Frenzy, page 6
Charlie moved faster and buried his face in my neck. My body pulsed and slammed against his, my cunt working at him in a frenzy. I was getting so tight, right there. He had me right there once again as if by magic. His cock jerked in me, grew a little longer, a little thicker. I was aware of every nuance and point of contact. He was going to come.
“Amy,” he whispered, just my name, and then he bit me; the sweet, tender spot where my throat meets my shoulder.
My cunt spasmed around him. Long lovely spirals of pleasure coursed through me as I came around him and he came in me. “Sweet, sweet Amy. I love when you visit me.”
I left him with a kiss, a promise to see him again soon. I went home and crawled into bed. The smell of him was still on my skin, his come sticky on my thighs. I slept.
GRAY IRISH MORNINGS
Philip Umbrino
Hostel bathrooms are never big, and this was the smallest yet. In a little brick building on the east side of Dublin, I found myself desperately needing time to relax not only from a long plane ride, but from my wife. A second honeymoon was what my wife had prescribed, but the spark of romance didn’t relight in Rome—nor did it in Paris, Berlin, London, or Prague. She seemed just as frustrated as I, and even if we managed to find some time alone in the eight-person hostel rooms, every attempt at sex was like a dinner date gone wrong: awkward conversation, silverware in the wrong place, and an embarrassing mess afterward.
Today was the last day in the city, a muggy morning where the sun hid behind the clouds, and I decided a shower would be the best way to stay away from the woman who had become more of an annoying traveling companion than a wife. At least the hot water in this shower worked, I thought. It was a cozy hostel for one so cheap, and the bathroom, just one stall and one toilet, was surprisingly clean.
With the water flowing and the steam rising I could hear the creaky wooden door open and quick footsteps on the floor. I held the soap in my hand and listened intently when a shadow behind the glass door that separated my middle-aged nakedness from the rest of the world knocked loudly. I peeked out and stared straight into the face of a young redheaded girl not twenty years old, her face full of freckles and a towel wrapped tightly around her chest.
“I’m sorry, lad, but I was hoping to get a bit of a rinse before I go out,” she said in a heavy brogue.
I tried to focus on her eyes and not the towel that jutted out at me. “I only just got in.”
“I don’t mind sharing if you don’t,” she said.
“The shower?”
“From the States, eh?” She smiled and turned her head, her red curls flowing past her cheeks. Opening the door, she entered with a dainty step and slowly removed her robe, her pale flesh lighting up the small stall like a lantern. It was impossible not to stare at her breasts, so pink and perky they were almost horizontal. Her legs were equally smooth and creamy. My thirty-two-year-old frame, still built and fairly tan, seemed crude by comparison.
“On vacation?” she asked as she dipped her head and her shoulder length hair under the tap. The water ran down her skin and caused it to shimmer. My thoughts flashed to my wife, no doubt still reading the travel guide in the room.
“Yes,” I managed to say.
“Come a little closer,” she said with a smile. “The water’s warm.” It was true that the stall wasn’t big, and I certainly wanted to be a bit closer. I moved near the spigot and she stepped aside to share.
“Come alone?”
“With a friend,” I said, attempting to continue staring into her green eyes.
“I’m alone here. Moved out of the house just last week. Been living here since.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“It can be. Sometimes not,” she said, grabbing the soap and lathering it about her breasts. They bounced and swayed with her movements, her large nipples reacting to the touch of her slender fingers. I found it impossible not to look, and even more impossible to stop the reaction in my own groin.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. I could feel my cheeks grow hot.
She stopped a moment and looked down at my fully erect member and let out a giggle. “Wouldn’t worry, lad. You Americans are too uptight about that stuff. Besides, I can take care of it for you,” she said, reaching down with a soapy hand and gripping my dick hard. I gasped at her touch, so unexpected and rough. “Would you like me to take care of it?” she whispered, leaning in and pressing her chest against my own
“Yes please,” I said, nearly stumbling on the words. The water was flowing over both of us, and she knelt down and took my cock in between her pretty lips, the pressure of her warm tongue and the rush of the water overloading my senses. Just the damn near thought of doing something different nearly had me lose control. Screw the different cities, I thought. Maybe all I needed was a new mouth.
