She hugs me from behind, bites my shoulders hard enough to hurt, sinuously licks my nape. I feel her breasts squish against my back, and I get even harder. Her hands start to slip into my shorts, brushing against my pubes, but, again, she pulls away, laughing.
I grab for her. I lock her wrists in my hands and push her down on the bed. I bite her nipples – alternating from one to the other – and she gasps and squirms. I pull her up and place her fingers on the elastic waist of my shorts. She pulls down my shorts, takes my dripping cock into her mouth.
She delicately scratches my chest while her mouth goes up and down the length of my penis. I could come right now. But I pull out of her mouth. I stick my thigh between her legs and rub her moistness against my skin while I play with her breasts.
After a while, I turn her around and push her down on the bed. I run my wet, hard cock on her skin, from her butt crack, along her spine, to the side of her neck. Her tongue slips out and licks me.
Leaving my cock next to her mouth, I reach down and grab her ass. I fondle it, kiss it, bite into it. I dip a finger into her moist cleft, and I tease her anus. She squirms and coos. I plunge deep into her asshole with my wet finger, and she screams in pleasure. I wriggle my finger inside her, slide it in and out tenderly. I look at her writhe with delight, and my heart swells up.
Eventually, she pulls her butt away and flips over.
She again takes my cock into her mouth. She pushes her crotch up against my mouth, and I slip my tongue inside her vagina. I pull back slightly and gently kiss her labia. I tease her by running my tongue on either side of her clit, never quite touching it.
Meanwhile, her mouth slides up and down my cock; her fingers play with my balls. Then, she lets my cock slip out of her mouth, and works on me with her hands.
I can barely keep from bursting. I struggle to hold on just a little longer.
I cover her vagina with my mouth and work on her clit with my tongue. Her breathing changes, and I can tell she’s going to come soon.
In a sudden, almost violent, move, I pull away. She whimpers.
I grab her feet and run my teeth against her soles. Her whimpers turn to moans. I spread her legs, my tongue licking her inner thighs. Her moans become sharp cries. I kiss her belly. My hands find her breasts, my fingers squeeze her nipples. My lips find her mouth. My cock finds the wet opening between her legs.
I plunge deep into her; and she screams, comes, and then whispers the syllables I desperately want to hear, the inevitable name: “Andrei…”
And then I come inside of her, and the jism spurts out of me in neverending waves. In my mind’s eye, I see the beautiful face of my dead friend.
What Happened to That Girl
Marie Lyn Bernard
Christy, my fourth and final foster sister, disappeared from our home on the morning of her eighteenth birthday, three weeks before both Jason and I left for college in Santa Barbara. Now apparently Christy’s a porn star. Jason called me this morning at 9 a.m. to break the news.
We ’re grown-ups now, the kind that don’t talk about things like Christy or things like porn. We have grown-up lives – I’m working on my masters in biology, Jay’s a computer programmer. I still masturbate to those eighties videos we’d buy at the smut shop out by the airport; I still salivate for the women in legwarmers, their bangs as fluffy as whipped cream. But when we talk about sex now, it’s a lot like talking about football.
I remember the afternoon of Christy’s departure vividly, even though Jason and I never speak of it. She shared a room with our other foster sister, Rochelle, but Rochelle was at tap class that afternoon and so we were free to lie in Christy’s bed and bask in the air she left behind: the lingering scent of drugstore Vanilla Musk and weed. We held her abandoned panties to our faces and inhaled. We closed our eyes and remembered her, mutually avoiding the fact of one another’s hard-ons, those nasty flags in our track pants.
I often reminded myself: Jason wasn’t my real brother and Christy wasn’t my real sister. Our family played host to a number of foster kids over the years and our house felt, at times, like some sort of privatized orphanage. My mother liked it that way. Perhaps she felt the guilt of the newly and unfortunately wealthy – my father was killed in a car accident while I was still a baby – or perhaps she was just restless without her husband. My mother has a heart like the Tupperware she hawked at neighbourhood barbecues: sturdy, durable, long-lasting. She has a fierce ability to endure heartbreak. I, her only biological son, do not.
Jason, the son of a Dominican teenager, was the closest thing I had to a permanent sibling. He moved in when I was eight and stayed. He was the kind of guy that never looked back, and I’m the guy who misses things even before they go, who clings to worthless relationships, dead-end jobs. Even when Jason reminded me that Christy would surely flee upon becoming legal, I imagined she’d change her mind, that our lives of varsity athletics and chicken dinners would quell her thirst for fast cars and drugs and the dark corners of the human psyche that enabled her to live so easily without love, and without family.
That afternoon was a mess of taboo. Resigned to unrequited lust in Christy’s bed, we pumped our hands around our own shafts, simultaneously, the air dense with the potential of our love. I worked my clean-cut dick and saw that it was smaller than Jason’s, which was uncircumcised and thick, the kind of dick I imagined girls wanted inside them, the dick that still makes me tentative to unveil my own.
A strange kind of dance, that mutual masturbation: our synchronized movements, my fingers rubbing the rim of the head, our exhalations swimming in a fog of long-deferred desire.
I still think of Christy every day, of how she was then: a year older than us with the reading skills of a grade-schooler and the coy wit of someone who didn’t need something so trivial as reading skills. She streaked her short black hair with skunk-lines of red and white, wore pigtails and stocking caps and bandanas during all the wrong seasons. I remember her slight body; her handful-sized breasts, her skinny pale limbs, her irresistibly full mouth lined with shoplifted glamazon lipstick. She hung out in punk bars, and hung out on my favourite couch, legs sprawled everywhere, playing Chutes and Ladders with Rochelle and yelling at the adulterers on television talk shows. When I dream of her, it’s those legs, wrapping around my back like some kind of giant, earth-shattering hug.
“Seth, you aren’t gonna believe this,” Jason tells me on the phone. “You’re gonna bust a nut. I was like – I don’t even know. All I know is, you gotta see this. You gotta see it, like, now.”
“Bring it over,” I say. “I was gonna study, but I mean, this is like, a special occasion or some shit—”
“Dude, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” I feel my chest. Hot. My forehead. Hot.
“All right, man, I’ll see ya.”
Hot. Hot.
By the time Christy moved in we were grown. Mom was always out – taking yoga, flitting around with her social circle of estranged housewives – so she didn’t care, really, that Christy pranced around the house in men’s wifebeaters, her nipples visible beneath the flimsy fabric, or that Christy sometimes didn’t sleep at home, or that Christy had become Rochelle’s mentor, or that Christy played loud music at inappropriate times. Christy went to school – diligently, dressed in my father’s old college hoodies – and she was always on time for dinner, so it didn’t matter.
And my mother didn’t know that Christy liked to bound through the bathroom door when I was washing up, announce, “Shower time!” and strip bare, naked all of a sudden and setting my veins on fire with her callousness, to jump into the shower, pulling the curtain tight just before my erection reached full-mast.