Got a Minute?, page 8
When I open my eyes, the line’s shifted forward again, and I’m next. My heart pounds and anticipation flows hotly through my veins. The woman behind the counter waves me forward and asks for my papers.
Familiar with the routine, I heft my backpack off and lift it onto the scale, doing buckles up and tucking in straps so they won’t get caught on anything.
After a moment of typing at her computer she hands me back my papers and points me in the right direction. “Your flight starts boarding at three o’clock, gate fourteen. You need to clear security first. There are shops and restaurants after you pass through, so you can do so at any time now. Enjoy your flight, Miss Anderson.”
I head off with a grin on my face. Traveling has always made me feel daring, and free. Judging by my excitement at just being in line at the check-in desk, this time was no different. My plan is to enjoy the flight, the holiday, and whatever else comes my way.
A familiar tingle runs through my body as I wait, once again in line, for my chance to pass through the security checkpoint. On the other side of the metal detectors and scanners I can see people rushing from one gate to another, others relaxing in the seats waiting for their flights to be called. I also see shops full of knickknacks, candy and magazines. Then I notice a good-looking man flipping through a magazine in the nearest one, and heat pools low in my belly.
Yes, I do plan on enjoying my flight. And everything else that comes my way.
THE COVERS OF BOOKS
Marie Potoczny
Mark was nursing a coffee—black—when I sidled up next to him, and took out my favorite copy of Pride and Prejudice to pass the time until my best friend failed to materialize.
He smiled crookedly, Mark did, and asked, nodding toward my book, “Are they making that into a movie?”
His cockiness made my pussy gush like the Hoover Dam had just collapsed.
“I didn’t think anyone read Austen,” he said, grinning, “unless they were making it into a movie.”
“It’s a classic.” I was offended at the accusation that I was a trendy reader and clutched the book to my heart.
“Sorry. No offense.” He reached out and touched my knee in atonement. “May I?” He pried the book from my hands to quote passages. I was hooked like the first line of an Austen omnibus.
After a few java cocktails, we played the who’s who of authors, trying to out-impress each other by naming the most difficult and obscure writers in some sort of sick, quasi-intellectual flirting ritual.
He said he adored Jane Austen and Elizabeth Bennet was his favorite heroine; this was a better character recommendation than if he had been introduced by my grandmother.
“Me, too!” I squealed.
“Really?” He studied my face. “Come to think of it, you do look like Ms. Bennet.”
“I’ve been told that before,” I lied.
Mark struggled to say something, seemed at a loss for words, stammered, and then grabbed my hands in that awkwardly sincere way I imagined Mr. Darcy would have with Elizabeth at the conclusion of the novel.
His eyes searched mine. He petted my hand, the pads of his fingers grazing the insides of my wrists, our digits becoming tangled in the fervor and mounting necessity to fuck.
I took him home. Mark hitched his penis to my carriage, and we laughed while he screwed me, up and down, over and over. Apparently he preferred the abridged version; from coffee shop to finish it took less than an hour.
He lingered for a couple of minutes, thumbed through my Penguin classics, and smirked at a comment I’d written in the margin of Emma, before he tugged on his pants and headed out.
“Where are you going?” I asked, as the door closed behind him.
I returned to the coffee bar the next night to find Mark. He was there, but a brunette with a plain face now occupied the table beside him.
She was reading a copy of Jane Eyre.
A RIVER WITH TWO MOUTHS
Stephen D. Rogers
Until you’ve tasted your pussy on another woman’s lips, you haven’t lived. I have, thanks to a boyfriend who knows he has nothing to fear.
In fact, I was the one who was nervous about putting the idea into action. That’s why Brad didn’t give me a choice.
How it happened was this: We’d been experimenting with light bondage. Brad would tie me up or blindfold me. Sometimes both. One time, cotton ropes wrapped my wrists and ankles, a silk scarf covered my eyes; Brad kissed me harder than usual. I arched up off the bed trying to swallow his mouth.