My breathing grew rapid as the room grew dark, and I could feel my legs tensing. It had been so long, the sheer excitement was pleasurable enough. With what seemed like expert licks of her tongue along the head of my penis and a few smooth caresses of my balls from her nails, I felt myself erupt, and her slow bobbing became fast as she maneuvered to swallow it all.
“My,” she said standing up, “you’re breathing hard. Did I take care of it?” she asked. She wiped some remains from her chin and smiled, leaning in for a kiss. There was nothing but the sound of rushing water and my heavy breathing between us, and she planted her soft wet lips upon my own. “I need to get goin’, Yank.” She took my hand and placed it to her soft mound past the tangle of orange hair and onto the warm lips of her sex. “This’ll be around later if you’re still feeling lonely. Room twooh-three.” I could only stand dumbfounded as her white pear-shaped bottom minced out of the stall and disappeared.
Wrapped in my own towel, I entered the hostel room and found my wife lying on the bed looking over maps, her slender features hidden beneath a baggy nightgown I had given her on our second anniversary.
“How was the shower?” she asked. I took a moment to speak, but still was unsure what to say. As I tried to remember the red-haired vixen’s face or room number, my mind went blank. I only stood staring transfixed at my wife, her hair pulled back in a ponytail as though she were the young college girl she’d been when we first met, her face tan and smooth, the confidence in her look that said, I don’t mind having awful sex as long as we’re together.
“It could have used you,” I said finally.
“What?”
“Follow me,” I said, helping her up. “I think I may need another one. I had a little inspiration that’s definitely not in those travel guides.”
WAITING
Jen Cross
I’ve been here for hours. You told me to wait here, and I have. But now my coffee has turned to ice, and the cake I bought with the little money you left me with has turned to stone. The sweet hot place between my legs has finally cooled, and now it’s just sticky and wet.
You didn’t even kiss me good-bye. The song I’ve audaciously started to think of as ours was on the jukebox when you walked out, so big and strong in your leather jacket and black jeans. You kicked the door open ’cause your hands were full of coffee—one cup for you, and one for your girl, the one who works the street corners to pay for the apartment you share with her. You won’t fuck me in the bed you sleep in with her because you say it’d be disrespectful of her if you did—like whoring is such fucking hard work. I’d suck fifty real cocks to pay for a place for you to sleep if you’d just let me suck yours.
The girl waiting on my table here stopped offering me coffee refills a good hour and a half ago, and now all she gives me are dirty looks. Like I’m holding up a table or keeping her from real customers or something. This place is nearly empty: a few off-duty cops at the counter, flirting with the cook to try and get some free food; and there’s a boy and a girl in a booth a few down from mine who are deep in a conversation that has him crying and her laughing.
I wish I were close enough to hear what they were saying. I need something to distract me from my thoughts about you.
I think about how I must look to the waitress who’s so pissed off at me: my hair is bright red and so stiff from being endlessly bleached and colored that it just about stands up on its own—and now it’s mussed further from you wrapping your hand in it and forcing me down to your feet.
My blouse is wrinkled where my hand was inside it, playing with my tit while you had me down on my knees. You made me come for you while I was licking your fucking boots—your hand was in my hair and you even deigned to squat down. I thought it was to get closer to me and that made my clit jump under my hand, which was stuffed down the still-buttoned front of my pants. But you just didn’t want your friends, or friends of your girlfriend, to hear what you were saying to me. Not that your girlfriend doesn’t know about me—but you just don’t like her hearing from friends that you were fucking some chick in an alley.
I came in the wave of embarrassment that washed over me when I realized you didn’t want people to see you with me. You felt me convulse, heard the moans sticking in my throat maybe, and twisted your hand in my hair harder. I could smell your cunt heating up, and I wanted to press my face into the crotch of your jeans. The scent of you rose up over the smell of old garbage. My knees were wet and slimy—they still are.
