.
She sucks Jason’s dick like a porn star, all the moaning and the moisture, all the upward glances for approval. She doesn’t resist when he places his hand on the back of her head, pulling her closer and shoving himself deeper. I watch her lips move up and down the length of his cock and mine hardens like concrete. Her breasts nudge his knees.
“Seth,” she says, popping Jason out of her mouth. “Why don’t you fuck me while I suck Jason off?”
I look around like there’s another Seth in the room.
“You want me to, uh – fuck – to fuck you?”
“You want to, don’t you?”
“Uh – um – of course.”
She stands up, walks to the desk and bends over it.
“Jason, wanna break me in first?”
Jason, glee in his eyes, erection in hand, goes over to the table and rubs himself against her ass, like in Honour Roll. He gives me a look: Isn’t this a good movie?
She reaches back and guides him south into the sticky wetness of her hole. She grabs his balls, rolling them in her palm. Then he begins to nail her, and my mouth falls open. He makes sounds I’ve never heard from him before. He fucks her like a hellhound, like he’s drilling into something thick and thorny and that he’s got to get through to the other side.
Then he whips it out, jerking, and the foam from his dick slides over her ass like soapsuds.
“You ready, Seth?” she says, still bent over. Ready? I want to fuck her up the ass. I want to fuck her in the mouth. I want to come in her ass, on her tits, I want her to take my cock in her mouth and swallow my come until she gags. Fuck, I want to be a porn star too. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
But I don’t.
“Let’s, uh—” I’m nervous. “Go to the couch?”
Jason’s on the other couch, cleaning himself with paper napkins. I try to pretend he isn’t there as Christy leaps across the room, obediently, and bends over. I edge closer to her, my dick in my hand, but my stomach flips, and flips again, and I can’t.
“No – no—” I say. “Lie on it.”
She does, looking confused.
“On your back,” I say, watching her pert ass roll over.
I get on top of her, our eyes locked, and I ease myself in like I’m the first one, breaking her open, setting that thing loose in her that got her here in the first place. She gasps but doesn’t moan and I shift, in and out, gently. I look into her eyes and I grab her hair in fists.
I make love. To her. Inside her it feels pure, a million miles away from cameras and lights. It feels utterly private.
We kiss, we suck and pull, our tongues courting and wedding and dancing.
I lie on top of her. I kiss her ear. I want to whisper so many things but instead I just tickle her ear lobe with my tongue. I kiss her nose, which is red at the rims and sad. I look at her eyes, and she looks back at mine, and it’s almost like I could cry.
She reaches out and grabs my ass with her hands, her finger softly rimming the outside of my asshole, but she doesn’t enter it. We roll over and she’s on top of me.
The muscles of her cunt tighten around my cock – she’s a pro – and she rides me. Her breasts bounce like tennis balls, her soft hands grip my biceps. She rubs back and forth, her clit grazing the hair above my dick.
“This feels so goood, baby.”
“Yeah, it does,” I say. There are dirty words we could exchange like endearment, but we don’t.
She smiles, clenches her muscles hard around my cock. “Ah – yeah!”
She lowers to me. “Let’s go back the other way. I wanna feel you over me, is that OK?”
So we roll back over. We are careful, athletic, on the limited space of the couch.
Jason might still be in the room, and he might not be. But as I continue, thrusting deeply, feeling her clench around me at just the right moments and grind her ass up and down with finesse, I see that she’s going to come, and I know that I can too, and so we do, together, and I come inside her even though I know I shouldn’t.
I rest my head between her breasts, which are supple though clearly fake. I feel her breathe. Jason is no longer in the room; I can hear him laughing outside, him and another man laughing.
I feel naked but not empty any more. Not for just that second, the second that I lie inside her, silent.
“That was nice,” she says finally.
“It was,” I respond, giving a smile that looks like an apology. “Thank you.”
She smiles. “Thank you, Seth.”
“For what?”
She shrugs as I slip out of her and stand up. She sits up, thinking. She’s naked. With me.
“For loving me, I guess. Even if it’s just for—” She looks at the clock. “For twenty minutes.”
I shake my head and laugh. “Twenty years. At least twenty years.”
I watch as she dresses, her eyes still huge and empty. I realize that I’ve never known someone who needed love as badly as this girl – more than my mother, more than the twelve other kids shuffled in and out of our house like supporting actors, more than Jason when he first arrived on our doorstep, tattered and broken and hardened to the bone. Maybe even more than I do.
“Maybe I’ll see you guys again?” she asks.
“Maybe.” I smile. “I hope so.” Even though I don’t know if that’s true or not.
