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Subject: {Mat Twasse} "No Matter What They Say"
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"No Matter What They Say"
by Mat Twassel
========
She lay on the McDonald's table, legs high. Her cunt was
tight but pleasant, and when I pushed, almost with a squeak
it gave; a spot of cherry juice squelched up, nipped my
nose. She giggled. I touched the drip, tasted it--tart and
sweet, just the way I like it. She giggled again and then
her cunt started sucking. My cock could have been a fat
straw. The come came out of me, and when it was all gone,
she still wanted more--those final noisy slurps of vanilla
milkshake.
"Was I good?" she said.
"The best," I answered.
"Even though I don't have any character?"
"Who says you don't have any character?" I said. "You're a
virgin, again and again. What more could I ask for?"
"Soul?" she said. "History. A future. Babies. Adorable
brats scooting across the lawn, always forgetting to put
their sandals on."
"Smelly diapers," I said.
She smiled. "Want to fuck my ass now?"
I looked around the room. Customers in line were watching
us as they waited to order their burgers and fries. Abruptly
she flipped up her little skirt and bent forward. Her
bottom was creamy and firm, with that uptilt I just love.
"Is the hole pink or brown?" she asked. "C'mon, put it in."
I touched the pucker gently with my thumb. It quivered.
"All at once?" I asked.
"Squirt some special sauce on it first," she said.
I fumbled open the packet. The goo squeezed out. I worked
it in.
"Tickles," she said. I gave her ass a playful slap.
"Do that again," she said.
I hit her harder.
"Now more sauce."
I opened another packet.
"At Arby's they have plastic bottles."
"I didn't know that."
"Horsey sauce, they call it."
"Where do you get this knowledge?"
"Put it in now, okay?"
I put it in. She was tight and hot, an oven of dark lust.
"All the way," she moaned. "Oh, that's good."
At the next table a mother was settling a dispute between
her children. "Hush," she told them, "We can get another
toy."
"Do you ever really come?" I asked, stroking the nape of her
neck as I fucked. Her neck was so slender, with an adorable
point. I could feel her pulse behind her ears. I knew I
could last a long time. She squeezed, and suddenly I wasn't
so sure.
"Do you mean 'Do I fake it?'" she said. "I couldn't fake it
if I wanted to."
"Why not?"
"Faking it just sets me off."
"Nudder toy," said one of the children.
"Let's finish this somewhere else," I said. "How about your
place?"
She turned to look at me. For a moment I thought I detected
an expression of bewilderment. "Sure, my place," she said.
The painting above the fireplace was chillingly good.
Waterloo Bridge. Dark, gray green waves roiling and
slapping. A skyline of smoke and sleet and phallic towers.
An edge of sun somewhere in the low distance. The way the
wan light caught the cold waves, the low, lonely rooftops,
made me shiver. I was about to say, "Shouldn't that be in
London?" but I changed my mind.
"Want a blankey?" she asked. "A blankey and some tea?" She
squeezed my hand. "Sit here," she said, directing me to a
plump chair. She put a soft afghan over my lap. "Enjoy the
gloominess in comfort. I'll fix tea." I sank into the deep
leather and watched her walk away.
"Do you really live here?" I asked when she returned. She
was dressed demurely. A cashmere sweater and a simple
skirt. She held a dark metal tray, perhaps tarnished silver
or raw pewter, two steaming cups, and a small plate of frail
crackers.
"Silly," she said. "Where should I live?"
"I don't know," I answered. "I can't imagine. Someplace...
jauntier?"
"When I open the drapes this place livens up a lot," she
said. "But for right now let's enjoy the dark. Should I
put some music on?"
"Sure, if you like," I said.
She handed me a cup of tea. Intoxicating and mild. My
favorite oolong. "What do you want to hear?" she asked.
"Something you like."
"Oh," she said. She put down her teacup and stepped over to
the player. I half expected to hear a Sousa march. Not
really. Or maybe as a joke. What came on was Sting, "An
Englishman in New York." I knew the song but hadn't
expected it.
"It's jaunty... in a sad, mellow way. Isn't it?"
I agreed.
She snuggled next to me. She kissed my ear, then my mouth.
Her breath was sweet and warm. I had my arm around her. I
stared into her eyes.
"It's not a trick," she said. "Really it isn't." Then she
kissed me again, and I almost believed her.
=====
"No Matter What They Say"
by Mat Twassel
Note: This is my entry in Celeste's summer story contest of 1998
More Mat Twassel stories may be found at:
http://members.aol.com/Mmtwassel/index.html
Comments welcome: mmtwassel@aol.com
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