They pulled their mouths apart, leaned back in one another’s arms, their flattened breasts rounding. Swaying, those seventeen-year-old tits and 35-year-old jugs brushed nipples. The stockinged legs of the older one bent, rubbing my knee, as, panting, she lowered her face across her sister’s belly.
I sat down on the other side of the steps, leaned against the brass banister, my cock in my hand, and watched. (Yes, I’d come once; and I was pretty near it again.) In their very different ways, they were very beautiful women. The older licked out that cunt I’d been so happy in, her tongue spreading, thinning, now going straight up into the red gorge separating the black hair, now dipping forwards, now sliding back, while, with her red claws, she massaged her own pink clit at the vault of the raw declivity falling through the hair between the black bands of her stocking tops. The younger one’s head was back against the wall. She smiled at me once, then closed her eyes, her lips touching and parting, now wetting under a sweep of her tongue, now drying with her loud breath, to stick and pull open as if she whispered dirty words in a language I didn’t know and couldn’t quite hear. Articulating them, her tongue made little twitches in her mouth.
When I came the third time, the older sister was standing against the wall, her hands high and wide on flocked crimson and her head down, while, squatting behind her, her little sister ate out her asshole with such avidity that, as I watched black hair shake down on those naked shoulders, as I heard the standing one cry out while the one on her knees grunted like some mad and famished gorilla, I was sure would leave one or the other of them sobbing on the steps in a minute, just from sheer excitement.
I say I’d come three times, now; and they’d each gone panting and quivering around the bend seven, ten, or more, in quivering, jaw-clenched (the younger one) or keening (the older) orgasmic cascades. And I still wanted another shot.
I thought about saying something like, “Hey, make room for me, ladies,” but I just got up, stepped over, while they pulled apart a little, breathing heavily, both of them blinking at me with faint perspiration under their dark hairlines. Then the older one smiled as if I was the greatest thing since disposable chopsticks. Somehow we were all holding each other, and I felt their different-sized breasts against my naked chest; then all three of us spent a lot of time with our tongues in the other two mouths. Without stopping, we were all three going down the steps together in a way that could have been real clumsy, but, because nobody tripped, I hardly noticed.
For a while, I know, I sat on a step again, with two sets of thighs hot on each ear, while they rubbed cunts and kissed, and I ate double pussy that, I’m not kidding, made me shoot a forth wad off through my fist and into the dark. (We’re talking an hour-and-a-half, two hours, here.) Then I was up, holding the older one around her shoulders, while she ran her nails over my back, and I kissed her, rubbing my cock (still hard!) from her pussy-hair up over the edge of her garter belt, while the younger one, crouched down where I had been, between our legs, rubbed my thighs with her small hands and flicked her tongue back and forth between the base of my dick and her sister’s snatch. I began to quiver in a combination of heat and indecision on which hole, mouth or cunt, I should put it in first. I think it went in one, then the other, then back, then back again. But it all felt so good, I couldn’t tell you which was which.
Down there, my balls kept dragging over her face. So she licked them too.
When I shoot a few times, close together like that (and, no, it doesn’t happen that often), finally I lose the edge between coming and not-coming. My hard-on gets permanent, and my whole body becomes sensitive. Orgasm at that point is beyond what most of us think of as pleasure. It becomes more like a burning that spreads through the whole body, at many times the intensity of your ordinary, satisfying come. The fire runs from the back of my throat and deep in my ears down to the place below my kneecaps, to my insteps and the skin behind my ankles. Really, it’s like my whole body becomes pure dick. (During one of those, sometimes juice comes out, and sometimes it doesn’t – but there were already four wet spots on the carpeted steps around us.) And I was on my way to one of them, nearing it, falling away, and nearing it again; I kept on having the fantasy that the whole red stairwell was one raw, pulsing cunt while I was a man-sized cock, fucking it.
