All characters in this story
are over eighteen. Some are well over a hundred.
My cunt hurt. It was dry and
raw, but poor Brian kept sawing away, doing his damnedest to put us both over
the top. He buried his face in the pillow next to my ear, drooling on my neck,
and he grunted with every thrust of his dick.
“Come on baby,” I whispered.
“Oh, God yeah! Fuck me!”
Something crawled across the
ceiling. I could see it clearly, because I had my glasses on. A cloud of
whiplike legs swirled around its tiny body and cast long shadows in the light
from the study lamp on Brian’s desk. I usually freak out around bugs, but this
time I managed to keep it together. I didn’t want Brian to get distracted. He’d
only want to start over, and I wanted to get home.
“I can’t believe how fucking
hard you are. I’m coming!”
That did it. Brian gave one
last hard push, which really pinched. To keep myself from yelping, I squeezed
his ass as his muscles got rigid. He let out a long sigh, and it was over,
finally.
“Oh,” I whispered. “That was so
nice.”
He lifted his head and looked
at me with that smug post-coital grin.
“Did you come?”
“I said I did, didn’t I? Or
didn’t you hear that part?”
I glanced up at the ceiling.
The creepy-crawly was gone.
“Are you OK?”
“I’m fine. It’s just my
vagina’s sore.”
“Have I been wearing you out?”
“You think you could move?”
He reached between us, and,
tweezing the rolled base of the condom between two fingers, he pulled out of me
and flipped over. The air was suddenly cool on my sweaty thighs and breasts
where he had weighed me down. I could breathe again.
I could also see the digital
clock on his desk. It was almost nine. Brian caught me looking at it. It was a
thing between us.
“Do you have to go?” he said.
“Come on,” I said.
“Why don’t you spend the
night?”
“I can’t,” I said. “Mom will
know what I’m doing.”
“You should move into the
dorms,” he said.
“I told you. We can’t afford
it, and I have more room at home.”
My name is Dorothy. Everybody
calls me Dot. Brian and I are sophomores at a Catholic college in the city. He
came from out of state on a scholarship, but I commuted from home, like almost
everybody else on campus. We’d already had the conversation about me moving to
the dorms. We’d already had every conversation I could think of, even though
we’d only known each other since the middle of our freshman year, and we hadn’t
seen each other all summer.
Brian tugged at the condom, which came off his dick with a rubbery snap and a sprinkle of come on my leg. He tied a knot at the open end and, taking careful aim, tossed it toward the desk. It just snagged the rim the wastepaper basket before it dropped it to the floor, where it lay shimmering like a semen-gorged worm.
“Agh!” he said. “My record is
shot.”
At least I didn’t have to hear
him say “two points” again.
I got off the bed and picked up
my clothes. Brian got up, too, bouncing off the end of the mattress. He got
fresh underwear from his dresser, and a fresh pair of socks.
“What are you doing?” I said,
stepping into my panties.
“I’ll walk you to the bus
stop.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to. I worry.”
The college was the best part
of a bad neighborhood. There were reports almost every day of women being attacked
on campus.
“I’ll call security,” I said. “Somebody’ll wait with me.”
“It’s no problem,” he said.
“What can security do for you? They don’t have guns.”
“They have walkie-talkies,” I
said. “What do you have?”
“Just let me come with you.”
“Fine.”
Brian already had his sneakers
tied by the time I fastened my bra. Guys’ clothes are so much easier to deal
with. He watched me with what I thought was impatience while I pulled my cotton
dress over my head, buttoned it up to the Peter Pan collar, and, sitting on the
edge of the bed, put on my sandals. I’d kept my wooly socks on during sex. I
looked like a refugee from a convent, but it was October, and my feet get cold.
We each put on a sweater. Brian picked up my bookbag, and when he was satisfied
I hadn’t left anything behind, he clicked off the lamp on his desk.
“Wow,” he said, looking past me
at the window. “Look at the fog.”
It had moved in while we were
fucking, a gray monster that filled the glass with its flat gray face.
