The hunchback in the belfry had jumped and was swinging madly on the rope. She started to tell him something but then thought no. They fell together, folded toward each other, and then she leaned back, arching, shored on her back-braced arms, and she let him pace the occasion.
At some point she opened her eyes and saw him watching her, measuring her progress, and he looked a little isolated and wan and she pulled his head down to her and sucked salt from his tongue and heard the sort of breast-slap, the splash of upper bodies and the banging bed.
Then it was a matter of close concentration. The nameless girl spread her legs under the sheets. What I mean is, the drawer holds fear and photographs and men who can never be found, as well as papers. So the cop turned out the light and unzipped his fly. The girl closed her eyes when he turned her face down.
She felt his pants against her buttocks and the metallic cold of the belt buckle. He was on his side, but she still had her head buried in the sheets. His index and middle finger probed her ass, massaged her sphincter, and she opened her mouth without a sound. He pushed his fingers all the way in, the girl moaned and raised her haunches, he felt the tips of his fingers brush something to which he instantly gave the name stalagmite. Then he thought it might be shit, but the color of the body that he was touching kept blazing green and white, like his first impression.
The girl moaned hoarsely. He worked his fingers in and out. The words came to a stop in the middle of a metro station. There was no one there. The policeman blinked. I guess the risk of the gaze was partly overcome by the exercise of his profession. The girl was sweating profusely and moved her legs with great care. Her ass was wet and occasionally quivered.
They kissed, and it was in this moment of relative optimism for Florence that she felt his arms tense, and suddenly, in one deft athletic move, he had rolled on top of her, and though his weight was mostly through his elbows and forearms planted on either side of her head, she was pinned down and helpless, and a little breathless beneath his bulk. She felt disappointment that he had not lingered to stroke her pubic area again and set off that strange and spreading thrill. But her immediate preoccupation — an improvement on revulsion or fear — was to keep up appearances, not to let him down or humiliate herself, or seem a poor choice among all the women he had known.
She was going to get through this. She would never let him know what a struggle it was, what it cost her, to appear calm. She was without any other desire but to please him and make this night a success, and without any other sensation beyond an awareness of the end of his penis, strangely cool, repeatedly jabbing and bumping into and around her urethra. Her panic and disgust, she thought, were under control, she loved Edward, and all her thoughts were on helping him have what he so dearly wanted and to make him love her all the more.
It was in this spirit that she slid her right hand down between his groin and hers. He lifted a little to let her through. She found his testicles first and, not at all afraid now, she curled her fingers softly round this extraordinary bristling item she had seen in different forms on dogs and horses, but had never quite believed could fit comfortably on adult humans. Drawing her fingers across its underside, she arrived at the base of his penis, which she held with extreme care, for she had no idea how sensitive or robust it was.
She trailed her fingers along its length, noting with interest its silky texture, right to the tip, which she lightly stroked; and then, amazed by her own boldness, she moved back down a little, to take his penis firmly, about halfway along, and pulled it downwards, a slight adjustment, until she felt it just touching her labia. How could she have known what a terrible mistake she was making? Had she pulled on the wrong thing? Had she gripped too tight? He gave out a wail, a complicated series of agonised, rising vowels, the sort of sound she had heard once in a comedy film when a waiter, weaving this way and that, appeared to be about to drop a towering pile of soup plates.
In horror she let go, as Edward, rising up with a bewildered look, his muscular back arching in spasms, emptied himself over her in gouts, in vigorous but diminishing quantities, filling her navel, coating her belly, thighs, and even a portion of her chin and kneecap in tepid, viscous fluid.
One of them wrestled her to the cold damp sand, hard-packed as dirt. Norma Jeane grabbed at him desperately, arms around his head, Eddy G sank to his knees beside them and fumbled with the panties, finally ripping them off. Her mouth moved down, then farther. He touched the top of her head, her fragile skull under wet hair, pulled her up gently. He wanted slowness, warmth, kissing. She pressed down again, her body against his chest, and at last her mouth found his. He imagined the quiet street outside shining in the lights, the millions of souls warm and listening to the rain in their beds.
He was close but held off, until at last she whispered, Go. Come out and joust. A genius. Lotto had long known it in his bones. Since he was a tiny boy, shouting on a chair, making grown men grow pink and weep. But how nice to get such confirmation, and in such a format, too.
