Got a Minute?, page 13
Slowly, I extract my little fist from behind your teeth and you cough, glaring at me with all that longing you’re so ashamed of: you hate to be a girl, and I turn you into one. I turn every little bit of you into a cunt. Worse, for you, is how you’ve begun to revel in this widening of your hips, the rounding of your belly, the swelling of your ass and your tits. My touch brings out your curves—which is why we’ll never date or even be seen out in public together.
The birds have just begun to sing morning songs outside my window. I can hear the earliest garbage collectors thunder and crash up the street. If they make it in time, they will shout their appreciation for the screams that rend your throat when you come. You’ve been at the edge, just ready to pitch over, for a long time now. I don’t want to let you go. I’m always afraid I won’t be able to catch you—and I never quite do.
I’m so turned on that the slick heat of my pussy has chafed inside my leather pants. I lost my white undershirt, wanting you to see the tits that you aren’t allowed to touch, while I had you on your knees, begging for the cock tucked into my pants.
You’ve stopped hanging out with me at clubs and bars. It’s not that you’re worried your girlfriend will find out we’re fucking. You’re more concerned she, or any of your friends, will see how we fuck by the way your shape shifts beneath my gaze and breath.
After you leave my apartment on these Saturday mornings, you go to the twenty-four-hour gym. You don’t look at yourself in the mirror until the end of your workout, when you’re finally reeling with something besides sex and need.
I turn my now-slick fingers along the just-inside of your cunt, thereby encircling us with the fragrance of your sex. The garbagemen pass by underneath my window, making no indication they’re paying any attention to us. I’ve kept you out too long this time. Your girlfriend will have left several messages on your cell phone, which you haven’t checked since walking through my door.
Your cunt, which always seems so razor clam-like when I first take down your boxers, has plumped with blood, juice, and desire. I snap on a latex glove, grinning again at your flinch, and—painfully slowly—slip two fingers between those fat lips. Now that you’re free to cry out for more pressure, you do. It’s the first direct caress your cunt has gotten all night and I struggle to make it last when what I really want to do is force every bit of me inside of you.
I will always run our fucks. It’s the only way I can pretend I have any power here. As soon as you come, you’re gone.
Your stomach tenses when I shove my fingers as far up into you as they’ll go, add a third, and then a quick fourth. You wrap your hard arms around my neck and try your best to twist your fingers in my buzz cut. You moan steadily, the sound rising and falling like an approaching emergency. The light filtering into the room through my dirty shade yellows the sheen of sweat on your face. Ungracefully, I use my teeth to pull a glove onto my other hand, and slide the two middle fingers of that hand into your cunt, adding to the fullness already opening you. You groan sharply against the added pressure, dropping into a frustrated yelp when I yank them back out again.
“Lift,” I say, my voice harsh with need, and I press up against the top of your cunt, teasing the far edge of your G-spot. Your hips rise smooth and fast, your bare feet firmly planted on the sheets. I slip my free hand under your ass, which has grown from the square hard thing it was when I spanked you an hour ago to a malleable round fruit.
I once tried to describe this transformation to you, but you shut your ears and eyes from acknowledgment. There is to be no documentation of this coming, this lust. Just your punctual, 1:00 a.m., post-Friday-night-partying, knock on my apartment door. And then later, at the gym, you’ll hide in the corner machines through the first half of your circuit, tensing those hard and thick muscles against more and more weight. Only when your body is refocused and gleaming do you dare to make eye contact with any of the other early morning gym queens.
“Stay,” I say, and ease the tip of my middle finger into your ass. You don’t seem to know whether to clamp down against this invasion or stay open to the four fingers pummeling your cunt. It’s hard to tighten up one orifice without clenching the other, and you submit to remaining full and loose. I sigh and squeeze my thighs together, trying to ease some of the ache in my own pussy. The finger, oiled by your cunt, slides past the first knuckle, then the second, and gets sucked up through that sphincter.
