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From: proust@scsn.net (Marc Proust)
Subject: NEW "A Certain Circle in New York" Marc Proust
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The following story is meant for adults only. Comments are always welcome.
"A Certain Circle in New York"
by Marc Proust
proust@scsn.net
In the second place, it has to be her eyes: they are a deep,
Italian-twilight blue. And in the third place, it is the sandy avalanche
of her hair that rolls down her shoulders over her back.
Julie and I were married three years ago. We lived on the upper West
Side in a rambling old apartment she had inherited from her maternal
grandfather, a general who achieved a certain notoriety in Korea, where he
was killed. I taught at the University, she worked downtown in an
advertising agency, and in the summer of 1954 our wonderful life was just
beginning.
To be frank, our sex life was at first pretty ordinary. Julie was
totally inexperienced (a real virgin! but that was not so unusual back
then) and I was hardly more skillful. What I lacked in art, I made up for
in imagination, however, and conscientiously set about the task of
learning and teaching. I was very patient, and by that summer we had moved
a bit beyond five minutes in the missionary position. Now, after only a
couple of glasses of red wine (her favorite) if I slowly and gently
touched her, perhaps teased her a bit, and whispered to her how lovely she
was and how much I loved her, she might allow me to bring my mouth down to
her sex, and softly run my tongue around the top and even feebly penetrate
her. She would get incredibly wet. She had one orgasm that way, and was
surprised and delighted. Very seldom (really, only when pretty drunk) she
would suck (lick is a better word) my penis, and always insisted that I
come inside her vagina.
She was painfully, poignantly shy at first, and would hardly ever let
me get a good look at her without clothes. But as we became more
comfortable with each other, and as she came to enjoy sex more and more, I
realized that, although she rarely would let me see what I craved to see,
it was becoming a matter of exerting power, rather than being ill at ease.
I took delight in this.
A bit naive she may have been, but she possessed a wry sense of humor, a
sardonic wit, and a creative flair that belied her inexperience. It was
clear to me that the whole of New York could see that in the summer of
1954, Julie Pace was edging to perfection.
That summer, no less than five of the most intelligent students ever to
write under my direction finished their studies and left the university.
Itıs not bragging to just list their names. It reads like a story in
itself:
Marguerite Byron
Gordon Clarke
Walter Duncan
Dolores Haze
Emil Rosato.
Mar-guer-reet...Maggie....Meg...by any of her names she was the total
opposite of Julie. From her jet-dark pageboy cut, to her manıs smoking
jacket and Spanish pumps, she was aggressively sensual, a smoldering
sexual presence. She had small, round, flat breasts with large nipples. I
know this because she seldom wore a bra, and the thin, white blouses she
usually wore under the smoking jacket were not up to the task of
camouflaging her feminine shape. To my shame and discredit, whenever I was
in her presence I kept maneuvering to try to catch a glimpse of her
breasts under the jacket, and to gauge her excitement (or the perhaps the
chill in the air) by the swell of her nipples. I'm sure she knew what I
was up to; I think women always know.
The cigarette that seemed to grow out of her lower lip was another
matter, and I took pleasure in silently criticizing her for a filthy
habit. I was simultaneously attracted and repelled by her; and all of us
on the faculty knew that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find
her the academic position she deserved. When she slipped into my office
that morning in June, I knew what she wanted before she began to speak.
"Simon, this is simply not fair, and you know it. The others have had
offers for months, and I am every bit as good as they are. Youıve seen my
paper on the Cistercians. Itıs damned good!"
" Meg, weıve been over this a million times. What you and I think makes
no difference; unless you are willing to make certain changes in your. ..
ah..dress, youıll never get a job in New York, and certainly not anywhere
else. It may not be fair, but that's the way it is."
"Ok, Ok, I know." She said it in a way that suggested she might finally
consider a change.
"Look, if you could just act a bit more respectable until you got
tenure - which I am sure you would get - then you could go back to your
tuxedos and throw away your bras." I regretted it the instant I said it.
"You noticed?" As she said it, she opened her black velvet jacket and
looked down at the smooth, white convexity of her chest, punctuated by the
two small pistons of flesh that - I swear - seemed to swell as we both
stared.
I tried desperately to change the subject. "Too bad you're not a
housekeeper," I laughed, "Julie and I have been trying to find a good one
for months."
"Wait! I could do that."
I froze. What had I done?
"Really, " she said, "just until I get something better. I worked in my
aunt's hotel in the Berkshires for years when I was a kid. Please? Just
for the summer. I'm sure something will turn up by September. Iıll do
anything you say to get a job."
What could I say? It was late and I was tired. I felt bad that we had
not been able to place her, and ashamed of my wisecrack, and we really did
need a housekeeper.
"Ok, Meg. But it's not that great a job. We only need you for three
hours a day."
"Can I pick the hours?"
"Of course."
"Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you! I'm pretty sure I won't
regret it."
Funny. The way she said "I".
Spring had camped in the city. The air had become heavy with the cool
showers that foreshadowed the summer heat, and the women of New York had
begun their annual striptease, replacing woolen coats for simple shifts
and cotton skirts. I love June.
When I got home, Julie was already there and dinner was on the stove. I
gave her the good news.
"You did WHAT!?! Simon, you could at least have asked me! Marguerite
scares me. Sheıs so .. I donıt know. Different."