Under the golden ceiling, under the golden wife. All right, then. He could be a playwright. He watched as the Lotto he thought he had been stood up in his greasepaint and jerkin, his doublet sweated through, panting, the roar inside him going external as the audience rose in ovation. Ghostly out of his body he went, giving an elaborate bow, passing for good through the closed door of the apartment.
There should have been nothing left. And yet, some kind of Lotto remained. A separate him, a new one, below his wife, who was sliding her face up his stomach, pushing the string of her thong to one side, enveloping him. His hands were opening her robe to show her breasts like nestlings, her chin tipped up toward their vaguely reflected bodies.
No more Lotto. We will make this happen. If it meant his wife smiling through her blond lashes at him again, his wife posting atop him like a prize equestrienne, he could change. He could become what she wanted. No longer failed actor. Potential playwright. And still a sort of pain, a loss. He closed his eyes against it and moved in the dark toward what, just now, only Mathilde could see so clearly. Half an hour later, his eyes closed, then suddenly opened, tears and sweat dripping down onto her, he calls out her name, and in response Jamie comes at the same time that he does.
Her facial expression is one of pleasure mixed with horrified surprise. After a moment—she has broken out into quick shocked laughter—he looks into her eyes and imagines that her spirit, without knowing how or why, has suddenly disobeyed the force of gravity that has governed it. Her soul, no longer a myth but now a fact, ascends above her body. Like a little metallic bird unused to flight, unsteady in its progress, her soul rises and falls, frightened by the heights and by what it sees, but excited, too, by being married to him for a few seconds, just before it plummets back to earth.
He turned his head so his cheek was flat against her. He could feel her muscles moving softly — her coming was more in her mind still; when she got closer she would become a single band of muscle, like a fish — all of her would move at once, flickering and curving, unified from jaw to tail. His mind was half in hers.
He felt her still loose-jointed drift — only an occasional little coil in the current tugging at her harder, moving her toward the flood. Then she breathed — he felt her body move as if her mouth opened on all of him — she took a breath and let herself go tumbling. After a while they moved up the bank as though they had to escape the flood.
They clambered onto the table of higher ground, onto the spartina. He got his feet out of his pants and made a bed of them for her on the long flattened stalks. Everything was brighter than in the creek — all around them the even tops of the spartina caught flat shadowless starlight.
He reached under her back to smooth out broken stems. For an instant he felt her feel his body, felt her register him, his inner sounds, the outer wave of them pressing toward her. And then they both fell into their own urgencies, overlapping disturbances, like waves from separate storms, at first damping, then amplifying each other.
They lay still in their pit of gray light. Her cheek moved against his. He had no idea what her expression was now — maybe smiling, maybe recovering herself the way she laughed at herself after she cried. She moved her head and kissed his mouth. She stayed quiet, though.
He caught one more feeling from the heavy stillness of their bodies. They were both stunned by sadness. Tomorrow there was more light in the room, and they split a half-bottle of white wine from the minibar before they began. Yolande was bolder and far more loquacious. Would you like to suck my breasts? Go ahead. Is that nice? Can I suck you? Was that nice? Sure I like to do it. Sucking and licking are very primal pleasures. But he was elated too. He hung on for dear life. Smugly, he showed her his pinga, as it was indelicately called in his youth.
He was sitting on the bed in the Hotel Splendour and leaning back in the shadows, while she was standing by the bathroom door. And just looking at her fine naked body, damp with sweat and happiness, made his big thing all hard again. That thing burning in the light of the window was thick and dark as a tree branch. In those days, it sprouted like a vine from between his legs, carried aloft by a powerful vein that precisely divided his body, and flourished upwards like the spreading top branches of a tree, or, he once thought while looking at a map of the United States, like the course of the Mississippi River and its tributaries.
On that night, as on many other nights, he pulled up the tangled sheets so that she could join him on the bed again. And soon Vanna Vane was grinding her damp bottom against his chest, belly, and mouth and strands of her dyed blond hair came slipping down between their lips as they kissed. I do not say anything.