You press against my chest as a fierce, sonorous orgasm crests and careens through your flesh. You cry out into the quiet of my room, into the slow morning breaking outside, claiming your love for me, and for my hands, in a nearly inaudible voice, one so high pitched it could almost only be heard by other dogs—like me. My ears ring. Even the depths inside your cunt have rounded for me, opened up like the sweetest cave, like the bud before it bursts to flower. You cover my glove with cream and pollen.
You don’t sleep. Gingerly, you pull off both my hands, and lower yourself to the bed, stretching out your tensed muscles. You avoid meeting my eye. I watch the next transformation begin, transfixed despite my pain at seeing all my hard work so quickly undone.
It doesn’t take long: you disentangle your body from mine, and begin to fold your face up. Your round cheeks, both facial and gluteal, are sucked back to starving. You deprive your breasts of their fullness. You roll away from me and grab for your clothes.
Before you can thin yourself back into your idea of butch-ness, I grab your head and kiss you, with your lips still so thick and swollen from cocksucking earlier. After all these months of Saturday mornings, it’s the first time I’ve tasted the arousal collected under your tongue over so many hours.
You allow yourself to respond for a second—for a second—and then you’re gone. You yank yourself out of my grasp and dress so fast I nearly miss it when I turn to the window and blink back the need blurring and burning the edges of my vision. I never am quite sure how you manage to stuff all that flesh into the tight jeans and T-shirts you wear—but you find a way. You cast a disparaging glance over your shoulder—disapproving of my violation of our ritual—then toss your jacket over your shoulder, and leave my apartment door open when you go. As soon as you come, you’re gone. The you I know. The you I fuck you to. The songs you sing when we’re together get rolled up and tucked back under your breastbone for no one else to see.
I hear the high, thin voice of your Kawasaki revving, and picture your body bent over and holding on to it like the truest lover. Later, when my own body throbs to orgasm, I imagine you at the end of your set, finishing some hundreds of sit-ups. You rise on stumbling legs and head to the showers, ready to wash away the last remnants of your morning with me.
A NO-WIN SITUATION
Alison Tyler
Tell me about Van.”
I flushed and looked down at my breakfast, a fancy fruit plate filled with papaya, mango, pineapples. But although the exotic assortment was beautifully arranged, my appetite had vanished.
“He’s the man who showed you what you were really like, isn’t that right?”
“No.” I shook my head, scared to disagree with him, but needing to explain. “I already knew. He was just the first one who saw what I wanted. Who understood.”
“And you idolize him for it….”
I’m not an idiot. I figured out immediately that this was one of Jack’s trick questions. Not really a question, even. Yet he clearly expected a response.
“I don’t know,” I said finally, “we weren’t together all that long. It wasn’t good all that long. But at the start, it was kind of…magic.”
“Why did you split up?”
“He disappeared. He’d told me on our first date that he was in ‘importing and exporting.’ I hadn’t known that meant drugs. I was naïve. And one day he just didn’t show up for a date. I didn’t hear from him for almost a month.”
“What did you do?”
I cut all my hair off. And dyed it fuchsia. I wore his sweat-shirt every day. I stopped even pretending to care about what people at school thought about me. I got too thin. I tried to track him down, and his roommate told me to forget he had even existed.
“I mourned him.”
Jack stared at me for a moment. “And then what happened?”
“He called me and asked me to meet him at a coffee shop. When I saw him there, I couldn’t even go in. I walked away. He ran after me, chased me down, dragged me to a park bench and started to talk. He said that if he’d told me the truth when we first met, I’d never have gone out with him. Probably true, but I don’t know. He said he loved me.”
“And you believed him?”
I stared directly into Jack’s eyes. “Yes,” I said evenly, “he did love me.”
I knew that if we hadn’t been in public, Jack would have slapped me for my tone of voice. Jack’s expression hardened, and I swallowed hard but didn’t look away.