They were embracing, were kissing, and I was behind the younger one, with her hair damp in my face, and the underside of my prick running up and down her ass’s scalding crevice, while over her shoulder, in much less light, I watched her and her sister’s lips close and open around their tongues. (We were much further down the stairs now; it was much dimmer.) I tried to make my movements especially gentle, almost slow-motion, because I knew I was on some edge that, if I let myself go over, I’d be on them both like a fucking animal – as slow as I moved, I was close to the kind of frenzy where I could have bitten a tit or an ear or sunk my teeth to the blood in a cunt-lip without even meaning to. As I moved to their side, one of them held my dick and one of them held my balls; and they still kissed and rubbed snatches; I leaned to get my own face in between them –
When their mouths came apart, and I slid my tongue out against theirs, the tongue of the elder seemed, for a moment, terribly long; and, in that half-dark, I could have sworn its end, six inches from her small, white teeth, was thin and forked. The back of the younger one felt so smooth and warm. But my hand, moving on the older one’s shoulder, felt cool and, as it moved, encountered something like cloth – rough cloth; or even leather. I moved my hand down, away from the roughness, while she took some great breath that thickened her waist, and the garter belt that, fifty times now, I’d run my tongue or my fingers or the head of my dick under, front and back, suddenly went limp, raddling against my palm.
The thing had snapped!
Again, I wondered whether I should say anything, but I didn’t even know if the older sister spoke English.
My hand went down to her buttocks; and something seemed very wrong – as if one of her legs was bent much too far back, or, as I ran my hand around it, as if she had a third leg, or something, there. I moved my hand up again, and the small of her back was not only cool, but cold; the roughness I’d felt, here and there, before, actually changed under my hand to a hardness like plastic, like metal.
I opened my eyes and pulled back.
Then I staggered back.
Because her face turned to me – and it was as long as an iguana’s; the eyes in it had reversed their slant till they were almost vertical, big as the bottoms of beer bottles, and yellow as urine. Her face was that of some beast and covered with black scales; and the breath, which, between us, had been a three-way thunder, was suddenly cut by her liquid Hissss . . .
Glimmering, her tongue snaked out a foot, flickered, and forked. What I’d felt at her haunches was not a leg, but a thick, saurian tail that swept the stairs first to pound my wall, then to crash the far one. Great wings rose behind her, their talons high as the ceiling, their tremendous folds fluttering hugely, looking for space to expand.
Her stockings ripped from her expanding thighs.
Beneath black hair, made little blades by the sweat, the younger turned her boyish smile to me. “You like my sister . . .? This is her place now!” No longer red except for the highlight from the lights further up, a claw moved black talons tenderly from the younger one’s breast to her belly. I slipped down a step, grabbing for the banister behind me, started to run up. But one wing swung out to block the stairs – and the light. In sudden dark I could no longer see the younger one at all. So, turning, I barrelled down into black. Slipping on the carpet, I only kept from going head over heels because I was still holding the rail.
I ran down, kept running, and underfoot I could tell that there was no more rug.
Then I saw a light, like day, below. I ran for it, came down to the end of the stairs, and sprinted out into it, only stopping halfway across the theater lobby.
From his stool, the security guard looked up.
I took a breath and turned, almost falling, to stare back up past the pay phone to the balcony steps.
Then I looked at the guard again. Under the poster of Seka and Mai-Lyn, he frowned, dropping his hand from his billy-club. I tried to say something, but found myself looking back at the stairs I’d half-tumbled from because . . . something was coming down:
The black queen who’d tried to hit on me when I first came in stepped into the light. When he saw me, he frowned too; he adjusted the shoulder of his sequined blouse, letting his head fall to the side. “You look like you been busy, honey . . . You comin’ up for air before getting yourself into another session? . . . Too bad it wasn’t with me!”
I looked down at myself.
My shirt was open and hanging off one arm. My jeans were apart and pushed so far down my hips you could see public hair and the top of my dick.
Behind me, the guard finally said: “Look, fella! We let a lot of things go on in this place. Upstairs, you can take your pants off and get fucked in the aisle if you want. I’m just here to see nobody picks your pocket while you do. But you still gotta put your clothes on before you come out. Otherwise I ain’t gonna let you in here no more. Comin’ down here like that, I don’t care what you’re on, it just don’t look right. And the new owners don’t want you to go quite that far, know what I mean?”
I turned again, started to speak.