Instead I roll in the bed, reach across, and touch her, and because she is surprised she turns to me. When I kiss her the lips are dry, cracking against mine, unfamiliar as the ocean floor. But then the lips give. They part. I am inside her mouth, and there, still hidden from the world, as if ruin had forgotten a part, it is wet— Lord! I have the feeling of a miracle. Her tongue comes forward. I do not know myself then, what man I am, who I lie with in embrace. I can barely remember her beauty. She touches my chest and I bite lightly on her lip, spread moisture to her cheek and then kiss there.
She makes something like a sigh. My hand finds her fingers and grips them, bone and tendon, fragile things. She arches her body like a cat on a stretch. She nuzzles her cunt into my face like a filly at the gate. She smells of the sea. She smells of rockpools when I was a child. She keeps a starfish in there. I crouch down to taste the salt, to run my fingers around the rim.
She opens and shuts like a sea anemone. He touched her on the forehead between her eyes and ran his finger down the line of her nose. She had never imagined you could say those words and still feel tender, but now she was lying on her side and he was lying on his and he had those clear blue Catchprice eyes and such sweet crease marks around his eyes. She let him undress her and caress her swollen body. God, she thought— this is how people die. She began to kiss him, to kiss his chest, to nuzzle her face among the soft apple-sweet hairs, discovering as she did so a hunger for the scents and textures of male skin.
At fourteen I had discovered that a tongue had no real taste. I was sucking the tongue of a boy named Tanner, and I was sucking his tongue because I liked the way his fingers looked on the keys of the piano as he played it, and I had liked the way he looked from the back as he walked across the pasture, and also, when I was close to him, I liked the way behind his ears smelled. As I was sucking away, I was thinking, Taste is not the thing to seek out in a tongue; how it makes you feel— that is the thing.
He put his head between my legs, nuzzling at first. His beard was a little rough on the insides of my thighs. Then with his lips, then his tongue, he struck fire. I had to cry out in astonishment, in gratitude at being touched in that right place. Somehow, it alwaysmakes me grateful when a man finds the right place, maybe because when I was young so many of them kept finding the wrong place, or a series of wrong places, or no place at all.
That strange feeling: gratitude and hunger. My hunger was being teased. It also felt like a punishment. She is in a good mood. She is very playful. As they enter her building she becomes the secretary. They are going to dictate some letters. Oh, yes? She lives alone, she admits, turning on the stairs. Is that so, the boss says. In the room they undress independently, like Russians sharing a train compartment. Then they turn face to face. She is so wet by the time he has the pillows under her gleaming stomach that he goes right into her in one long, delicious move.
They begin slowly. When he is close to coming he pulls his prick out and lets it cool. Then he starts again, guiding it with one hand, feeding it in like line. She begins to roll her hips, to cry out. Finally he takes it out again. As he waits, tranquil, deliberate, his eye keeps falling on lubricants—her face cream, bottles in the armoire. They distract him. Their presence seems frightening, like evidence. They begin once more and this time do not stop until she cries out and he feels himself come in long, trembling runs, the head of his prick touching bone, it seems.
They lie exhausted, side by side, as if just having beached a great boat. I make her a cup of coffee. She stands by the window peering cautiously through the blinds to the street. I crawl to her on my knees. She looks down at me skeptically. She places her leg on a chair and guides my face to her and tells me where to lick and where to suck. Stripping her top and skirt. The next forty minutes is spent with me trying to please her with my tongue until my mouth is dry and sore. She slaps me a few times over by the couch and for a moment I think this is going to work. She hits me particularly hard once and I feel my eye starting to swell again and she stops.
Nothing is safe. She rides up over me. Like an oven. She lies on top of me, biting me lightly. I grip her legs and stay quiet. Her chest is against my chest. This is sex. She obeyed — impotent out of choice, submissive because she wanted to be. She saw him looking between her legs, he could see her black pants, her long stockings, her thighs, he could imagine her pubic hair, her sex.
She leaped up from her chair.
She found it hard to stand straight and realised that she was drunker than she thought. Lower your head, respect your master! She drank another one, two, three glasses of vodka.