At first, I think the waitress thought I was homeless or something—it’s probably why she was nice to me. But she noticed the way I kept glancing out the window at any motion, any movement. She saw how I kept smelling my fingers each time I took a drag on my cigarette: even though it’s just me, it’s like you put it there, that smelly oil on my fingers. Now she thinks I’m just some pathetic dog of a woman and ignores me.
You marched me in here after I came and sat me down at the table with a five dollar bill. You leaned your face down very close to mine and said, “Wait here.”
I had just begun to close my eyes—you were so close that I could feel your breath on my lips, and I thought for sure you were going to kiss me. But then a chill rushed through my skin and bright, fluorescent lights assaulted my eyelids. At the counter, you flirted with the waitress. You even kissed her a quick good-bye on the cheek, which brought a jealous, raging flush to my face and neck.
Now I sit here reeking, tensing at every set of headlights that pass outside the window. Nobody’s put a dollar in the jukebox for a while now. I get up and stagger over to the fake-chrome-edged box, and even though it’s all the money I have left, I feed the bill into the jukebox and punch A-7 three times. If you came in right now, you’d see me in defiance of your command—the only time. I haven’t even gotten up to piss since you left.
I hustle back to the booth, my ass-print still visible in the orange vinyl seat. Strains of the Stones song that you love, and I have come to love, fill the dismal diner. The waitress who hates me rolls her eyes. I smile too sweetly, knowing how pissed she’ll be when she realizes that this is only the first of three repetitions.
Turning my face back to the window, I meet my reflection’s gaze while I light the last cigarette in my pack. My mascara has turned into raccoon eyes and my lipstick is long gone—it’s probably still on your boots.
“Please come get me,” I mouth silently to the image in the window.
The diner’s closing soon. It’s been five hours and I’m still waiting. After they close, I guess I’ll go sit on the front step. Maybe I’ll find a cigarette butt out there, and I can have a bit more of a smoke. I’ll need something. I’m crazy here without you.
SECONDS
Ann Rosenquist Fee
Josie has a rack like a pound cake: tight. Cara’s tattoos lift her biceps and the small of her back right up off her smooth skin and into the air. Melinda’s face is chiseled and she’s quick, like she dares you to pick which one you believe: her lazy wavy hair or her slim strong body. They get what they need on Friday nights.
Fridays started out as Foreign Film Night plus potluck, a couple hours away from the kids. The first time was Un Coeur en Hiver, crostini, goat cheese and spinach salad, quiche. After the first few months, there were grocery store salads, and no more films, and they didn’t bother to leave the kitchen. They stood close and ate with fingers out of plastic tubs. They began to know each other’s stories. Not that Josie ever said the words “He spends all of our money” or that Melinda admitted “He talks too much.” Cara never told, out loud, “He fucks the cleaning lady.” But there was enough touching in each other’s small kitchens, a new hair color here and a too-long pause there, that they knew. Knew the stories and the dirty secrets underneath: a perfect rack loves new silk lingerie, lots of it. The smart girl likes the man who wins every fight. And it feels good to get inked, good and sexy like not knowing for sure if his dick’s been autoclaved.
Their kids, seven among them, got bored and restless with ice cream and videos and the moms very much in sight. Fridays could no longer happen in the kitchens. There was no talk of stopping, only where to go.
Melinda figured it out. Her kids were the youngest so she still cared about the Parent-Teacher Organization. One Thursday-night meeting in the school library, a man showed up and introduced himself as the food services director. He was lanky, polite, with pale skin and a plaid shirt that looked like the same one he’d worn for his plastic ID badge photo. He told the small and tired group he was responsible for planning and posting the school lunch menus. His name was Frank.