Somewhere in its heart burned a frosty-edged globe of amber — the glow of the
security lamp on the side of the building, struggling through the soup.
“And seeing that it was a soft
October night, curled once about the house, and fell asleep,” Brian said.
English major. He always had a
quote ready.
When we walked out through the
iron gates of the dorm, I could just see the library across the street. The
rest of the world was swallowed up in the creature’s wooly hide. The mist
prickled my face and slid its damp hand up my skirt. The air was still, but I
swear I could hear the wind wailing through the dorms. It spoke to me, or to
anyone who loved the fog like I did.
“You,” it said. “Yoouuuuuuuuu.”
“This is weird,” Brian said.
“I think it’s cool.”
“It was clear an hour ago.”
“It wasn’t clear,” I said.
“It’s been cloudy all day.”
“Why are you arguing with me?”
he said. “You’re usually in a good mood afterward.”
We crossed at the light and
waited at the corner in front of the administration building. It feels like
you’re standing there a long time when you have nothing to say. I began to
count the times the traffic signal over our heads cycled through its colors,
turning Brian from a green ghost to a yellow ghoul to a red devil. I was up to
thirteen when, at last, a white glow grew in the fog, then burst into a
blinding glare as my bus materialized out of nowhere. I took my books from
Brian and gave him a quick peck on the lips, but when I got on the bus he
crowded in after me.
“Now what?” I said.
“I’m taking you home.”
I couldn’t argue. He’d already
dropped his change in the box, and the bus was on its way.
I walked to the back and
plunked down next to a window. Brian slipped in next to me and put his arm
around my shoulders, but I turned away from him. For a guy on scholarship, he
could be pretty dense. If he’d really been smart, he would have let me go home
and talked to me on Monday. But he wanted everything to be all right, and he
thought all he had to do was say the right thing, and it would be.
And then there was my mom. I’d
never told her about him, and if I showed up at ten o’clock on a Friday night
with a boy in tow, she’d suspect I hadn’t spent the evening at the library,
which is what I planned to tell her.
We rode along in silence. Or I
did. Brian tried to tell me something he had learned about his art history
class, but gave it up when I didn’t respond. I rested my forehead on the cold
window and gazed out. It was hard to see the buildings going by, as the
neighborhoods gradually improved, and I was afraid I’d miss my stop. Nothing
looked familiar again until we passed the 7-Eleven, which was bright and
welcoming in the fog.
“This is it,” I said — my first
words since we sat down — and I yanked the bell cord, twice.
But I was wrong. In the fog,
I’d lost count of the streets, and we got off one stop too soon.
“Don’t worry about it,” Brian
said. “We just have to walk a little farther.”
I led Brian down the cross
street, past a ball field where the fog hovered in a mat above the grass.
Beyond the field, at the far end of the block, a dark cluster of trees hid the
steeple of the old Trinity Church.
“It was like walking on the
bottom of the sea,” Brian said. “As if I had drowned long ago. As if I was a
ghost belonging to the fog, and the fog was the ghost of the sea. It felt
damned peaceful to be nothing more than a ghost within a ghost. — Don’t look at
me as if I’d gone nutty!”
“What’s that from?”
“That’s my favorite play,” he
said. “You think you’d remember — whoa,
hello!”
“What?”
He jerked his chin at something
across the street.
“Speaking of ghosts!” I said.
She might have been nineteen,
she might have been thirty — a lean specter in the fog, running back in the
direction Brian and I had just come from. Glossy black hair hung down her back.
Tight jeans were tucked into high boots. Her olive skin turned green as she
passed beneath the streetlight, and in the full glare there was no mistake: she
was topless. She hugged herself to cover her swaying breasts, arms crossed,
fingers clutching her bare shoulders. A dark nipple bulged through the crook of
her elbow.
“Hey!” Brian called. “Are you
all right?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t
look at us. She only kept on, fading around the edges as she put the
streetlight behind her. When she reached the corner, she turned abruptly into
the side street and vanished in the fog.
