Bob described to me how his girlfriend had transformed his house, but I am still shocked. It is relentlessly light. This environment does not enhance his redness. As I move through a long, fluorescent hall toward what looks like a sky-lit bathroom, I imagine his skin must crawl from all these rays.

I have been wondering, some, about his dick.

I imagine he loves grave fucking. If we entwine, that is some of what I will want from him. This is not symbiosis going on here, this is not romance. This is the unraveling of the yin yang.

I absentmindedly press and pull and smooth my vulva before the mirror, considering the possible art of his hands.

Bob says he does nothing on weekends in the winter. He possesses the details of a stern physique, though. His belly suggests a passion for beer and betrays his intermittent abstinence. He moves quickly, leaning back against the world as he passes. His neck is thick, the cords have been disguised by a sculptor’s polish.

He likes to appear stupid despite his having taken a little inside knowledge of the computer animation industry and a seminar in small business management and parlayed them into one of the hottest directors’ careers in Silicon Valley and all its off-shoots.

I return to the darkest room in the house. Bob has drawn the drapes over the incandescent Phoenix dusk. He is hunched against an arm of the overstuffed couch, regarding a stained, half-smoked joint pinched between his thumb and index finger. He told me when we first met that he was dead set against drugs and was cutting way down on alcohol. Here he is, now, with me, a woman he trusts only to challenge him, not bothering to protect his privates as he lets down his guard. I lean over him, take the roach, and rummage around his hips for a lighter.

He defends the woman he lives with. “She worked her way up from teller...she brought home all these computer books and studied them.” Is he defending her from himself or me?

Why is he telling me this? We had been discussing the sequence, what was going to happen now; he still didn’t think I knew what I was talking about, but we’d both gained ground. The pot was a nod toward conciliation. I realize he must be attempting small talk. “That’s good.” I say. I think, “Yes, I know it’s possible to be a self taught hot shot. I did it.” I study the squareness of his jaw. I root mentally to retrieve what we’d agreed on. The tide of the Colombian resin has turned my memory into an ocean; too many currents to choose from.

For the sake of sociability, I launch into an oral essay about employment, initiative and women. It is prepared, so I do not need to think as I speak and am free to deliver my thoughts eye to eye. He is receiving them directly. He has done this before, I realize; stared directly into my eyes, beyond their color, into their apertures, when talking, when listening. I am impressed. He holds eye contact with such ease and skill I am sure he’s practiced. I respect him more, and am more deeply inquisitive about him.

Most of our conversations take place on two levels. He is sitting. I am standing. We frequently face one another, even when it’s inconvenient. His thighs are spread, pelvis tilted back, genitals thrust toward me. Neither of us moves. I am standing with my legs at ease. I feel a light swelling between my thighs and dismiss it from my awareness.

“I know how to take care of all this sexual therapy stuff. Women should always have something between their legs.” Bob’s hand darts between my thighs. He rubs my vulva, then squeezes lightly, then withdraws his hand. His eyes glitter defiantly. I realize his private psychological agenda regarding men and women together is going to direct this seduction. Anticipating ambivalent foreplay culminating in being lunged at and fixed into a good fucking position arouses me. There is something about his fierce masculinity that makes me feel ripe, pulpy. Ready to be probed, to express juice. My hand drops to where his has been. I sink to the floor before him. I am now lower than him but am so comfortable with the power he has granted me I feel as though we are eye to eye. My middle finger locates a spot of moisture on my slacks and presses it. “You mean that, literally, don’t you?”

He looks at my crotch. I rest my hand on my knee. His eyes gleam and lift to meet mine.

“And what about men?” I counter.

“Men,” he declares, “should be allowed to approach any woman any time and rub up against her.”

I consider what a culture might be like that accepted, even encouraged, this behavior. I rub my left breast through my blouse, searching out the nipple. He reaches forward and forces his hand under mine, into the cup of my bra. He finds my nipple and begins pinching and pulling. I resist an urge to moan. I detect a puddle of moisture leaking between my outer lips. I want to pull myself up to his knees and straddle his lap but I resist.

“Could women do the same with men?” He is close enough so that I can reach between his thighs and press at his pants. My fingers grip a thick bulge at the seam. His eyes retract into his forehead as I squeeze, sharp, quick.

“Not yet.” His voice is low and urgent. He has encircled my nipple with his thumb and middle finger and is pulling on it from the base, then buzzing the very tip of it with his forefinger as he slides and contracts his hand up the aureole. I am reminded of an action Ralph used when masturbating. Before I take my hand away, I imitate the movement on the pole of rock I’ve found. Bob roughly grips my hand in his left and snaps my nipple hard with his right index finger. I gasp at the fierce pleasure.

