She knew this. I could tell from the way her eyes glittered as she looked up at me, the tip of her tongue firm against my clit, circling it so slowly I thought she would almost stop. The cat ears were still perched atop her head, such an irresistible combination of adorably cute and clit-teasingly evil, I knew for certain whatever Lynn had said about her being a “nice girl” was ridiculously unfounded. Or possibly truer than she thought, depending on which way you looked at it.
The flat of her tongue was rubbing languidly against me, my pussy throbbing with a growing warmth as I climbed higher and higher, sparks darting through me, the sensation building almost painfully inside. Just one more flick, one more lick in the right spot, and I would be… I would be…
I came. Waves stronger than I had ever felt before engulfed my body, my wetness splattered across her face as I screamed until my throat felt hoarse. My hips writhed into her, my limbs spasming like I never thought was possible as pleasure jolted through every inch of my being, exhausting me beyond measure. I lay, motionless, unable to speak, as my kitty curled up at my side, planted an affectionate lick on my cheek, then finally spoke.
“So… my slave girl will probably be home soon…” She paused, almost smiling, as if trying to gauge my reaction. “I should go and get her hot chocolate ready for her… You don’t mind having two pets for the night, do you?”
I just stared at her, for the first time completely, utterly lost for words. Well.
There’s certainly nothing quite like nice girls.
SHE NEVER WEARS PERFUME
Sid March
The night is gray; the clouds are charcoal streaks of glitter and snow across an endless urban sky. I am stretched out on my bed, a worn mattress on the crooked wood floor of our apartment on the Plateau Mont-Royal. She is sitting by my feet, trailing her fingers up and down my calves.
She lowers her green eyes and her ballerina lashes project kaleidoscope shadows on her face. She looks so breakable.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she says, and tugs lightly at the ankles of my black jeans.
“I know.”
“Will you miss me?”
“I don’t know,” I lie.
“I’ll miss you.”
The air in the room feels so thick. I can barely breathe.
“Christy, I don’t want to talk now. I’m tired.”
She is wearing too much mascara and four silver rings. I see every last detail. I’m afraid to forget her.
“I’ll miss you,” she says again.
This is like a monsoon, la fin du monde. I stare her down; I change my mind. She can’t drown me. I don’t blink until she closes the door behind her.
I can’t imagine this place if it’s not our place. I need to get out. I count the seconds, count her footsteps so I can leave unnoticed. I put on my jacket, my favorite boots, a dark gray scarf. I might blend into the sky.
I slip out the front door, dragging my feet as I walk down our narrow block. I want to drink until tomorrow morning when she will have disappeared, I want to wash away the last few years of my life. There’s no point in trying to avoid her. She will never leave without saying good-bye.
I wander down the Main. It’s always crowded with the beautiful people, all so young and fashionable, hot women in sky-high stilettos and miniskirts despite the season. I try to expand my chest with a deep breath; I hold my chin a little higher. I try to distract myself. I smile at a slim girl with the most beautiful mocha skin, a tight dress and a tailored men’s jacket. Her eyes linger on me a second too long; I taste her pheromones as I pass.
I love those little flashes of what-if, but tonight, that kind of charged moment can’t even touch me. I consider going to sleep in a snowbank. Instead, I walk toward Carré St-Louis. The snow is piled high around all of the benches except one and a man is occupying the far end. His jacket is dirty and his beard is matted. I sit next to him and stare at the sleeping fountain in the middle of the park.
Gruff-voiced, he mumbles good evening. He’s francophone. I return the greeting.
He offers me a drink and a crooked smile. It’s a new bottle. I christen it for him and ask his name.
“François.”
How perfect. I introduce myself: “Frankie.”
His smile gets broader and he asks me why I’m not wearing gloves. Offers me another drink.
I tell him I forgot because my best friend is leaving tomorrow and it has me all fucked up. He says it isn’t every day your wife divorces you and I should be there to make sure she doesn’t give away our cats.
I tell him I will miss her.
He says she will definitely take the cats. Another man is approaching the bench and François grins and calls out something I can’t really understand. I catch his eye and wave good-bye. He tells me if I hurry she might have saved me dinner.
I wonder if his wife had been anything like Christy.
I head off slowly toward the apartment but there’s a rock in my stomach, a knot of dread caught in my throat. Blocks later, my key is in the lock. I try to turn it silently. It’s dark inside.
“Frankie?” She calls from the front room, her room, where the walls are painted burgundy and the curtains match her bedsheets.
“Christy?” I respond dryly as I head toward the kitchen.
“I really want to say good-bye to you.” She is talking a little louder than she ought to, her Maritime accent jangling and frantic, her words clipped short. She’s in the hall behind me, but I don’t turn around.
“I’m going to have a drink and hit the hay.” I throw a few ice cubes into a glass and pour myself a bourbon. Without looking at her, I go into my bedroom, I sigh audibly. I toss my jacket over the chair in the corner.
She knocks at the door. She has such perfect hands.
“I told you I’m going to sleep.”
“Please can I come in?”
Another sigh.
I turn the knob and she’s standing there with her own glass. Her eyes are shimmering like a blizzard. “Please, Frankie.”
Wordlessly, I let her pass. She sits on my bed. I take a heavy swig, put down my drink. I cross my arms over my chest.
“I’m going to miss you so much. Why won’t you talk to me?” She stares up at me, almost begging.
“I have nothing left to say.”
“I have so much to say to you though; this isn’t supposed to change anything.”
“Christy, this changes everything.” Maybe I’m selfish.
“I wrote you a letter.”
I look down at her. Her legs are crossed at the ankle and she’s wearing sheer black stockings and a short black skirt. I can see down her shirt. Her bra is red.
“Leave it for me when you go.”
“I want to give you something else,” she adds and reaches toward me. Her fingers slip into my belt loops.
My heart trips. “What?” I hold my glass tight and put it to my lips.
“Please,” she whispers, pulling me toward her. Slowly, I drop to my knees. We are so close I can smell that she is wearing jasmine; she never wears perfume.
I swallow my whiskey and then her mouth is on mine, she tastes like drunken cherries and at first she feels brave; I start to recoil and her soft lips tighten but this is her chance. She puts her hand in my hair; she’s pulling the blonde rattail hidden in my short mess of dyed-black. She kisses me again.
“Frankie,” she whispers, “I—” she thinks better of it. She starts to unbutton my shirt, tentatively. She looks at me. Her eyes seem unsure, but I can feel that her body is certain.