That’s the last thing I say, because then Jason comes in, triumphant and sportsmanlike. “Dude, you ready to bust?”
I nod. In that same dreamlike state I entered with, I leave the office and we get in the car. We pull onto the highway and drive until the building fades into the millions of office buildings around us, recedes under the ominous landscape of the hills.
Jason recites his play-by-play, eager, and then says, “Hey man, what happened after I left?”
I shrug. “Same thing, more or less.”
He nods. He keeps talking. The radio plays, the car moves, and we move on, together, in his car, in our strange,
beautiful brotherhood, the kind that stands naked in front of itself, unashamed.
Blinded
Donna George Storey
I kneel down and he ties the blindfold over my eyes.
Strictly speaking, it isn’t a blindfold, it’s a silk scarf. My brother and his wife gave it to me for Christmas, a pretty thing with a floral design in crimson, deep blue and gold. But when I opened the gift, I was thinking: When will I ever wear this?
But I gave it a try. When we got home, I spent a good fifteen minutes in front of the mirror attempting to knot it into an appealing fashion accessory. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched smugly – my brother had got him some Charlie Parker CDs.
Then I got the idea to wear the scarf as a headband, to keep my bangs off my face. Another failure.
“I can’t do anything with this thing. I’m sure it was expensive, too. Do you think they’d get mad if I took it back?”
He walked over to me. “How about this way?” He pulled the bottom edge of the scarf down over my eyes.
I could still see him hazily through the single layer of loose silk. He looked at me for a moment, his head tilted to one side as if he were deciding what to do. Then he kissed me. Hard.
When we finally came up for air, my lips felt tender, a little swollen.
I said, “Now tie it on so I can’t see.”
That was the beginning. I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve done it since then, but it’s got us through this long winter. Sometimes he blindfolds me. Sometimes I blindfold him. It all depends on who comes up with a new idea. It’s never the same. That’s our unspoken rule.
Not that it’s entirely unpredictable. He seems to prefer that I wear some sort of clothing: one of his shirts or a teddy, something he can eventually slip off. After more than a year together, it still excites him to uncover my breasts, weigh them in his hands as if he is touching them for the first time. That’s one of the things I like about him.
I prefer him to be completely naked. The first time I blindfolded him, I was the one who was trembling. Although it was my idea that he kneel on the bed wearing nothing but the blindfold, when he actually began to undress with a cool smile, I almost told him to stop. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to see his big body so exposed, a band of flowered silk over his eyes with the long, loose ends falling softly down his back. I thought it might somehow diminish him.
But I was wrong. I’d never realized how beautiful his body was. Not that I hadn’t appreciated it before, but I’d always focused my gaze on his eyes, his expressions. The rest of him I knew better by touch. But now, with his eyes hidden, I could see him with a new clarity: the rich, taut curves of his arms and chest, the hint of soft flesh at his waist that I found oddly pleasing. I noticed that the hair on his belly fanned out more luxuriantly to the left, and, by contrast, his right thigh was slightly more muscular, a legacy of his college fencing days. It didn’t take long for him to get hard – it never did when we used the blindfold – and I got to watch that, the delicate jerking movements of his penis as it rose and thickened, drawn upward by invisible puppet strings which, I imagined, led straight to my hands.
I felt like a thief.
I felt my own desire grow within me in a completely new way. This time the familiar ache seemed to originate from behind my eyes, from the very sight of him unseeing. Then it seeped downward, bringing a warm flush to my cheeks and neck, making my nipples grow erect. It finally reached my belly, pooling there as a sharp, shimmering hunger.
I bent closer to feast, on the smell of him first, the cuminy scent of crotch, sharply male, yet intimate, intoxicating. I’d never studied a cock so carefully, the web of tiny veins embedded in the skin like red lace, the puckered ridge below the head, as if the flesh had been pinched when it was still fresh and soft. With no eyes glowing down at me, urging me to lick and suck and swallow, I could gaze into that other eye, slit vertically like a cat’s, or maybe it was more like a tiny, hairless cunt, what they’d have on Barbie if she were anatomically correct. I pressed my tongue against it, lightly, tasting bitterness and salt, the tang of soap, then took the whole smooth helmet of the head into my mouth.
He moaned.
At last I had the sound of him.
Music.
When he decides the game, he often feeds me things. A dish of rice pudding in baby-sized bites from a spoon. Morsels of praline truffle he pushes through my lips with his tongue. And most often, his cock. I don’t know why, but his semen tastes sweeter when I am wearing the blindfold.
