Coming Soon

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Alex rooted around in the box by her bed, pulling out her quartz dildo—the one that held her heat better than her body— and laid it beside her as she settled into the sheets. The hours before this had been quick and rough: no foreplay, just a vibrator or finger on her clit to bring her to the edge again and again. This time, she’d showered beforehand. Put on lotion. Warmed herself up before crawling into place.

  Fumbling for her phone, Alex navigated to the recorder app while her other hand drifted across her stomach and down her sides, fingers feather-light against her skin. She set the phone on her chest, the coolness of metal a welcome sensation, and pressed play.

  Recording herself felt like being watched, and a new heat built in her stomach at the thought. She liked it when Bryce watched. Alex’s voice took on a different urgency as she turned on the vibrator, sighing as it connected with her clit.

  She rested it there for a moment, her other hand grabbing her tits, pulling her nipples, massaging the skin where thigh met cunt. She dipped one finger and then another into herself, so slick from a day of want that she could barely feel them inside herself. She moaned as they curled upward, rubbing against her favorite spot as the vibrator brought her closer to coming.

  “Shit,” breathed Alex, pulling away the vibrator to stop the first crest toward orgasm.

  She grabbed the cold dildo, sliding it into her cunt and inhaling sharply at the temperature difference. She imagined it was Bryce’s cock instead and whined deep in her throat at the image of Bryce between her legs. Alex licked and sucked and bit down hard on her hand, imagining they were Bryce’s fingers just as much as the dildo was Bryce’s cock.

  “Fuck fuck fuck,” whispered Alex, voice climbing higher with each obscenity. Leaving the dildo inside herself, she focused on her clit—pulling the vibrator away from herself again and again, each time she got too close to finishing. She didn’t want to come yet, but it was building too fast, and Alex barely lasted a moment before she had to pull away.

  Her hand dropped from her mouth to her throat, and she wrapped her fingers around her neck as the tension in her core built one final time. Alex let the wave take her. She screamed as it crested, the volume tampered only by the pressure of her hand against her throat. It was a half-choked thing as her hips bucked, liquid gushing from her as the dildo came free. She rode out the orgasm until all she could do was softly whine. Turning off the vibrator, Alex dropped it, soaking, onto her stomach.

  “Fuck.” Alex breathed deeply, trying to catch her breath and calm the shiver in her limbs, when she started laughing. She couldn’t stop—just laughed and laughed with the joy of release.

  Turning off the recorder, Alex took a picture of her blissed-out face quickly falling toward contented exhaustion and sent it to Bryce with a description and the audio file.

  Thank you, sir.

  Alex drifted in the postorgasm haze for a while before her phone buzzed. Grinning, she rolled over and pulled up her message.

  Such a good girl. See what you can do when you put your mind to it? Can’t wait to see you next week.

  Alex snuggled under her comforter, smile firmly affixed as exhaustion overtook her. Burying her head in the pillow, she pulled the covers over herself and settled in for a well-deserved afternoon nap.

  Yeah, today could’ve definitely been worse.

  LOVE AND PORN IN A RETIREMENT HOME

  Claire Cupp

  I am so old that even my grandchildren are grown up. They’re married and have their own little children. My children are newly retired. They’re travelling and helping with the little ones. I’m living in my cozy retirement community. My husband Edward used to live here with me, but he passed away five years ago. He was a dutiful man—a good provider and a devout Catholic. We slept in separate beds, but that wasn’t uncommon during our day. It was difficult accepting that I was a single woman after he died, but I’ve befriended many other single women in this community, like Gail.

  Gail sits next to me in the back of the classroom. We’re in front of the shiny laptops our families gave us, trying to figure out how the darned things work. My family can’t always visit me personally, but they share their stories and photos on social media. I am in this class to learn how to use it.

  Yesterday, I received an “A” on my vocabulary exam. For example, a “username” is a unique name that is used to identify someone on a computer system, computer network, or online account. Spaces are not allowed. Today, I am creating an account on my family’s favorite social media “website,” or simply “site.”