He broke away. “I love you.”
“I love you.” I could feel his hot breath on my cheek.
And then I could feel a different breath on the sole of my foot.
There was no way Brad could have moved that quickly, not when I could still feel his lips on my ear.
His voice became a whisper. “Her name is Lori.”
The breath on my foot became a tongue. The tongue became a warm river winding through my toes, a river that flowed over my foot, danced around my ankle, and raced up the inside of my leg until it reached the source.
I felt her on me, in me, and I would have melted away if the cotton ropes had not kept me in place, such were the sensations caused by her wet tongue.
Brad continued to whisper in my ear, a warm murmur of sounds more arousing than mere words.
And then the dam burst and I overflowed, myself a raging river.
I caught my breath just in time for her lips to cover mine, hers moist with my own fragrant juice. She kissed me and then she was gone, without a word, without my getting so much as a single glance at the face that had brought me so much pleasure.
MARKS, REVIEWED
Debra Hyde
These marks I bear speak volumes. They say that I gave myself to you, without reserve, wholly, completely. They claim that you took what I offered and used me as you saw fit. I was your canvas, tightly wound rope was your medium, and now my hands and feet are as striped as a tabby’s coat. And catlike, I rub them against each other to feel the sweet burn of these bruises. Luscious is their tenderness.
Fresh out of bondage, my breasts sport marks, too. Rings of red encircle them, like ripples on water. I cup my breasts, press them together and sigh, then rub my nipples lightly. They’re tender from the clamps you used on me. Ah, those clamps! They bit into me, into flesh made soft by the hold of bondage. The pain seared but in bliss and surrender, just the way I like it.
Like an afterthought, my poor nipples remind me of our times together. I recall you putting clamps to them, making me don a blouse, then taking me to a bookstore. Our browsing probably looked aimless, but still I wonder if anyone spied us when you reached in between my buttons, found the chain and pulled me into pain. I had to stifle my cries that night, stuffing them down into a silence I didn’t know I had.
I give myself to you because I love you and I love what you do to me. Because you deftly control the action we share. Because you test me as you control me. You use me to create our erotic edge.
A hand joins mine on my breast. I look up to find you settling onto our bed, smiling. “You look good,” you tell me, admiring the marks you’ve given me. “So good.”
Your admiration has a lusty tone as you kiss me and take me by the wrists. You’re holding the rope again. I can’t see it as I kiss you with closed eyes, but I feel the weight as you capture my wrists. Roughly, the rope caresses the existing marks and they protest the pain.
You push me down on the bed and draw my bound hands up above my head. You stretch the ropes tightly, tying them to the rails of my old brass bed. My old bed, the one item that has followed me from the innocence of childhood to the trials of adult-hood, trials that achieve new twists each time you take me. This bed, which long ago shielded me from the monsters of the dark, now hosts the monsters of our desires. My nighttime sanctuary is your anytime playground.
More rope encircles my ankles. You draw my legs up and tie the rope to the metal rungs of the footboard. It spreads me wide, lifts my ass from the bed, and exposes the pit of my pleasure. I am accessible.
But my legs strain. This isn’t an easy position and I wonder how long I’ll be able to maintain it.
You bring your lips to my sore nipple and murmur “This won’t take long,” as you nibble there. I moan as your teeth clasp me lightly, as your tongue flicks across my hard ruby of a nipple.
You rise from my breast and, positioning yourself, hover over me. Your stiff, ready cock seeks out its target, encouraging my nether lips to open. When they do, my damp eagerness beckons to you. You breech me, enter me, take me. You feel massive.
My legs tremble, strained and compromised. If they were free, I’d wrap them tight around your waist and never let go. But I cannot offer myself up to you that way. Instead, I remain passive as you initiate your final act in this drama we share.