“Should we call the police?” I
said.
Brian already had his cell out.
“I’m not getting a signal,” he
said.
“That’s weird. There’s an
antenna on the church steeple.”
“Nothing. It’s dead.”
“We can call from my house.”
“She’ll be long gone by then.
I’d hate to bring the cops in and find out she was just fooling around with
some guy and dropped her shirt somewhere.”
“She looked scared.”
“Or embarrassed. Nobody’s after
her. She’s probably fine.”
He tucked his phone back into
his pocket.
“And it was fun for you, too,
I’m sure,” I said.
“God, yes. She had terrific tits.”
“You told me you liked boyish
girls with small breasts.”
“Sure, I do,” he said, “when
they put out.”
I punched him in the shoulder.
“Oh, harder!” he said.
I was about to oblige, but I
heard the wailing again. The leaves in the trees were dead still, but the voice
kept calling me. You. Youuuuuuu. I
froze with my fist raised.
“What’s the matter?”
“What is that sound?”
“What sound?”
“That wailing.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Stop shitting me,” I said.
“You gotta hear that. It’s all over.”
“There’s nothing, sweetie. You
sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Walk me
home.”
The brick parish house stood
back from the street. To the right, bordering the sidewalk, was the low end of
a stone wall that enclosed the churchyard on three sides. The wall got taller
as it ran down the block and the sidewalk gradually declined. The brick coping
seemed level all the way around, though it was only knee-high where it began,
and over my head where it turned at the corner.
I took Brian’s hand and led him
inside. Through the trees, we saw the back of the church. It was red brick,
like the parish house, and milky-looking in the light of the globe lamps that
dotted the churchyard. Grave markers huddled along the flagstone path, growing
older and humbler the closer we got to the church. The towering obelisks and
the hulking granite sarcophagi stood farther off. It had always seemed to me
that the first families of the parish, the pioneers, were content just to rest
beside the house of God. It was the ones who came later, the self-important
businessmen and soldiers, the ones who built the factories and fought the Civil
War, who insisted on being remembered. They erected monuments to themselves,
and nobody remembered them, anyway.
“I can’t believe you’d walk
through here on a night like this,” Brian said.
“It’s a shortcut,” I said.
“There’s a gate on the other side. My house is across the street and over a
block.”
“Wooooooo,” he said. “Spooooky.”
“You
can’t scare me here,” I said. “I love this place.”
“I know what you mean. I’ve always liked
cemeteries. It’s the history.”
“The
cool thing about this one is that all the people the streets are named for
around here are buried here — all the Cottmans and Unruhs and Knorrs and
Longshores. Let me show you something.”
I
pulled at his hand, and he followed me off the walkway. We went squishing over
the damp, uneven ground. Brian stumbled under the weight of my bookbag, and he
grabbed a marker to stop himself from tripping. The stone was more than 250
years old, grainy with age and green with moss, and the lettering had long
since eroded to a blur. We couldn’t read it in the lamplight, but I knew what
it said, and I recited it, running my fingers along the faded lines:
Constance Whitaker
Born
November 19th 1751
Passed
from this world
October
31st, 1769
in the
eighteenth year of her age
“And who was she?” Brian asked.
“A friend of mine.”
“Seriously.”
“I always thought it was sad
she died so young. I used to sit out here when I was little and talk to her. I
still bring her flowers.”
“That’s weird,” he said.
“It is not weird!”
“No,
I mean somebody’s been digging around here.”
He
was right. The soil in front of the stone was dark and loose, like coffee
grounds. There was a black depression in the center of the grave, and a
scattering of fresh dirt lay to one side. We stood there a moment, gazing at
the headstone, and then suddenly, it seemed, we were both thinking the same
thing. Brian dropped my bag and turned me toward him.
“I
think it’s very sweet you come out and see Constance,” he said.