“You asked me,” I said, “and you told me not to lie to you.”
“And then what?” Jack pushed on.
“We went to this twenty-dollar-a-day hotel on the edge of town. Creepy place. And we stripped down and messed around. But it was different.”
“That was it?”
“No, of course not. It dragged on for a while. We both pretended that everything was the same as before, yet now he seemed determined to show me that he was broken. And then he disappeared again…and I went off to school….”
Jack nodded, and I felt him memorizing my story. Learning it.
“Tell me three bad things about Van.”
I thought I had. “He was a drug dealer. He lied to me. He disappeared.”
“No. Tell me three things that you don’t like to think about. Three things that fill you with shame.”
I tripped through my mental storage and shared what I could. “When he came back, he’d lost his power. I don’t really know why. But he had. He begged me to take him back, and it made me cold inside. I despised feeling like that.”
“That’s one.”
“I flirted with someone else in front of him. I wanted to see him get back in charge, and he wouldn’t. I couldn’t get a rise out of him, and I hated him for that.”
“Two.”
“He tried to be gentle with me. He tried to show me that he could fuck me sweetly, and it killed me inside. I felt wretched afterward. He couldn’t get hard, and I felt as if it was my fault.”
“Stupid man,” Jack said softly. “He thought he was giving you something you wanted, when it was the last thing on earth you craved.”
I nodded.
“Head to the bathroom, but leave the door unlocked.”
I stood immediately and walked through the café, to the single restroom at the end of the hall. I turned on the light, and waited. The room was tiled in blue and white, decorated French style, like the rest of the café, with a basket of potpourri and angel-winged mirrors. In seconds, Jack had joined me. He looked at me from the doorway, stared at me in total silence, and then flicked off the light, shut the door and locked it.
I felt my heart racing. We were in inky blackness. A tiny beam of light from the crack at the bottom of the door was the only illumination. Jack was on me in a heartbeat, turning me around to face the wall, lifting the hem of my dress, pressing his body on mine. I could feel how hard he was. So fucking hard. He bit into the back of my neck, and then undid his jeans, slid my panties aside, and thrust inside of me.
“I can see you in my mind,” he whispered. “This young girl, desperate. I only wish that I was the one who found you first.”
He fucked me fiercely, slamming me up against the cold tiled wall, darkness enveloping us. “I want to know everything about you,” Jack continued, his voice low and hard. “I want to know it all.”
Again and again he thrust into me, and just before he came, he slipped one hand in front of my body and pinched my clit, sending me spiraling with that glimmer of pain. That spark of pleasure. I pressed my face against the wall as the climax flared through me, and I felt limp as Jack pulled out, tucked himself back into his jeans, and then flipped on the light. He pulled my dress back down, then turned me to face him. I kept my hands at my side, and I stared at him, somehow waiting.
He slapped my face, hard, as I had known he would. I gritted my teeth and stared down at the floor. I deserved it. I’d told him bold-faced of Van’s love. But I was trapped in a no-win situation. He didn’t want me to lie. Yet he didn’t want the truth.
But I’m lying now. No win? Of course I won.
He slapped me, and I had craved the feeling of his strong hand on my cheek. I had tested him for once. I had been bold; cocky, even; and Jack had brought me right down to earth, right down to my place.
No win? With Jack, even when I lost, I won.
Every single time.
HOLLY’S FANTASY
Kate Laurie
I glared up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly ten p.m., and my best friend Lauren had promised to be over by nine in order to help me get tomorrow’s orders ready. The only baker I employed had quit two days ago and I had six cakes that all needed to be ready for pick-up by noon tomorrow.
Just then I heard the back door open.
“Thanks for coming, Lauren,” I called over my shoulder. A decidedly masculine clearing of the throat made me spin around. Instead of Lauren, a gorgeous man was standing inside the doorway. “Who the hell are you?” I asked as I grabbed a rolling pin. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was all I had.