Then I pulled my pants up, trying to tug my shirt together with one hand, buckle my belt with the other, and shove my shirt-tails down inside at the same time, while I shouldered out the glass doors into the July evening. I went down Eighth Avenue, squinting to get the goddam buttons into their goddam red holes, while I passed half a dozen guys who weren’t wearing any shirts at all in the muggy heat.
In his cap and glasses, the shoe-shine guy was pulling the dirty canvas cover down his stand.
My entire body tingling, I swung around the plywood partition, onto crowded 42nd, making for the subway.
The Room, After She Left
Adam Barnett-Foster
The camera pans across the room. A slow, steady but almost languorous movement. Noting every feature, every detail, methodically scrutinising all angles, colours and shapes as it glides along. Every single sign of absence.
This is a room where we made love.
Me and her. Me and she. She and I. I and her. The two of us.
She who has left. Whose name I must no longer mention.
Furniture, walls, standard issue prints (sailing ships, landscapes after Napoleonic battles, Audubon birds), bedspreads, windows, floral-patterned curtains, heavy wooden doors, a bed.
Does a bed have memories? Of the million fucks, of the endless embraces, the sighs, the despair, the words said and unsaid? Like an imprint in a pillow after heads have followed bodies and moved on. To the hotel corridor outside, to the lobby, the road outside, to the rest of their lives?
Hotel rooms don’t belong to this world. They can be anywhere. A Trust House Forte shaped like the Pentagon building, close to Heathrow airport, frayed carpets. Adobe walls and Indian rugs draped across the floor in Scottsdale, Arizona, close to Phoenix and the John Ford desert of orange horizons and countless cactii. A modern tower overlooking Puget Sound in Seattle, rain crashing in gusts against the bay windows. Or a room in a small bed and breakfast chalet in the Italian Alps facing Mont Blanc, the nearby peaks crested with snow, the early morning sky bluer than blue and a healthy chill lingering in the air. Or again a hotel for students in Paris’ Quartier Latin, where the bed can extend upwards, bunk-like, in times of necessity, last floor reached by a thin lift cage that can barely accommodate two bodies without an added single piece of luggage. Let’s not even evoke New York hotel rooms: the Plaza, the Algonquin, the Chelsea, the Iroquois, the Gershwin. Take your pick.
Like Gene Hackman in The Conversation listening to the silent sound of lovers in a distant place. Eavesdropping on the memories abandoned by the wayside.
“Is this where it happens?’ A woman’s voice, hushed, shy. Hers.
“Yes.” A man’s voice. Darker. Mine.
“Kiss me, then.”
The sound, electric, charged with emotion, of lips meeting.
An echo of lust imprinted through the memory layers of the room. A further memento of the lost past.
“Undress. I want to see your cock.”
“And I want to see your body. Now. Badly. Every square inch of your skin. Watch my fingers map the territory, my fingers roam your intimacy.”
“Yes.”
The voices of several fucks, the awful sound of a togetherness which was too shocking too envisage just a few weeks before when we were strangers to each other, business acquaintances no more, respectively married to others by the virtue and authority of a magistrate or a priest.
The now empty room bears witness.
To the way she shifted across the bed as we lay there so lazily, in no hurry to rush the inevitable first penetration and lowered her lips towards my cock and took me inside her mouth. The heat. The moistness. One of my fingers lingering on the edge of her puckered sphincter, then moving forward, pressing against the closed ring of darker flesh and slowly inserting myself into her most private, aromatic warmth.
Sounds: breath held back, gentle moans, the velvet friction of white flesh against flesh.
And right now: utter silence as she walks down a south London street to greet another man, a husband, with a look of innocence on her face and guilt in her mind, her skin still tingling from my lips, her cunt still full of my juices. But infidelity cannot be read on the horizon of a face, or finger marks long faded away on the panorama of her nude body. Maybe only, the sole clue to the mystery of lust that might betray us, the smell of sex. In her breath, despite the Polo mints.
On my fingers, as in an empty hotel room I bring them closer to my nose and inhale the fragrance that still lingers there of her juices and nacreous innards. On my shrivelled cock which I haven’t yet washed – the room is booked until late afternoon; I am in no hurry – where her strong fragrance still seeps deep into the flesh, bathing its roots, reminding me of how well we fitted together genitally, as if engineered for each other.