We
kissed in the chilly fog. Brian was a full head taller than I. He had to bend
to reach my lips. If anything — or anyone — was behind him, I never would have
seen it. He pulled my skirt up and put his hand on my ass. It was the weirdest
place for it, I know, but suddenly I liked being felt up out in the open. I
could feel myself getting creamy, which I hadn’t done when we were alone
together in bed. Brian held my butt through my panties. I kissed him harder.
His
hand came around front, tracing the line of the leg-hole, and he gave the
elastic a tug.
“Yes,”
I murmured. “Do it.”
His
finger went up inside, worming between my cunt lips. I welcomed his touch with
a soft hum and a gush of pussy juice.
He
was hard in a second, so at first, I thought his grunt just meant he was
excited. But then his arm fell from my back, and his finger fell out of my
hole. The kiss broke, and he slid down my body, sinking to his knees. His fist
closed around the crotch of my panties, and he dragged them off my butt. I gave
him a dirty, encouraging grin — I thought he was going to go down on me right
there — but I stopped when I saw his face twisted in pain.
“What’s
wrong?”
All
he could say was “gaaaaa” — a fluttery sound like air leaking from a toy
balloon. Black blood bubbled in his mouth. A thread of it trickled from the
corner of his lips. He grabbed my sweater, trying to break his fall, but
something much stronger than he was kept pushing him down.
And
as his head sank, another rose behind it. It was brown and orange, creased and
shriveled like a rotten pumpkin and topped with filthy black hair. Its lips
were rags, and its nose was a triangular hole split by the jagged septum. One
eye was blank, glittering with white slime. The other was an empty socket
plugged with dirt.
I
just knew.
“Constance,”
I said.
And
the rotten pumpkin opened its ragged mouth.
“You,”
it said.
It
was not a human voice. It was the far-away wail of the wind.
Brian
knelt between us, his head bowed, and I saw the misshapen little thing had
buried her fingers in the base of his neck. Had she closed her fist, she could
have torn out his spine. But she let go, and he fell over, clutching his
bleeding wounds. I saw all of her now. She was hardly five feet tall, and she
was shrouded in a gown that had once been white but was now gray and tattered
after two centuries under the ground.
She raised her hand. The nails
were like daggers, as though they had been growing all through her long sleep,
and they were black with Brian’s blood.
She reached out to me, and her
dripping nails grazed my cheek. Instinctively, I backed away, but my panties
were caught around my ankles. Brian was still holding on to them. I fell on my
bare ass, kicking and squirming.
“Brian, let go! For God’s sake
let me go!”
Pumpkin-head stepped over his
body. A beaded white slipper flashed beneath the gown. She planted her dainty
feet on either side of my legs, and, bending toward me, attempted what looked
for all the world like a smile. The cracked corners of her mouth curled back,
exposing a pair of broken gray stumps.
“You,” she repeated.
“Brian, please!”
I kicked again, and
miraculously, one foot popped out of my panties. I flipped over and clawed the
ground. My knees pumped, desperately seeking traction. Somehow, my other foot
got loose, and I jerked ahead, leaving Brian in a fetal position with my
panties in his fist. I clambered over the headstone as the dead girl’s claws
closed on my skirt. The whole back ripped away, but I was free.
I ran bare-assed with the front
of my dress flapping around my knees, and at once I was lost in the fog. The
globe lamps gave me no direction, and the endlessly calling voices seemed to
come from everywhere. But the churchyard was small, and no matter which way I
ran, I knew I would come to the wall, or the church, and then I could find my
way out. I would run home and call the police, and an ambulance for Brian. But
to be of any use to him, I had to get away. No matter how badly he was
bleeding, I couldn’t help him if I stayed with him and let whatever that thing
was rip off my clothes.
So I ran.
For the longest time, it
seemed, I went nowhere. I pushed my self forward, gasping, but it seemed I
hardly moved, like in one of those dreams where you feel like you’re running
underwater. I banged my shins against the gravestones. I stumbled into
fresh-smelling holes. Someone had been digging up the graves, and not just
Constance Whittaker’s. Covered with dirt, my butt exposed to the cold air, I
saw my goal at last — the rusty gate that always stood open. I made a dash for
it, but just as I got there, a figure stepped in front of me, barring my path.