She felt like an object, a mere instrument, and incredible though it may seem, that feeling of submission gave her a sense of complete freedom. She was no longer the teacher, the one who instructs, consoles, listens to confessions, the one who excites; before the awesome power of this man, she was just a girl from the interior of Brazil. The order was delivered abruptly, without a flicker of desire, and yet, nothing could have been more erotic.
Keeping her head down as a sign of reverence, Maria unbuttoned her dress and let it slip to the floor. You need to be punished. How dare a girl your age contradict me? You should be on your knees before me! Maria made as if to kneel down, but the whip brought her up short; for the first time it touched her flesh — her buttocks.
It stung, but seemed to leave no mark. Another stinging whiplash. For a fraction of a second, it occurred to her that she could either stop this right now or else choose to go through with it, not for the money, but because of what he had said the first time — that you only know yourself when you go beyond your limits. And this was new, it was an Adventure, and she could decide later on if she wanted to continue, but at that moment, she had ceased to be the girl with just three aims in life, who earned her living with her body, who had met a man who had an open fire and interesting stories to tell.
Here, she was no one, and being no one meant that she could be everything she had ever dreamed of. And walk up and down so that I can see you. Once more she obeyed, keeping her head down, saying not a word. The man who was watching her, still fully dressed and utterly impassive, was not the same person who had chatted to her on their way here from the club — he was a Ulysses who had travelled from London, a Theseus come down from the heavens, a kidnapper invading the safest city in the world, and who had the coldest heart on earth. She removed her pants and her bra, feeling at once defenceless and protected.
The whip cracked again, this time without touching her body. He grabbed her arms and put the first pair of handcuffs on her wrists. Until you learn to behave yourself. He slapped her bottom with the flat of his hand. Maria cried out; this time it had hurt. Before she could do anything, he had placed a leather gag on her mouth. She was naked, gagged and handcuffed, with vodka flowing in her veins rather than blood. He slapped her again and again, whether she deserved it or not, and she felt the pain and felt the humiliation — which was more intense and more potent than the pain — and she felt as if she were in another world, in which nothing existed, and it was an almost religious feeling: self-annihilation, subjective and a complete loss of any sense of Ego, desire or selfless!?
She was very wet and very aroused, but unable to understand what was going on. Since she always kept her head down, as a sign of obedience and humiliation, Maria could not see exactly what was happening, but she noticed that in that other universe, on that other planet, the man was breathing hard, worn out with wielding the whip and spanking her hard on the buttocks, whilst she felt herself filling up with strength and energy. He violently forced her legs apart — although she knew this violence would not actually harm her — and tied each leg to one corner of the bed.
Now that her wrists were handcuffed behind her, her legs splayed, her mouth gagged, when would he penetrate her? She saw him place the end of the whip handle against her vagina. He rubbed it up and down, and when it touched her clitoris, she lost all control.
She had no idea how long they had been there nor how many times she had been spanked, but suddenly she came and had the orgasm which, in all those months, dozens, no, hundreds of men had failed to give her. There was a burst of light, she felt herself entering a kind of black hole in her soul, in which intense pain and fear mingled with total pleasure, pushing her beyond all previously known limits and she moaned and screamed, her voice muffled by the gag, she writhed about on the bed, feeling the handcuffs cutting into her wrists and the leather thongs bruising her ankles, she moved as never before precisely because she could not move, she screamed as never before because she had a gag on her mouth and no one would be able to hear her.
This was pain and pleasure, the end of the whip handle pressing ever harder against her clitoris and the orgasm flooding out of her mouth, her vagina, her pores, her eyes, her skin. The kiss, unbearably fragile, a spike of sensation, shoulders the frame. Everything Elaine thinks about who she is, what she is, is irrelevant.
There are no words, only sensation, smooth sensation. Elaine feels powerless, suddenly stoned. Pat is kissing her. Kissing: fast, hard, deep, frantic, long and slow. Pat is at her breast. Phenomenal confusion. Her knees buckle, she collapses to the floor. Pat goes with her. Pat is smooth and buttery, not like Paul, not a mass of fur, a jumble of abrasion from beard to prick. Pat is soft, enveloping. Only this is far more personal — Pat is taking possession of Elaine. Elaine is lifting her hip, her khakis are tossed off under the kitchen table.