  I open the “internet browser” and navigate to the site. As I type my first name into the “field,” I hear Gail giggle. She already knows how to use social media. Maybe something funny came up in her “feed.” I lean over.

  She is not on social media.

  A young woman is letting a man film her while she . . . pleasures him with her mouth.

  I gasp and hit Gail on the shoulder. I whisper, “What is this disgusting thing you’re watching? What if she were your granddaughter?”

  Gail “scrolls” down the screen, and my stomach knots at a film title. “What kind of stepmother would do that to her stepson? It’s immoral!”

  Gail hushes me. “She’s not actually his stepmother, Rose. It’s pretend.”

  “Why on earth would anyone want to pretend that?”

  “I really have no idea,” she whispers but lets the film play.

  “Then why are you watching it?”

  She sighs and smiles toward the ceiling. “Could you imagine being wanted by a younger man? Someone with unbreakable confidence? Someone with smooth muscles and a vigorous libido? Someone who is”—she intently refocuses on the screen— “very good at pleasing a woman?”

  Gail was thoughtful enough to keep the volume off, but I can imagine the sound of the woman shouting while the young man valiantly thrusts his hips between her legs. His buttocks are quite round and firm, and the muscles in his hairless back are tense from his movement.

  When he sits up, his pelvis turns toward the camera while the woman settles on her hands and knees.

  I quietly gasp. “My goodness.”

  He has quite a large penis—long, and thick, and firm, and shining with the woman’s arousal.

  Gail whispers, “Have you never seen porn before?”

  I swallow hard as sweat beads on my forehead. “No. Masturbation is a sin in Catholicism, don’t you remember?”

  She huffs. “What’s sinful is what those pervert priests did to our children. I won’t let them tell me what I can do with my body anymore.”

  The woman’s back bows, and she shouts again as the young man inserts himself back inside her. Her breasts sway in rhythm with his energetic thrusts. He grips her hips to firmly hold her while his crotch—also hairless—bounces against her bottom. Veins protrude in her neck, and I imagine how her voice might scratch from the intensity of her cries. Her eyes roll into the back of her head and her body slumps forward, submitting to the force from the young man’s rippling abdomen, his thick arms and thighs.

  His brow is furrowed in concentration. He studies the woman so intently. He watches how she reacts to all of his actions, like when he circles his hand around her bottom, and when he smacks it hard. I imagine the sound of the slap reverberating in the room while the woman’s bottom jiggles and her hips buck. He grabs the woman by her waist and drives himself harder inside her. Her curled hair tangles over her shoulders. Her manicured nails dig into the sheets. Her tongue hangs out while her eyelids droop, and she looks freed from everything but the euphoria brought on by the young man’s fervent attention. She shakes, and continues to shake longer than I’ve seen any woman shake, perhaps because I haven’t ever seen another woman shake. I’m not sure if I’ve ever shaken. The young man twitches and expels himself directly inside her, and my panties feel wet.

  Our computer instructor, a local graduate student named Emily, smiles as she approaches us.

  Gail slams her laptop shut.r />
  Emily looks us over, concerned. “You okay, ladies?”

  We both anxiously nod. I insist that we are “just fine,” while Gail exclaims that we’re “incredible.”

  Emily’s concern doesn’t waiver. She sweetly suggests that we finish our lesson for the day and get some rest. She’s patronizing us, like many do to people our age, but at this moment I am happy to play the frail grandma. I need to get far away from Gail’s computer and put on a fresh pair of underwear.

  I grab my laptop and scurry out of the room before bumping into Billy, who is the last man I want to see at this moment. He’s been a good friend since my husband died, and during that time, Gail has insisted that we could be more than that. Sometimes I consider it if it’s a particularly lonely night—only to feel a warm body next to me—but it can never happen. Getting remarried at my age would be absurd, and Billy is a Lutheran.