This wasn’t the pumpkin-head in
gray. This was something else — something in a high-collared black dress, with
ashen hair pulled into a bun. Half its face was gone, but it still had both its
eyes. I stopped a foot in front of it, breathless.
“Please,” I said. “Let me get
through.”
“You,” it said.
And I remember wondering, as I
turned and fled, how could it make that round vowel sound with no lips?
There was no place to run.
Everywhere they hemmed me in. Whenever I saw a way out, another skeletal woman
— always a woman — blocked my escape. One of them stood waist deep in her grave
as she tripped me up, and I understood where the holes and depressions were
coming from. It — she — caught what was left of my skirt and tore it off
completely, leaving me naked from the waist down.
The lines of flight grew
shorter, until every few steps I had to veer off in a new direction, like a
deer hunted by a pack of hounds. A mindless army of dead women was herding me
toward the highest part of the stone wall. I didn’t see it until it was right
over me, but I kept running. My momentum carried me to the top, where I hung by
my armpits, scrambling for a foothold, my bare knees scraping and bleeding on
the sharp stones.
It was too late. A decayed claw
hooked me by the sweater, dragging me down. Others grabbed hold, snatching at
my arms, my ankles, prying me off the wall. They lifted me up and lowered me — oh, so gently! — on the prickly grass. A
circle of faces loomed above me, all in various stages of decomposition. Flesh
fell in clumps from the dead hands as they shredded the last of my clothes, and
when I was naked, they held me down, writhing, by my wrists and my ankles, my
elbows and my knees.
A small figure in gray came
forward.
“Constance,” I said. “No.
Please.”
She knelt between my open legs.
Her little mouth fell open, and her tongue rolled out like a black ribbon,
glistening wet. It drooped below her chin.
When the other corpses saw
this, their voices changed. They no longer wailed. They hooted in rhythm, like
a crowd at a football game, urging her on. She crouched on all fours, and her
grit-covered tongue scrubbed my swollen clitoris.
The crowd sent up a grunting
cheer.
It wasn’t a tongue. It was a
snake, coiling and lashing in waves. It pushed its way into my cunt, and just
when I thought it had stretched me out as much as I could be stretched, it
pushed even higher and grew even thicker. Then it crawled out again and
slithered up my ass.
The corpse-women joined the
ritual, licking my body — my legs, my neck, my stomach. Two of them lapped at
my tits, one to a side. Another found my lips, and her eely tongue filled my
mouth.
A sudden chill flared in my
hip. It spread to my neck and my arms. Another splashed across my right breast
and shot down my leg. My skin tingled, and I began to shudder — from the dank
air, from the terror, from the slavering tongues on my tits and my pussy. I
squirmed in my captors’ grip, but not with any thought of pulling free. At that
moment, freedom was the farthest thing from my mind.
Everything was far from my
mind. I had no mind. A great, rattling orgasm swept every thought from my head.
I didn’t exist. All that was left was the full-body convulsion I had become. I
— whatever “I” was now — was collapsing into a singularity, a featureless point
in the featureless fog, and when it collapsed completely, I would be dead, dead
as the women devouring my body. But death didn’t frighten me, because when I
was dead, Constance and I and all the living-dead women would be one with the
eternal feminine, the universal climax, come without end. Amen.
The shotgun blasts brought me
back to earth. Roar after roar, flash after flash broke the night open, and I
was lying in a graveyard in nothing but socks and sandals, spattered with blood
and brains. Constance was a headless dummy between my legs, her uprooted tongue
draped over my thigh. The skulls of her crew were blown to dust. My ears were
ringing, but at least the voices had stopped. The dead were dead again.