Pat is still in her robe. The robe opens, exposing Pat. Pat spreads herself out over Elaine, skin to skin, breast to breast. Pat against her, not ripe, repulsive. And Pat is on top, grinding against Elaine, humping her in a strangely prickless pose. They are two full-grown women, mothers, going at each other on the kitchen floor. A thick, musky scent rises, a sexual stew. Pat pulls off the ring, it skitters across the floor, and she slips her hand back into Elaine, finding the spot. Elaine comes in cacophonous convulsions, great guttural exaltations. Elaine is concentrating, trying to figure out exactly what Pat is doing.
Every lick, every flick causes an electric surge, a tiny sharp shock, to flash through her body. She is seeing flashes of light, fleeting images. She pushes Pat away. Chang stirred me yet again as he climbed on top of his wife and me. The inopportune logistics meant I had no choice but to curl against Adelaide, to cover her body partially— at the curve of her hip— and to move along her leg as my brother rocked back and forth. Chang saw my eyes were opened; he turned away quickly, and I closed them. As tightly as I could. I strained to keep my eyes shut as knees, elbows, fingers poked or bounced off me.
Our band ached. Though my eyes were closed, I knew she was still on top of my brother because her hair gladdened my neck once again. I let my stare glide over her coloring face, following the swerve of bone in her exquisite cheek. Another accident, her fingers ran involuntarily against my palms before she could withdraw her embarrassed hand. She was alarmed and self-conscious and nearly crying. I felt alone and exposed. Meanwhile, Chang, eyes closed, perspired, bit his lip, and then began triumphantly to smile.
I felt something, too, like a feather dragged lightly across the length of my body, chin to feet, and I shivered. The wind made a shrill noise through the magnolias outside, and the mattress sounded its own creaky song. Absentmindedly he strokes her long hair, soft from all that swimming, as it flows on his abdomen. Now that her sexual push is past, his prick has hardened, the competing muscles of anxiety having at last relaxed. But she, she is relaxed all over, asleep with his prick in her face. He moves her off his chest and works her inert body around so they lie side by side and he can fuck her from behind.
Slickly admitted, he pumps slowly, pulling the sheet up over them both. Not hot enough yet for the fan verses air-conditioner decision, both are tucked around the attic somewhere, back under the dusty caves, strain your back lifting it out, he has never liked the chill of air-conditioning even when it was only to be had at the movies and thought to be a great treat drawing you in right off the hot sidewalk, the word COOL in blue-green with icicles on the marquee, always seemed to him healthier to live in the air God gave however lousy and let your body adjust, Nature can adjust to anything.
Still, some of these nights, sticky, and the cars passing below with that wet-tire sound, the kids with their windows open or tops down and radios blaring just at the moment of dropping off to sleep, your skin prickling wherever it touched cloth and a single mosquito alive in the room. His prick is stiff as stone inside a sleeping woman. He strokes her ass, the crease where it nestles against his belly, must start jogging again, the crease between its halves and that place within the crease, opposite of a nipple, dawned on him gradually over these years that she had no objection to being touched there, seemed to like it when she was under him his hand beneath her bottom.
He used to come easing into bed sometimes, not too drunk. I want him to open them for me. He does, and I be soft and wet where his fingers are strong and hard. I be softer than I ever been before. All my strength is in his hand. My brain curls up like wilted leaves.
Too heavy to hold, and too light not to.
The Boy in the Basement - NonConsent/Reluctance - maliwahyca.cf
He puts his thing in me. In me. His face is next to mine. The bedsprings sounds like them crickets used to back home. He puts his fingers in mine, and we stretches our arms outwise like Jesus on the cross. I hold on tight. My fingers and my feet hold on tight, because everything else is going, going. I know he wants me to come first. Not until he does. Not until I feel him loving me. Just me. Sinking into me. Not until I know that my flesh is all that be on his mind. That he would die rather than take his thing out of me. Of me. Not until he has let go of all he has, and give it to me.
To me. When he does, I feel a power. I be strong, I be pretty, I be young. And then I wait. He shivers and tosses his head. Now I be strong enough, pretty enough, and young enough to let him make me come. I take my fingers out of his and put my hands on his behind. My legs drop back onto the bed. I begin to feel those little bits of color floating up into me— deep in me.