One time he slipped a tiny wedge of soft paper between my lips, struck a match, and instructed me to inhale. It was a joint. Where did you get this? I wanted to ask, but I knew I wasn’t supposed to talk – he had a way of letting me know such things – so I just lay quietly next to him on the bed and took long drags whenever he held it to my mouth. It must have been good stuff, because soon I was tingling all over just this side of numbness, floating off the bed into the past. It had been years since I’d smoked a joint. I never bought drugs myself. They were always presented to me as an offering from a boy in exchange for what I could offer him in return. So many things had changed since then, but it took me back to a time when I was so dumb about men, I might as well have been wearing a scarf over my eyes.
It’s been a difficult winter for both of us. I know things aren’t going well for him at work, but I didn’t realize how upset he was until that day when I came home to find him practising with his saber.
Once, when we first started going out, he gave me a demonstration of fencing moves. I liked the way he looked in that white jacket, the single leather glove on his right hand, but I wasn’t so sure about the wire-mesh mask. I thought it made him look like a huge insect. Or an executioner.
“Forget The Three Musketeers,” he told me, “what you want to do is keep the blade within an imaginary frame around your body, to move as little as possible and still protect yourself. The most important part, though, is reading your opponent. It’s like a game of chess, move and countermove,” he said. “And when you get it just right, it’s the best feeling in the world.”
But as I watched him, so graceful on his feet as he advanced then retreated, I thought it seemed less like a game than a strange and beautiful dance.
This second time, it was different. He wore no mask and his T-shirt was stained with sweat. There was a fierceness in his concentration, his brow furrowed, his lips pale. I don’t even think he saw me at first. Again and again he lunged at his imaginary opponent: a feint to the chest, then the quick and fatal strike to the head. I could see the metal meet flesh, then the cold satisfaction in his eyes as he watched the body crumple to the floor. Whoever it was died several times over.
Finally he turned to me. He was too far away to touch me with the blade, but he extended his wrist towards me as if he were pointing me out to some unseen stranger.
I frowned. “Hey, watch out, you could hurt someone with that.”
His mouth curved into a slight smile. “That’s the idea,” he said, tilting the saber back in salute.
I’ve been having troubles of my own. My father was in the hospital with another heart attack, and there was talk of surgery. The first time I went to visit, he came with me. As we walked through the corridors, the pallid fluorescent light and muted antiseptic smell began to make me feel ill, so I reached for his hand, the only warm, real thing in the whole place.
He waited in the hall while I went into the room. My father was sleeping. He looked so old, his body sprouting tubes and wires, his face all creases and shadows. My mother was sitting by the bed staring down at the book on her lap. I glanced back at him, leaning against the wall across from the doorway, arms crossed, gazing straight ahead. His expression was patient, blank. I knew he didn’t see me then. I wanted to be where he was – far, far away – but my mother pulled me back with her cool lips on my cheek, her anxious reassurances.
When she saw him, she stiffened, but, ever courteous, walked out to gre
et him. I watched them come together in a brief, guarded embrace, watched his lips move as he said something to her, watched her nod without really looking at him.
I’d known from the beginning that she didn’t really approve of him. Does he love you? she asked me once, quietly, almost under her breath. I shrugged because that was the only answer I could give.
I wonder if she could have understood the attraction better if I had told her about the blindfold?
Strangely enough, one of my best ideas came from my mother. She was going through her sewing scrap box, when she pulled out a square of deep-red velvet and said, “Remember this? It’s from that dress I made you for Christmas when you were – how old – eight or nine?” The fabric was soft with age and I instinctively rubbed it over my hand, up over my wrist. It felt especially nice when I ran a velvet-covered finger along the inside of my arm. I was so lost in my sweet memories of that dress, how grown-up and glamourous I felt when I wore it to church on Christmas morning then over to my aunt’s house for dinner, that I didn’t realize for several moments that I held in my hand the perfect surprise for our next game.
It was a good one. After I blindfolded him, I had him lie face down on the bed and guess what I was rubbing over his skin: the tip of my nose along his spine, the loose end of blindfold across his shoulders, my finger in the valley of his ass, my breasts across the back of his knees. I saved the velvet until last and stroked the length of him with it like I was polishing a precious, breakable object. He usually didn’t make much noise when we made love, but by the time I was done with the back of him, he was almost mewing. And more than ready to turn over.
I dusted his chest and the discs of his nipples, then forced myself to linger at his belly, soothing the skin in small circles, ignoring his cock that reared up and twitched with each new caress. At last I wrapped the velvet around it and began to burnish it like a newel post, with careful attention to the glossy knob. It was then I told him about the dress, about how I wore it with white tights and patent leather shoes and had a bow with holly on it in my hair, and about how thrilled I was when all of the adults told me I looked so pretty.
The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica Page 52