He flashed an uncertain smile. “You must be Holly. I’m Lauren’s cousin, Michael. She got called in to the hospital, so she called me and asked if I’d mind helping you out.”
I was doomed. There was no way a man who looked this great had ever had to cook his own food. He was the type of man that would induce nearly any woman to cater to his every whim. “Have you ever even been in a kitchen before?”
“Aren’t you being a little sexist? For your information, I happen to have attended culinary school. I promise that I will be more than you expected.” The heat that came from his blue eyes made me think he was talking about more than just his baking.
There was something about his dark hair, or maybe it was those pouting lips, that made me want to drag him up onto my baking table. But the cakes had to be my priority. “Okay, first I have two black forest cakes, a German chocolate, and two of my specialties, Holly’s Fantasy.” I couldn’t help but look at him as I said the last.
He reached over me and grabbed a bowl, slowly dragging his arm across my nipples and causing them to harden immediately. I was going to have to be careful tonight. I really had to get these cakes done. The last thing I needed was a bad review because I couldn’t get my orders done in time. Michael seemed to sense my anxiety because he moved to the other side of the table and began following my recipe with an ease that promised he was all he’d claimed.
I took a deep breath and began following his example. The sooner I got done the sooner I could sate the throbbing that had begun between my legs. He looked at me and winked, causing my panties to dampen even more. I glared at him and turned back to my mixing bowl, cracking the eggs with a vengeance.
After that, we worked without stopping. Without talking. But not without flirting.
Two hours later, I leaned back against the table and sighed. I don’t think I’d ever worked so hard at baking. I was overheating, and not just from the heat of all the ovens. Throughout the last few hours Michael had been tempting me more and more. Who knew that the simple act of sifting sugar could cause my body to clench up in desperate desire? I looked over at him and felt my mouth go dry. He was sprinkled in chocolate. I had stripped down to my tank top while we were finishing my fantasy cakes, and he had dropped the bowl he had been carrying, causing the contents to splash onto him. He tore off his apron and shirt and stalked over to me.
The man had the most amazing body I had ever seen. I nearly came when he ran his hands up my sides. I rose up on my toes in order to run my tongue along his neck, licking off the chocolate that was beginning to run down to his chest. He shuddered in my arms and then lifted me onto the counter. He pulled off my tight tank, freeing my eager nipples to his touch. He wiped some of the chocolate off of his own chest and coated my nipples with it. Then he set his mouth upon one peak and began to suck with an expertise that made me grind my hips against his. I leaned forward and unzipped his jeans, freeing an erection that caused my clit to swell in anticipation. He let go of my breasts to slide his jeans off and I dispensed with my slacks at the same time.
“You are so sexy,” he whispered into my ear as he gripped my hips and pulled me onto his throbbing cock. He began to say something else, but the words changed to a moan as I used my grip on his shoulders to slide him in deeper. We quickly developed an urgent rhythm of desperate lust.
My entire world was made up of the sensation of his strong chest against mine and the velvet steel inside me. I rocked forward and suddenly I was there, gasping as the climax tore through me. My steady contractions around him brought on his orgasm, and I threw my head back in ecstasy as I eagerly milked his cock of all it had. The moment seemed to last forever, and as I finally came back to reality I gasped the only thing on my mind.
“Do you need a job?”
Michael just laughed.
COME FROM BEHIND
Cate Robertson
Sometimes on hands and knees, sometimes on elbows. Sometimes with my face crushed against the bed and my arms flailing, clawing the sheets or pillows. Sometimes forced flat.
Sometimes he grips my upper arms and levers me upright, kneels back to spoon me into his lap, hoisting and dropping me. Grunt work: reverse posthole digging. Sometimes he pushes me down and compresses me, fingers splayed in the middle of my back. Sometimes he caresses me with two hands from point of shoulder to arse, tracing the hourglass: doggy-style accentuates the incurve of waist, the bloom of hip.