There’s something sweet in that surrender, in giving myself to you to use and enjoy. Swift, steady strokes overtake me. You pant in my ear, sounding like a wild, rutting animal. You ram me, and it feels delicious. My cunt grows tight around you as you work me. It aches to be torn asunder, it begs you to greater cruelties, and suddenly a rich spasm of orgasm overwhelms me.
I’m still breathless when you nuzzle into my neck, nip me, then bear down. I stiffen and cry out, orgasm forgotten. Long, deep stabbing strokes accompany your bite. You’re so ferocious that I weaken. My legs are like putty and my cunt goes numb.
Your teeth go deeper. I tense and scream. I want to thrash about but I can’t, I’m bound, I’m helpless. You absorb the agony of my desire and it heightens you, bringing you ever closer. Your body begins to quiver, preparing for that which is about to peak, and I know you’re there when you gasp for breath and slam deeply into me. Your proof invades me, warm and wet.
We collapse then, you upon my body, me still caught in your web, and as we do, the bed moans. It echoes our drama, becoming the coda to our lust. As we rest, I realize that my bed, this sanctuary of mine, sighs sweetly for us, and I sigh in kind for all we have and all we share.
TASTING KATE
Jolie du Pré
Kate had moved to Manhattan and kept writing even when I ignored her letters. I’d grown to hate her when she lived in Chicago, but she didn’t know that. She was one of the most beautiful girls in college, and I was just another one of her many friends, following her around like a starstruck fan. She had no idea I was in the closet wishing I could fuck her brains out.
My therapist is probably still shaking. For the past couple of months she’s been trying to get me to commit to something, to go for something; to help me figure out why, after college, all I’ve wanted to do is wait tables at a crappy restaurant, why I panic every time I look at a blank canvas even though I have an art degree, why I can’t seem to sleep through the night.
“If you had one wish, what would it be?” she’d asked me.
“Why do you want to know?” I responded.
“Because then maybe we can help you get it.”
We looked at each other in silence until a smile crept upon my face.
“You look like you have something!” she exclaimed, clutching her hands together like a proud parent.
“Yeah, I do. If I had one wish, I’d taste Kate.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I want to taste my friend. Only I can’t, because she’s all the way in New York and anyway, she’s straight.”
“Oh…oh…you mean…” That’s when her hands started to shake. Poor thing.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean. So you got any big ideas as to how I can do that?” She looked at the floor, trying to think of what to say. It was priceless. You shouldn’t ask a question if you’re not prepared to hear the answer.
“Deanna,” she said, looking at me again. “You could be doing so much more with your life.”
Blah, blah, blah. She went on like that for about five minutes until my session was up.
Now I’m sitting on a plane, headed for New York to see the woman I hate. She melted me, that tease; her pleas for a visit won out.
I arrive at LaGuardia. So many different people thrown together like a tossed salad. And there stands Kate.
“Hey, you! Welcome to New York.”
She hasn’t changed. Her blonde hair is still long and silky. She still wears peasant skirts. And she still doesn’t wear a bra. I want to grab those perfect globes every time I see them. Hippy cunt. It used to draw me in, all that love and energy emanating from that gorgeous body, but now I just wish she would stand back.
Instead, she gives me a hug. Her neck smells like fresh lemons, and I fight the urge to kiss it. I pull away, but I’m polite. “Kate, you look great as always. Let’s get to your place. I’m sick of airports.”
“Yes, you must be starved, too. I’ll make you some curried tofu.”
Kate always used to push her health food on me. I enjoyed it at the time, eating something she made. But now I have visions of chowing down on a burger, just to piss her off.
We take a cab to her apartment, this little thing fifteen floors up.
“We’ve got this place to ourselves this weekend,” Kate says. “Lori’s gone to Ohio to visit her parents.”
I peek into Lori’s room. What a pig! I thought I was bad.
“Don’t look in there. There’s probably food or maybe even some dead humans rotting under all that junk,” Kate says.
“Where should I sleep? On the couch?”
“You’re kidding, right? You’ll be bunched up like a sardine. No, you’ll sleep with me.”