His gaze is boring into mine. Bob takes a moment to answer my question. He continues his sultry priming of my nipple. His eyes use mine as a scratchpad. “Yes. The same with men.”

“So, this wouldn’t be civilized behavior that could be allowed or denied. It would be instinctual.” My voice is smoky with sex. “Something we wouldn’t be expected to control.”

He cups my breast in his hand, squeezes it hard. I moan and readjust myself on the floor. He pulls my blouse and bra cup to the left of my breast and removes his hand. My nipple, exposed and raw, stings. He considers what I’ve said for a moment, staring hard at my bared breast, plumped out over the constraints of my stretched clothing. “Yes. That sounds right.” He takes my breast again and lifts it as he leans out of his seat. He sucks my nipple into his mouth between parted teeth. I grasp his head on either side and press into him, like a Madonna, offering milk and meat. He chomps lightly on the very tip while soothing it with his tongue. I gasp again and raise myself to accommodate him. He immediately retreats, dropping my breast and settling back into his chair. I understand he is telling me this is for him. I am responsible for me. “Oooh,” I whisper as I settle back on the floor.

Staring at me, he unfastens his slacks and his shorts. He reaches in with both hands, pulls his dick out and strokes it lightly, briefly. “Sssss,” I hiss. I imagine how it feels to him to dislodge and stroke his organ. It balances uneasily on the fabric folds. I study it; red, like the rest of him. Jagged. I lick my lips. There’s a glistening at the hole.

I grab between his thighs. He doesn’t back off or scold. I stop an inch or so before contact. I lick my lips again, and rub his left thigh, bumping my fingers against his groin just beside and above his swollen base. He smiles.

“Always having something between one’s legs isn’t an instinctual thing, for women.” I am droning, now, chanting something cryptic about desire. “Maybe rubbing up against others is, but not...” I withdraw my hand and raise my eyebrows.

Bob considers this, checking his chin for stubble. He reaches toward me and unleashes my right breast. His harsh movements register like shots of lascivious pleasure from my nipple down a secret conduit to my core. I shimmy my shoulders. He grabs both my quivering breasts, seizing both nipples. My head drops back. His mouth clamps onto mine. His tongue dives down my throat. Before I can close my mouth around it, he settles back onto the couch, meeting my gaze, again, hands resting on either side of his dick. “Haven’t you ever known someone you’d like to be stuck to, fucking stuck to, for life?”

Blips of desire flash across my breasts. I smile.

“Yes.” I pick up my breasts and massage them, working lightly around the nipples, pushing the globes together and shaking them roughly. “It’s wild.”

“It’s nasty.” His voice is husky. He stops my reveling by plastering his hands firmly over my breasts. One hand pushes and rubs a breast into my ribcage. The other plunges down my belly, between my thighs. “Come up here,” he says. He shoves his hand between me and the floor and pushes up hard. I rise from the pressure of his hand, then grind down. He takes his hand back and pats the couch beside him. “Here. Sit on your knees.” He lifts his hand to his face and sniffs it, closing his eyes.

He turns his back and rests it against the arm of the sofa while lifting his right leg onto the cushion, bracing it against the back. His dick arrows out from his groin. As I seat myself I dip low with the engorged grace of sexual fluidity and lash at him once with my tongue, grazing the corona. I kneel. Before settling myself, I bow and inhale his head between my tightened lips. I ream his hole once, urgently, with the tip of my tongue, to let him know what I want, and pop him out of a vacuum, leaving him sizzling from saliva evaporating in the air. I look up before straightening. His eyes are glazed and he is staring at the place my mouth was.

His hand is between my thighs, again. He is looking directly into my eyes. Again. His expression still says he is involved in a challenge. He is pressing his finger against the crotch of my slacks and tracing it heavily back and forth the length of my cleft. He uses his nail. My hips undulate against his finger and, trance-like, I hump the digit every time it is critically beneath me.

“Onnhhhnn. Yesssmm.” My voice is pitched low, my words issue languidly, as though I am tasting them before I pronounce them. Several of his fingers are dabbing at the entry to my core. We are still looking directly at each other, although I know the character of my gaze has changed. His eyes are luminous and amused. “But wanting to be stuck fucking...” I can’t help rotating on his fingers each time they make contact, “...oooh...” my voice is high and windy, ...”doesn’t mean we should be...”