Frank didn’t expect the murmur that rippled through the room, the arched backs, the licked lips. He didn’t know Chicken-O’s w/ Dips/Cheese Mashed Potatoes/Tossed Salad/Rosy Apple-sauce meant a good morning, a way to bribe lazy grade-school asses out of bed on a Monday. That shitty Popcorn Shrimp/ Potato Smiles/Green Beans/Red Apple Half was fine on a Friday, thank god he saved that for Friday, because they’ll get out of bed that day whether lunch is fun or not. The man behind the school lunch menus held their household rhythms in his pale, unwitting hands. Remarkably, reliably, he played them right.
The meeting ran long and Melinda shot Frank a quick smile and an eye-roll across the squatty library tables. He looked away. When it was over, they both went for their coats on the low little hooks, and Melinda made a joke—she cracked something about how nobody at PTO has anywhere better to be on a Thursday night, so what was she doing looking bored. The principal overheard and chimed in that she never did anything fun after five either—but Frank sure did!
Melinda looked at him and cocked her head, let her floaty hair fall a little in her face. “Right,” Frank said, with a shrug, eyes on the floor; one hand stuffed in the pocket of his khakis, the other dragged like a rake from his blushing forehead through pale hair. “I do this thing,” he said. “Acoustic. A little Friday thing. Be great if you came.”
Melinda went home humming, walked in the door and checked tomorrow’s lunch: Pancakes/Smoky Sausages/Hash Rounds/Chilled Juice/Fruit Cocktail. Later, her husband made her come three times as was his proud practice. She was willing to stay awake for it since the morning would be easy.
This Friday they leave three men home with seven kids and meet at Melinda’s place. Josie’s rack is marvelous in a snug wrap top, turquoise spilling from her throat deep down into the divide. Cara wears her boyfriend’s pants slung nearly to the crack of her ass and the blue-green tatts that swirl from her spine out around her waist look alive. Melinda’s lips shimmer and her hair is unruly, and at the last minute she decides she likes how it feels on her bare shoulders more than she cares about being warm under her leather vest.
They take a table near the front. They get drinks. They watch and whisper: he’s okay. He’s good—good enough.
The gentle Johnny Cash coming out his mouth makes Frank’s plaid shirt look almost cowboy. He’s strumming steady, staring at the floor just like when he talked to Melinda, but the women don’t care about his eyes. It’s not his eyes that have their asses cocked just a little. It’s his ease. His pace. No danger, no blathering or spending or fucking the cleaning lady—just easy tunes, pale plaid. Corndogs and sweet mornings.
It takes just one set for Melinda to say, “I’d do him.” Josie takes a sip and swallows and nods, and keeps nodding. Cara laughs: “Absolutely. Absofuckinglutely.”
After the show, they step out the back door, Josie and Cara and Melinda, and share the cigarette they bummed from the bartender. Nobody’s smoked for a long time and it tastes good. Melinda blows through glossy lips and says, “We should really thank him.” Cara exhales, “Yes. Yes. Just to be polite.” Josie drags deep and reaches both hands out—one light finger just where Melinda’s hair meets her bare shoulder. Another just inside the band of Cara’s boypants. “We did,” she says, “run a kick-ass book fair together last year. We know we work well as a team.”
Frank, not two steps out the bar’s back door, never sees it coming. Never sees the hand that takes his left wrist and peels away his car keys. Or the one that locks on his right forearm, relieves him of his guitar case, and pulls him down under the bar’s empty loading dock stairs, flat on his back. Gravel, damp dirt, not at all good for his plaid shirt but quite possibly—he’s read—what this rock and roll business is all about. Perhaps tonight he sounded better than he thought.
Josie straddles him first, knees on either side of his chest, pulls out what she’s got in her wrap top, and pushes it into Frank’s mouth, as much as he can take; feeds him hard that way till her soft skin bruises, till Frank’s face slips and sweats.
Till Melinda pulls from behind, pulls Josie down to Frank’s open khakis where his cowboy’s out for air thanks to a quick, skillful zip and yank.
“You’re on cock committee,” Melinda tells her friend. “I’m on face.”
And she is, in a flash. Melinda keeps Frank quiet between her thighs, back and forth, easy like the music. She leans back a little, leather vest unzipped, and lets her hair fall over Josie, soft like it fell on her own shoulders all night long.