But I know I will. And I do. And it be rainbow all inside. And it lasts and lasts and lasts. I say yes. He gets off me and lies down to sleep. The bedroom was freezing, and when she slid into the bed, the cool of the soft yellow sheets brought up goose pimples. He liked to leave the lights off and reach for her under the covers, as if they were doing something that had to be kept secret.
She could feel his fat, bloated penis bumping her, clumsily. It made her think of a Newfoundland puppy, a creature whose gawky, immature, undisciplined behavior was completely inappropriate to its size. He was at her nipples now, this overgrown adolescent, sucking, but too hard, making her sore and angry.
So many men were plagued with premature ejaculation, impotence, and other sexual dysfunctions, but always the wrong men. But as soon as those thoughts passed through her mind, they were drowned out by a roar of remorse. So she lay there, moving her body lightly, trying to set off a spark, something that she, or, less likely, he could fan into a flame. Thomas was in for the long haul at her chest. He was hesitant, always had been, about touching her anywhere below the waist, as if it might be disrespectful to do so. The length of her body is the simple answer to what I am missing.
We are drifting against each other now. Sex is the raft, but sleep is the ocean and the waves are coming up. Katie sits up and places her warm legs on each side of me, her breasts falling forward in the motion, and as she lifts herself ever so slightly in a way that is the exact synonym for losing my breath, we see something. The homely and erotic patterns of marriage are not easily discarded. They knelt face to face in the center of the bed undressing each other slowly. He too felt proprietorial tenderness once she was naked. He registered the changes, the slight thickening at the waist, the large breasts a little smaller.
From living alone, he thought, as he closed his mouth around the nipple of one and pressed the other against his cheek. Not governments or publicity firms or research departments, but biology, existence, matter itself had dreamed this up for its own pleasure and perpetuity, and this was exactly what you were meant to do, it wanted you to like it. In his room, I stripped naked in one minute flat and lay on the bed. If he left me, in short, it would be my fault. Psychoanalysts are like that. Never fuck a psychoanalyst is my advice to all you young things out there. Anyway, it was no good. Or not much.
I wound up with a tiny ripple of an orgasm and a very sore cunt. But somehow I was pleased. What do you want to lie for? I can do much better than that. I was caught up short by his candor. I admit it. In his hotel room he used his hands to hold her head, moved it with deliberate but tempered force— far more than a suggestion— from a spot on his neck to his chest to himself.
He kept his hands pressed firmly to her ears, then played with strands of her hair. He moved her head then away from himself so that he could feel her breasts there, between her breasts, and he pressed them close around it, which no one had ever. He was so sure of himself. So cock-centered. The phrase had never occurred to her before that moment, when it was locked between her breasts. When he was inside of her later, she felt the same taut, sure strength in his hips as they pressed into her, forcing her to press back. She felt as if she were getting ready for a dive, jumping up and down on the end of the diving board to get a feel for the springs.
Tighter than she had expected. Though she offered no resistance and came right before he did. When they caught their breath and pulled the covers back up, Stephen kissed her on the cheek, a quick good-night kiss, and rolled over and slept by himself. Nora entered the living room naked, a bad idea with guests in the house, and from the weave of her walk he could see how drunk she was. She got into bed beside him and turned unceremoniously upon her back.
Such complex passivity on her part was unknown to him— except for those times when he started things rolling by applying his mouth to her. This he began to do, swiftly losing himself in the flowery complexities of her labia, until her thighs tightened in refusal and she sat up, taking his face between her hands.
She felt abnormally tight as he entered her. And then there was a further surprise; she was silent. For an irrational moment he wished it too. And then he spurted his useless seed. And another year or two later, I was in Paris on business; and one morning on the landing of a hotel, where I had been looking up a film actor fellow, there she was again, clad in a gray tailored suit, waiting for the elevator to take her down, a key dangling from her fingers.
A chair at the door of her room supported a tray with the remains of breakfast—a honey-stained knife, crumbs on the gray porcelain; but the room had already been done, and because of our sudden draft a wave of muslin embroidered with white dahlias got sucked in, with a shudder and a knock, between the responsive halves of the French window, and only when the door had been locked did they let go of that curtain with something like a blissful sigh; and a little later I stepped out on the diminutive cast-iron balcony beyond to inhale a combined smell of dry maple leaves and gasoline….