“I’d love to be an animal that...” He has unzipped the front of my slacks and is sliding them over my hips, “spends its whole life connected together like that, fucking.” Each time we say the word, we emphasize the “k”. I rise and bring my thighs together to assist him. As he slides my slacks further he presses my buttocks together, pulls them apart, presses them together. My anus sucks. I moan. He pulls my slacks to the tops of my thighs and stops. I rise higher and he shakes his head. “No.” He looks at me. “Leave them like that.”

“But...” He jams his arm between my bound thighs. His fingers luxuriate in my hair and my folds. His hands are muscular. As he explores me, his calluses stroke the tip of my clitoris like tiny bristles. Shivers ripple through me. My head drops back, and I look at him from beneath my lids. I moan low and quick, “never mind...”

“God, you’re wet...”

We are looking at each other as two of his fingers penetrate me, quickly and deeply. My mouth opens involuntarily. His gaze becomes sharp, steely. I feel mine widen, tighten. Since I can’t spread my legs, I lean forward, supporting myself on his arm. My gluteals relax. I feel my lips flatten against his forearm. His wrist swivels between the backs of my thighs. My vagina is grabbing and sucking, my pelvis is swaying with the rhythm of his fingers bouncing and whirring inside me. I flex lower, pulling his elbow between my thighs. His fingers curl inside me and retreat. I moan. He whispers into my hair, “Look behind you. In the mirror.” I am supporting myself on his shoulder, my ass at an acute angle. I turn my head. There, above the couch, I see my ass, reflected above my swollen pussy. Simultaneously, I see and feel his index finger slide up my perineum, massage a dollop of my juices around my sphincter, separate the mounds while I hum from the sensation and puncture my asshole. “Unhhn,” I cry, and close my eyes.

“Am I hurting you, baby? You take it so easy,” I hear his gruff whisper from the inside out.

“No, no.” I don’t think he can understand me. My mind and body are in a fucking rhythm, now. He is swiveling the tip of his finger, slowly screwing it into my asshole. I feel the treads shimmer on each twist. I keen, “Ooonnh. Ooonnh.”

I brush my mouth back and forth against his and plead, “Fuck my cunt first, fuck my cunt first.” My ass, though, is bearing down on his finger, tempting more expansion.

“You don’t know what you want,” he groans into my neck, plunging his finger in and out of my anus. I shudder each time his finger pierces it, relaxing more, luring him deeper. His forearm has spread my vulval lips; its inner sensitive skin is slippery with my hunger. I rock my clitoris lightly against his forearm as he finger fucks my ass. I ride his arm, holding on as though I am bareback on a horse. He follows what I am doing in my eyes.

“If you don’t fuck me now, I’m going to come,” I sob. I cradle my neck in his. I drop my arm and grasp his dick. My hand choruses what my anus is doing to his finger. “Fuck me now, I don’t care how. Put it in me.”

“Ooooh, baby,” he growls, “this is what you need.” His arm exits me roughly. My lips sting with abrasion. Within seconds his slacks are off and he has pulled me against him and flipped me on my back. I shudder with anticipation from the display of physical power. He looks hard at me and rips my slacks down their inner seam. I moan loudly, finally able to spread myself, but he clamps my bent legs together against my chest with his hands. He lowers himself at a stark diagonal, shifts his support to one arm, and aims his dick with the other hand. My vagina gulps for him; with every spasm I fear I will come before he enters me. I want him inside me when I come. I want to wrack and shiver around him. I want my contractions dispersed by his convulsions. I moan. He drives his dick in. “Huuuhhnnnnn, Huuuhhnnnnn, Huuuhhnnnnn,” we sing, as he plunges over and over. He is braced like a board over me. He and I are both watching his dick disappear into and reemerge from me, watching my lips being pulled in and out, transfixed by watching until we become what we think we are only feeling. He is holding my lower body hostage. I strain against him, and squeeze him hard as he lunges, as he retreats. I am inside myself, now, trying to convince him to release my legs and let me pull him in all the way. The longer he resists, the harder I squeeze. Suddenly he shouts, “Onh! Unh!” He drops onto me fully. His arms curl around my shoulders. My legs spread.

He is over me. His palms are anchoring my thighs aside, set in the hollows on either side of my pussy. I am splayed. He is in me full. Deep. Long. Hard.

He talks to me while he screws me.

“Now. You. Listen. To. Me.”

I listen. Enrapt.

I embrace his groin with my shins and glide my foot between his buttocks, looking for his anus, while he ruts, deep and fast, pummeling his head against my insides, battering it into spurting. I embrace his club lustily. My foot finds a moist, tender depression in his cleft and I grind my heel into it. I think of the shivers his calluses sent through me. He raises his head, glances at me, rears and bucks.

Text & Graphics © 1999 by Gail Rae Hudson

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