The smell of gunpowder was
nauseating, and gradually I became aware the fog was changing colors — blue and
white and red and blue again, over and over. A masculine voice crackled through
a frenzy of radio static. A squad car. Somewhere in the street. I tilted my
head back. A cop was leaning over the wall, the fat muzzle of his gun pointed
skyward, smoking. He grinned at me in self-satisfaction, and he touched the
visor of his cap.
“Ten for ten,” he said. “You’re
safe now, Miss.”
And all I could think was, “Who
wears sunglasses in the middle of the night?”
“Is she all right?” a voice
called behind him.
“Seems to be,” the cop said
over his shoulder. “But they took all her clothes off.”
He didn’t stop leering at me,
though, did he?
Brian dropped over the wall. He
crawled over the damp leaves and the shattered bodies and took me up in his
arms. I shook violently against his chest, but not from cold, and not from
fear.
“You’re safe now, baby,” he
said. “It’s all right. I found the police.”
“You …” I gasped. “You … ”
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m
bleeding, but I’m all right. Don’t worry about me.”
“You …”
“What about me? What are you
trying to say?”
“You … big … dumb
fuck.”
***
“So
that’s it?”
“Brian, come on. You can’t tell
me you’re happy, either.”
“You’re still
depressed from that night.”
“I’m not depressed.
It just started me thinking about things.”
“Like us.”
“Yes, like us.”
We were eating lunch in the
student union. Or Brian was. I had a salad I hadn’t touched. He was plowing
through a burger and fries. His laptop was open on the corner of the table.
“What about the support group?”
“Brother Donald said no,” I said.
Brother Donald was the college
president, and he didn’t believe “the incident,” as he called it, had ever
happened. God will only raise the dead on the Judgment Day, he said, men and
women together. Ergo, the attacks were a hoax. Ergo, the support group was frivolous,
and he would not allow it to meet on college property.
“So you’re just giving up?” Brian
asked.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Meet off campus,” he said,
checking his computer screen. “It says here there’s a group in town.”
“I’m not sure it would help me.”
“Then you do want help.”
“Shut up! And close that fucking thing.”
People looked over. A fat black
girl with close-cropped curls caught my eye. She was sitting with a lanky black
guy who had his back to me.
Brian shut his computer.
“We’ll talk later,” he said.
“Finally, you figured out when
somebody wants to be left alone,” I said.
“Dot—”
“Just go.”
He slurped the last bit of his
Coke and left without another word. He had gotten his stitches out, but the
welts were still visible. They clung to his neck like pink leeches.
The black guy at the other table
left, too. I hadn’t taken my eyes off the girl.
We both said, “You broke up?” at
the same time, and laughed.
“Did I hear you say you were
attacked?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“So was I.”
I waved her over. She got up, and
I saw she wasn’t fat at all, just boxy, with broad shoulders and hips like an
urn. Her jeans were stuffed to a tight V in her crotch, and her big tits seemed
on the verge of breaking through her black turtleneck. She would never conform
to any commercial ideal of beauty, but it was obvious she didn’t care. There
was pride in her considered posture, the way she squared her shoulders and
pushed her tits out. This is my
body, it said. Fuck you if you don’t like it.
I liked it.
My heart bumped as she settled
into Brian’s chair. Her skin was so dark I thought I could reach out and put my
hand through it. It was like a void in space.
“Hey,” I said, “we’re dressed the
same.”
Her name was Connie, and she had
been attacked in her apartment off campus. Four of them broke in, battering the
door down with their unstoppable strength. They held her captive until dawn,
when they just got up and left.
“They took turns with me,” she
said.
“And did you …? I mean …”
She leaned toward me and lowered
her voice.
“Yes,” she said. “Over and over
and over.”
More than a hundred women had
been attacked that night, which, bloggers all over the Web pointed out, was the
night of the full moon. We never saw it through the fog, of course. No deaths
were reported, and the only injuries were to guys like Brian who had gotten in
the way, or tried to be heroes. The police didn’t want to talk about it any
more than the church did, but they had to. The cops had been too visible,
racing around with their shotguns, blowing the heads off dead dykes. There was
too much news footage, and too many rapes caught on cellphone cameras for
denial to be possible. Even so, all they said was that the crisis was over, and
the women of the city were safe to walk the streets again. As if they ever
were.