Every night after that I carefully soaped Malkele from her long graceful neck down to each and every toe. Though her limbs were atrophied and her spine bent slightly backwards, her small breasts remained girlish and as lovely as her face. Soaping Malkele, slowly, gently, quietly, became for us our kaddish for our obscured childhood and for our dead mother and father. This soaping was our only defense against the looming Nazi death machinery. During the day we longed for those few moments of slippery tenderness. My own muscles craved it as much as hers.
Yes, yes, we were, after a fashion, Malkele and I, lovers. I washed her hair. She still cursed and threatened me. I soaped every inch of her body. I caressed her pointy nipples with the palm of my hand. I dried her and helped her into her nightgown. I carried her to her bed. I brushed her thick reddish black hair in the candle-lit bedroom. Sometimes after that, I lay with her.
That restraint, which I adhered to religiously— Malkele, I am sure, would have welcomed me, though even she was never bold enough to ask … If we should omit these most private details from the historical record, there is no way to appreciate fully the richness of life for two young Jews, surviving temporarily, with false identifications as Pavel and Maria Witlin, on the Aryan side of Nazi-occupied Warsaw. On an outing of our family association, I once cored an apple, saw to my astonishment and with the aid of my obsession what it looked like, and ran off into the woods to fall upon the orifice of the fruit, pretending that the cool and mealy hole was actually between the legs of that mythical being who always called me Big Boy when she pleaded for what no girl in all recorded history had ever had.
I pushed aside my pillows and turned onto my stomach. My feet hung off the end of the bed, my toes hooked over the edge. The way I do. And through my cotton nightgown, I put two fingers of my right hand on my clitoris and thought of him. Standing in a room, coming toward me, watching me undress. Surely that must be part of it, but there is something more, perhaps the thrill that first came to me as a small girl, pressing my fingers against myself, the cloth interceding between my fingers and my vagina, interceding between shame and pleasure.
One Sunday morning in boarding school I found my roommate lying on her back on the tile floor of the shower stall. Her legs … were splayed on either side of the spigots, the water cascading between her slack muscular thighs. She urged me to try it. Women will talk about anything— sexual jealousy, dishonor, the lovely advantages of eating pussy or sucking cock— but they will not tell you about fucking themselves.
I thought most excerpts were rather bland. EXCERPT She felt his fingers rubbing against her panties and she opened her legs a little more, thinking how she would earn five times the money, if he pushed his fingers any further. A quickie over the armchair or on the kitchen table was a hundred quid, the same price as a sixty-nine and she looked at his sly grin, while she continued to read through the list.
She stood facing him now, with her legs apart and his fingers pumped into her pussy like pistons. This was amazing, because she had been in the house less than ten minutes, barely knew the man, yet she was wondering how she could get him to fuck her and earn some more money. She saw his massive cock wavering before her and realised he wanted a blowjob.
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His cock was fully seven inches long, but so thick and knobbly it made her tremble with fear. Although she was still a teenager, she was quite experienced at giving a BJ, but never to a cock this size. She climbed onto my lap, and we jostled a bit until I was inside her, and then we just sat there like that for a while, mouths together, chest to chest, not moving, except for our breath. She stopped kissing me and spit in her hand, then reached down in between us, making a serious face. Then she began to move against me, and grip me harder, and I took her in my arms and pushed her onto her back as her breathing raced and she put her nails into my chest and I brushed back the hair from her eyes.
Later, after it was over, we both lay on my towel and she smoked. Again, it was silent, but this time the quiet felt uneasy, and when I tried to put my arm around her, she shrugged me off. Watching him wearing my clothes was an unbearable turn-on. And he knew it. It was turning both of us on. The thought of his cock rubbing the netted fabric where mine had rested reminded me how, before my very eyes, and after so much exertion, he had finally shot his load on my chest.
It was the porousness, the fungibility of our bodies—what was mine was suddenly being lured back again? At the table, he decided t osit at my side and, when no one was looking, slipped his foot not on top of but under mine. I knew my foot was rough from always walking barefoot; his was smooth: last night I had kissed his foot and sucked his toes; now they were snuggled under my callused foot and I needed to protect my protector. Want to see sick? I hesitated to say yes… He dipped his finger into the core of the peach and brought it to his mouth. John Fox, Thank you, thank you, thank you for your blog on written sex.