I’d slept with Kate before, just like two little girlfriends. It was torture, especially when her body would roll against mine.
“Of course, there’s always Lori’s bed, if you can find it,” Kate smirks.
“No way! Your bed sounds fine,” I say.
“Good, now let’s get some lunch into you.”
At night, we go to a club and dance. Rather, Kate does. I just watch her. She sashays across the floor, swinging her hips and bouncing those breasts. I watch the guys line up and I’m mesmerized. She does this to me every time.
We go home, and while Kate drinks some concoction to cleanse her system, I go into the bathroom and put on my night-gown. Even though I usually can’t sleep through the night, I’m determined to try.
I step out of the bathroom and then I can’t move.
“I sleep in the nude, Deanna. Have for a while now.”
Fucking bitch sends my cunt into a tailspin. I’ve never seen nipples so large and pink, right there in front of me. And just a little patch of hair on her pubes. This must be penance for all the evil I’ve done. I should have stayed in Chicago. I never should have replied to that letter.
We climb into bed and I stare up at the ceiling. She turns off the light by the side of the bed, and I am acutely aware of her breathing and the smell of her skin. Her flesh is hot and I know it, even though I haven’t touched her.
She turns her head. It’s dark, but I know she’s looking at me. I know this woman with those juicy tits is staring at me.
If you had one wish, what would it be?
I take my hand and place it gently on her thigh. My heart is beating like crazy.
But then Kate grabs my hand, brings it to her pussy and plunges my fingers into her. God, she’s so wet.
My fingers are still inside her when she climbs on top of me and plops her breast in my mouth. I suck so hard on that nipple it sticks straight out. I do the same to the other one, and we’re moaning so loud I’m sure the neighbors can hear.
And then she kisses me. Such soft lips. My head is spinning. Her mouth leaves mine and I hear her scream, “Oh god, Deanna!” She comes like a fountain on my hand.
When she rolls off me, my fingers fall out of her slippery cunt and go directly into my mouth. I coat my lips with her juices and take in her sweet smell. I’m tasting Kate.
As she cuddles against my side, we fall asleep.
And for the first time in a long while, I don’t wake up until morning.
RUN-IN
Tsaurah Litzky
My ex-husband grew up on a farm. Once he bragged to me he learned to do it by watching the animals. When the hog mounted the sow, he said, the hog was an unstoppable force. “But I’m not a pig,” I protested. “Yes, you are,” he told me. “You’re a pig for me.” It was true. All day when he was at work, I hungered for his cock; at night I feasted on it. With my mouth I sucked and nibbled it, with my cunt I swallowed it up again and again. After we split, I did not want his cock meat or any other part of him; or so I told myself. Still, five years later, I often find myself dreaming that he is moving inside me, and in the morning I wake with my hands between my legs.
When I ran into him last Friday on Broadway in front of Dean & DeLuca, he didn’t look like a farm boy. I hadn’t seen him since he moved back to Canada. He was wearing a black leather jacket that had to be expensive and black velvet slacks. I wondered if he was dealing drugs again, but I wasn’t going to ask.
His first question to me was, “Are you still with Paul?” I told him, “Of course,” lying like Pinocchio, and then I quickly changed the subject.
“What brings you down here?” I asked.
“I have a show coming up at Castelli’s.”
I wondered if he was making the show up to impress me, but I didn’t ask him the dates or any of the particulars. I was distracted because my nipples had suddenly hardened into sharp little spikes. He still had that effect on me.
“You and Paul happy?” he asked.
“Ecstatic,” I answered. I didn’t tell him how I had taught Paul to replicate all his farm-boy moves. Then my ex went on, “I heard your novel was published. Am I in it?”
“Absolutely not. It’s a fantasy, a total fantasy.” The truth was he was on every page.
“Listen,” he said, “if you’re not in a hurry, let’s have a drink, for old times’ sake. We could go to Dante’s. Is Larry still working there?”