I told Connie how I was sure I
was going to die, and how I didn’t care.
“Do you want to talk about this
at my place?” she said. “I’ll make some tea.”
The
sky was red and gold when we got to her apartment, which was nothing but a bare
room with a bed and a desk. It was dim inside, cramped but neat. Connie’s
countless books were stacked squarely on the desk and around the floor. The only sign there had been a
break-in there was the new steel door, which hadn’t been painted yet.
Connie never got around to making
tea. As soon as we got our coats off, and slipped off our heavy shoes, we stood
toe to toe at the foot of the bed, searching each other’s eyes for any sign of
“yes.” It took no more than a second before our faces came together. I opened my
mouth, and a river of pink syrup poured in. Even now, I was scared she’d reject
me if I came on too strong, but I wanted those big tits. I wanted to hold them
and kiss them. I pulled her shirt out of her jeans and cupped my hands over her
bra. The flesh was heavy and solid. Soon the shirt and bra were on the floor,
and I was dizzily switching from one black breast to the other, sniffing,
licking, sucking, kneading.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Eat Mommy’s tits.”
Her big nipples were dark
chocolate kisses. They were wonderfully hard, and they grew harder in my mouth.
Mommy’s tits were nothing like this.
She clutched my face to her
chest, and I lost myself between the mounds. It was a long time before we
kissed again, and she finally got around to unzipping my jeans. I was already
sodden and swollen when she put her hand down my panties.
“Ooo, the little white girl’s all
wet,” she said.
“Take off my clothes.”
She yanked my jeans and panties
down. I pulled my off my turtleneck, and she reached behind and deftly unhooked
my bra. After sucking her wonderful breasts, I was embarrassed to show her my
little-girl titties.
“No,” she said. “They’re
beautiful. They’re perfect.”
My nipples stiffened under her
admiring gaze. She took each one in her mouth in turn and kept sucking while
she wriggled out her jeans. It was awkward, stripping and groping at the same
time, but in a minute we were naked — I even took my socks off — and tumbled
onto the bed.
Something inhuman was straining
at its chains inside me. I pushed Connie onto her back and made a beeline for
her crotch, kissing her solid middle as I went. She drew her knees up, and her
clitty poked out, bright and pink against her black hair and her black, black
skin.
“Oh,” I said.
“No pussy like black pussy.”
“Yummy.”
Her clit was a big gooey gumdrop,
so easy to suck on.
“Fuck, girl!” she said. “Come on
up here.”
I kept my lips around her bud,
pivoting on it as I squirmed around and lowered my cunt on her face. Nothing
was ever so sweet as her soft thick tongue whirling through my vaginal lips. We
rolled over, curling up in a fetal 69 — black and white, thick and thin, yin
and yang. Or was that yin and yin? Feminine and feminine. The eternal maternal.
I had no idea what the fuck I was thinking. My head was a cosmic muddle. All I
knew was I had never felt anything so good in my whole sheltered life.
I breathed deep. I couldn’t get
enough of her thick cunt-smell. It filled my lungs and coursed through my veins
like smoke, dancing and tingling under my skin. I heard her breathing, too, in
time with me, sucking up the scent of my pussy. Inches in front of my eyes were
the lobes of her ass, glossy moons of licorice. I spread them for a look at her
asshole, but suddenly, with the tingling in my arms, my grip went slack. My legs
went numb, too, and my face. All I could feel was the delicious tightness in my
pussy, and Connie’s solid clit beneath my tongue.
My body began to shake, as it had
on the dank grass of the churchyard, and as I came — for the first time since
then — an unearthly wail broke from my lips.
“You,” I moaned into Connie’s pink candy cunt. “Yooouuuuuuuu!”
© 2013, 2015 by Jacqueline Jillinghoff
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