Outside, a jumbo jet takes off for parts unknown, a shadow against the insulated window which no outside noise penetrates.
So, this is it. We met, we flirted, we hesitated, we took a conscious decision to be selfish, we fucked.
Just a room.
A stain on a white sheet, some secretion or another, hers or mine; stray hairs on the cushion which looks more like a punch bag after the battle, lighter, curly pubic ones lower down the bed.
“You don’t have to do it, you know . . . It’s our first time, there’s no rush . . .”
“But I want to,”
“Love you.”
A look of amusement in her eyes as she interrupts the delicious activity in progress.
“Am I a bad girl because I suck a guy’s cock on the first date?”
Mischief.
“Who said I was looking for a good girl?”
“So you were actively looking, were you? And I just came along at the right moment?”
“Well, I was the one who made the initial approach . . .”
“Your letter to my office?”
“Yes.”
“I knew I wanted you since that day in Manchester.”
“Did you really?”
“You bet.”
“Come to think of it, you did give me a strange look while I was there reading my paper.”
“That’s what you think . . . I’m short-sighted, so you shouldn’t attach too much importance to the look in my eyes . . .”
“Is this our first argument, already?”
“I’m not arguing.”
“OK. Keep on sucking . . .”
Watching her head bob up and down in his lap. Her curls wild, uncountable. The almost invisible scar on her right ear lobe, highlighted by the sepia light peering through the orange regulation curtains. Th
e whiteness of her skin, porcelain. Her large arse paler than pale close to his cheeks. A moan. A gasp.
The room records it all. Testimony for a further trial, record of evidence for the day of reckoning, filthy reasons for impeachment, actions that might one day bar them from the portals of paradise and plunge them into flames eternal. A mouth, thin-lipped, greedily gobbling a thick, heavily veined penis, a finger twisting inside her rear, manual sodomy, unhygienic, wonderful. The way their bodies relax into twisted postures that no other couple could imitate for fear of cramp or worse. But then, disappointingly, the room also knows that in just a few days, another visiting couple, older, darker-skinned, will succeed in even more extreme sexual gymnastics. The room knows.
Rooms always know. Like shadows.
And do not judge.
And keep their secrets.
Our secrets. In another room, before I knew her, long before I could even justify any morbid jealousy, she made love to another. Was it even her husband. Dublin? Scarborough? Paris, near the Gare du Nord? But I guess it was more vanilla, less pornographic. Surrounded by another four indifferent walls, antique furniture, sounds of a Chinese matron being fucked to high heaven on the other side of the thin partition, police sirens piercing the rhythm of orgasm, I melted Suchard white chocolate squares inside an Australian woman’s cunt and later watched her lick the sticky residue and her own juices clean off me.
Ah, the strange etiquette of hotel room sex when the person you are doing it with is new! Allowing the water tap to run as noisily as possible as you sit on the toilet while your new partner waits for you in bed, just a few metres away, to stop her hearing the pee splash against the water, or the turd unroll out of you with extravagant farting noises. Waving arms in air to disperse the foul, personal smell. Listening to her pee and getting a hard on and wanting to ask her if you can watch . . .
Preliminary inventory.
A bedside table where she leaves her wedding ring and contact lens solution. The rumpled stockings at the foot of the bed, her lace-up resoled boots, her bunched-up knickers (when she moves to the bathroom and you get up and tidy the mess, you can’t help but raise them to your nose, to smell the crease, slightly stained, soiled, through which you had earlier fingered her when you were both still partly dressed), her handbag (make-up kit, two separate shades of lipstick – before and after the fuck? – a pair of tweezers, a wallet with just twenty pounds in cash and her credit cards – her second name is Edwina, she’d never told you that, and orange, tissues). The carpet has cigarette holes. If you peer closer to examine the blanket all concertina’d up at the end of the bed, you can make out the hieroglyphic, faded patterns of previous come-stains from past generations of adulterers and lovers. The bedside lamp sheds a flickering light, distorting the colour of skin, the hidden darkness of sexual organs.
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