I came upon your sight because I am looking to round out my knowledge in the expansive realms of writing non-fiction. My creative non fiction book production has spanned more than a year and my doubts as to the sex scenes remaining in the book, have changed with the numerous tides of feelings that can invade a person over time. I am delighted to have found your blog and am smiling as I write this short thank you note. I have read, I add with speed, the sex scenes offered above and noted the diversity in this area of the written word which once again attracts my appreciation.
I have taken note of the books that you recommend and will read them over the next few weeks, and hopefully gain what it is that will enhance my writing skills for my book and be confident in its completion. I initially googled prompts for creative non fiction and read yours with interest as I am wishing to write a short non fiction story for a competition by the end of this month. Thank you, once again, for your suggestions. Kindest regards Annette Hefford. The grand majority of these, when not portraying something straight-up illegal and disturbing e.
She manages to describe displacement or emotional frustration even in her most hot sex scenes. Some texts are quite disturbing exactly due to its erotic appeal. I walked down the hall and peeked slowly opened the door. There, in his bed, was Joey. He was naked and straddled over a life size doll. In fact, it was a doll that I remember seeing in Laura's room. His hand was rubbing his penis, which was larger than I would have expected to see on an 11 year old.
It stuck out from a reasonable thick bush of pubic hair. Alas, this boy who needs babysitting had the prick of a man. I watched quietly as he picked up a plastic sandwich baggie and placed it over his cock and wrapped it around. He then took the wrapped penis and put it between the doll's legs! He slid up until his pubic hair touched the cloth crotch of the doll. He then started to fuck it. He bounced up and down and slid back and forth on it. He rubbed the two small cloth mounds that make up the doll's fake breasts. I thought about my first time.
I was 16 and was under pressure from my friends to do it. Turns out, none of them ever had and they called me a slut after I did it with some guy I met at a party. Funny, I enjoyed it. But because of the name calling I got, I never went all the way with a guy after that. Joey's plaything made me think of all I've done to get rid of sexual stress.
I've fingered myself, used objects like bananas, and the like. Joey's use of a cloth doll made me think of the penis that I had constructed from some velvet and pillow stuffing when I was I would slide the soft pillow in and out of me while pretending it was Mel Gibson or someone of the like.
It would get yucky with my lubrication, so I would make another. Each time, it would be a little bigger and with more stuffing. He was bucking his hips faster and faster until his butt clenched. He was exhausted and placed his chest against that of the doll. He rolled off after about a minute. The plastic bag stuck to his cock. He carefully pulled it off, white goo sticking to the bag and he prick. He picked up a tissue and wiped off his penis. He pushed the dirty tissue into the baggie and wrapped the plastic into a a paper bag and put the paper bag into his backpack.
He then picked up the doll and, still nude, came over to the door. I was able to move into a doorway just in time. He slipped into his sleeping twin's room and returned without the doll. He went back into his own room, put on his PJ's, and went to sleep. I was horney as Hell by this point. I remembered seeing a bowl of fruit in the kitchen.
Lucky me, there was a banana. I took it in my hand and slipped into the bathroom. I lowered my jeans and panties and sat on the toilet seat. With my legs spread, I slowly pushed the yellow fruit into my crack and pumped it while I dreamed of being fucked by a faceless man with a huge cock.
I came quickly. I pulled out the banana and looked at it. Covered with my female cream. I took a paper towel and wiped if off. I put my pants back on and put the fruit, no worse off than before, in the fruit bowl. I was invited back to sit the next weekend. You know, those post new years eve parties. Anyhow, I was really excited about going because I now knew about the porno rags. Besides, the fact that I had fucked myself with a banana and then put it back where someone, maybe Mr.
Smith, would eat it. Sure enough, the banana was gone it would have been black and mushy anyway. At ten, Joey went upstairs to take a bath. Laura had just gone to bed. When I heard the water stop, a quietly crept upstairs. From within the bathroom I could hear water gently splashing. I very quietly opened the door a crack.
There, standing in the tub, was Joey.