  I yelp, still overstimulated from the video. He places his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “Everything all right, Rose?”

  Though his skin is wrinkled like mine, he hasn’t lost his strong voice. It makes me even more flustered.

  I wave him away and assure him I’m fine. I turn to retreat to my apartment.

  “Wait.” He touches my elbow. “Are we still having lunch today?”

  The color of his eyes strikes me. They’re brown like molasses—sweet, like his spirit. I wonder if he’s a sweet lover. Perhaps he’d massage my naked shoulders. Perhaps he’d cup my breasts and caress them. Perhaps he’d swirl the tips of his fingers around my erect nipples. Perhaps he’d kiss them or even nibble on them.

  “Rose?”

  I snap out of my naughty fantasy to stinging nipples. They protrude from my sweater. I want to feel horrified, but instead I feel electrified. What has Gail done to me? Billy can’t see me like this. I hold my laptop in front of my breasts and reply too emphatically, “Yes! Yes, of course. Same time?”

  He smiles and nods.

  I say goodbye and hustle back to my apartment to pray for guidance. Is masturbation truly a sin? What should I do about these fantasies of Billy? Would I be unvirtuous if I shared my bed with him?

  God is silent during my prayers.

  Today’s lunch was the same, but different. Billy told me stories, and I had to guess whether or not they were true. I told him jokes I had found in a book in the library, and we rated them from best to worst. But today I couldn’t ignore how happy I was with him, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that video. My filthy mind imagined Billy and me in that scene. He spanked me between superhuman thrusts. The room echoed with my lewd exclamations. I even reveled at the thought of others filming me—of recording my journey to ecstasy until I violently, unashamedly shook in front of them, until I shook so spectacularly that I hardened the phalluses of even the shallowest men.

  While the Devil’s desires flooded my brain and my blood, God was still silent. He did not protest when I placed my hot hand on Billy’s, and He did not protest when, without a thought, I invited him to my apartment.

  Billy has visited before to play board games, so he’s comfortable here. He isn’t fazed when I ask him to sit next to me at my desk. His body language changes, however, when I type “P-O-R-N” into my computer’s search engine.

  Drunk on decades of repressed lust, I impulsively click the first link. The site Gail showed me appears.

  Billy whispers, “Rose. What are you doing on this website?”

  I peek over at him with a mischievous smile. “I thought perhaps we could watch something together.”

  I begin scrolling down the page.

  He clears his throat. “Well. This is certainly . . . different than I remember.” After a deep breath, he squints at the screen and says, “There’s a lot more than there was when we were younger, and—oh my. What is his mouth doing on her butt-hole?”

  He lifts his finger to point, and the unabashed vixen in me vanishes. I grab his finger before he can identify the video. “No! I don’t want to see that!”

  Heat blossoms in my cheeks from Billy’s finger. It’s stiff straight, like his posture. Perhaps something else could react similarly.

  We lower our hands onto the desk, and I still have not seen the man’s mouth on the woman’s butthole. I stare at the other side of the screen to make sure things stay that way.

  Though half of the screen is now off limits, there is a good deal to watch. It seems the videos are mostly of young women’s lips around men’s penises. Amazingly, when I “hover” my mouse over a “thumbnail,” a video starts to play. There are quite a few videos of men bumping their hips against smooth, round bottoms. The men hold the women’s graceful waists while they guide their penises in and out of the women’s wet entrances—as evidenced by how the men’s penises shine in the light. It’s all a bit overwhelming.

  I ask Billy to pick something. After some protest about why he should choose, he agrees to select a video from the library of pornography.

  He points. “Let’s try this one.”

  The heat in my cheeks floods to my chest. He chose a video of a young woman touching herself on her bed. Her legs are spread right in front of the camera so all I can see are the soft petals of her womanhood. And I can see them very clearly. Once again, she is hairless. Why are they all hairless?

  My pulse races. This is a video of a woman masturbating. Did Billy hear my conversation with Gail? Is this finally a sign from God? I hope this is God’s blessing.

  I click the video.

  The woman sighs, and my heart sparks with timid excitement. The sounds of her fingers slipping between each wet fold project from the speakers. This experience is very different with the volume on. I hear her pleasure. I hear her reward herself. I hear her discover what feels best.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Billy watching me watch the woman. Though my feminine center zings at his interest in how I react to the video, I try to ignore him.

  The young woman moans as her glistening finger disappears inside her. I can imagine the possibilities she has at her fingertips—quite literally. She could swirl her finger around. She could press on especially sensitive areas and let the sensations spread through her core. She could clench and release around her knuckles and imagine it were a glorious penis.

  She decides to emulate a penis. She slides her finger in and out of herself in a hypnotizing rhythm. With increasing intensity, her moans sharpen into labored whimpers. She vigorously rubs the apex of her opening until her hips jolt and she shakes in front of the camera.

  The apex of my own opening is tantalizingly tense. It pulses at the thought of being touched by a finger . . . or a mouth. I shift in my seat to try and ease the pressure.

  “Rose?”

  I forgot that Billy is here.

  Quietly, he asks, “Have you ever done that before?”

  Heat rushes all the way to my hard nipples. I admit, “I have not. But I’m willing to try it.”

  My hands fly to my mouth. When Billy smiles like a teenage boy, I become so hot that I want to remove my clothing.

  “Do you want to try it now?”

  I gasp. I fan myself as I retort, “You want to watch me?”

  His eyes shine like dark caramel as he nods.

  My cheeks burn at the thought of those eyes watching my fingers between me, but I have to look at the floor. Ashamed, I also admit, “I don’t look like her.”

  I jump when he booms in a laugh. “I hope not. She’s way too young for me.”

  I exhale in relief and let my other emotions float to the surface—adoration, trepidation, and flaming lust.

  I stand. With my fingers at my stretchy waistband, I suggest we meet on the bed. He agrees, and it’s quite possible I nearly have a heart attack when he slides down his trousers. His erection is almost as tall as that young man’s.

  He cautiously slides onto my bed. He waits for me to remove my trousers. I slide them down my hips and let them fall to the floor.

  I can only hear my pounding heart as
I approach him. I slide onto my bed. After a shy moment, I open my legs so he can see the most intimate part of me.

  His chest heaves while he stares at my untrimmed womanhood. God is silent. What should I do? Should I touch myself? What if I go even further as an unmarried woman? What if I go there with a Lutheran?

  There is moaning behind me. I turn to my laptop and find the young woman now sitting on her bed and humping a decorative pillow. Her legs straddle it while her hips grind forward and backward. She pulls the edge of the pillow up between her legs as if she were riding a saddle. Soft whines escape between her heavy breaths. When she pinches her nipple, I want to pinch mine. She cries out and trembles even more than before. I didn’t know it was possible for a woman to orgasm more than once during a sexual session.

  That woman chose to film herself masturbate not once, but twice. To my God—or rather, to the men who claim to represent Him—she has sinned. Yet she looks so peaceful. With the pillow still between her legs, she basks in the sunlight from her window. How could something so calming be so evil?

  With a breath of courage, I slide my fingers between my legs. I savor my thick, moist arousal. Each petal is sensitive in its own way. I caress them and let the tingling spread to my thighs and my belly. The soft skin is delicate, but it inspires strong sensations as I more intentionally stroke it. My middle finger sneaks between my petals’ dangling maze and finds my precious entrance. It slides inside without hesitation, and its confidence shocks both Billy and me.

  While I glide my finger in and out of me, I stare at him— truly stare—for the first time. Our breathing heavies, our eyes shine, and his penis rises even higher. The skin appears so taut that I worry it will tear.

  His excitement excites me. My finger’s pace quickens like the young woman’s. My head falls as my eyes close, and I moan deeper than I’ve ever moaned before.

  I yip when a large finger presses against the apex of my opening. Billy swirls his finger around what feels like a little ball.