"Look, " I said, "We really do need a housekeeper, and I feel *some*
responsibility for her. I'm sure we'll get her a real job soon."
"Ok. I guess. Maybe I'll get to like her. And it will be nice to come
home to a clean apartment for awhile."
"Come here, you." I kissed her with passion and placed my hand gently
on her breast. "Thank you. You won't regret it."
For the next few weeks, Meg would come in around 3:00 and leave at 6:00
and the apartment was definitely cleaner and neater than ever before. Best
of all, Julie slowly came to like Meg, and some evenings I would come home
to find them chatting and laughing while they shared a cup of coffee in
the kitchen. Meg continued to work in the department in the mornings while
we all tried to help her find a job. And while her dress improved, we had
no better luck placing her.
Until the end of June, I was perfectly satisfied with my life. And then
it got better.
"Hello, darling, I'm home," I yelled as soon as I opened the door that
afternoon.
"Oh, hi, dear. I'll be right there."
When she came out of the kitchen I nearly fainted: she wasn't wearing a
top. Her perfect gabardine skirt dropped to the top of her patent leather
oxfords. But above the waist she wore nothing but her lovely, golden hair.
"And how was your day?" she asked perfectly nonchalantly. "What are you
staring at? Haven't you ever seen a naked girl before?" At last, she began
to giggle.
I was to her in a single leap. I kissed her almost violently, and began
squeezing her left breast, pinching and rolling her nipple as I stuck my
tongue down her throat. She opened her mouth wide to accommodate me and
started to grope my cock, which by now was rigid and uncomfortable under
my seersucker suit. I tugged her skirt down over her slender hips and saw
she had no panties on.
"Bend over, " I said huskily - I could hardly breathe and she did,
right over the back of the old couch. Her pussy was wet and bulged out
between her legs, which she spread slightly with knees bent in
anticipation. That image is forever imprinted on my brain. The puffiness
of each lip of her vagina framed the perfect slit running down to her
small, hard clit. He bottom was pointed upwards, and I could clearly see
the little puckered ring of her anal opening. I struggled out of my pants
and undershorts and freed my shaft. I felt her cunt. I ran my finger
from the clit through the slit and up her asshole, gathering the juice and
lathering it over her lips. She moaned softly "Now, yes, please, give it
to me, Simon. Fuck me! Now, please. Yes, in my cunt!" So I did.
My pole twitched as I approached. I held it with my right hand and guided
it into her cunt. She helped get it started, then when it was securely
rammed up her pussy, she used both arms for support on the sofa. She began
to wiggle from side to side, and to rock rhythmically front to back in
concert with my thrusts.
"My God, you are becoming a little slut aren't you?" I had *never*
talked like this to her before. But, then again, she had never wiggled her
ass at me before. "God, you are a lovely woman. I love to look at your
tits, and touch them like this. You like this don't you. You like it when
I just graze your little asshole like this. I know you do."
"Yes, I love it. God, I love your big dick up my cunt. Fuck me! Fuck me
hard! God, yes, yes, it feels so good. Yes, touch my asshole. Touch me
everywhere!" She was bucking as hard as I was, and I knew we could not
last long. She came first, with a gasp and shudder, and I quickly
followed, spewing gallons of white-hot cum in her pretty pussy.
It took me some minutes to catch my breath.
"Geez, Julie. What just happened?"
"Didn't you like it?" She giggled. "I thought that's what you wanted."
"It was. I guess." All of a sudden the education of Julie Pace seemed
like it was getting out of control.
Throughout July it seemed that Meg lingered over her cleaning more and
more; she was there in the apartment on many evenings when I returned from
work and she and Julie would often be in the kitchen sharing a cup of
coffee and laughing as she prepared to leave. Sex with Julie got wilder
and wilder, and by early August I was seriously worried.
One August night after a wonderful dinner at a charming Brazilian
restaurant on the upper West Side, we were strolling home when Julie
shocked me by asking, "Have you ever made it with a man?"
"Of course not! What brought that up?" I tried not to act as shocked as
I was. My heart began racing.
"Oh, I don't know. Look! Isn't that Al over there?" It wasn't, and I
let the whole thing go.
Once we got home, we hardly said a word, just enough to get the door
locked, clothes off, and ourselves into bed. Julie was wet to the touch
immediately. As we lay down, she flung her leg over mine, allowing me easy
access to her rear and cunt from behind. As we kissed, she ran her fingers
through my hair, into my ears, and down to my nipples which she caressed
softly.
"Simon, you are so beautiful. Oh, yes, touch me. Yes, there. I love to
touch you, to feel you."
I ran my hands down her back to the crack of her ass, lightly skipped
over the little bud of her anus, and began running my fingers, with some
pressure, into her cunt, around her lips and over her clit, which was
swelling fast. "Julie, I love to touch your pussy. I love how wet and hot
it gets when I touch it. It gets so wet. Your little clitty is huge, baby.
Yes, suck my ear; suck my nipple. God, you are a hot little slut tonight."
I was beside myself with lust, and so was she.
"I going to fuck *you* now, Simon. On your back!" Julie had never been
so assertive. My cock was bloated and enormous. And she slid down my body
and acted as if she would take it in her mouth. I raised my hips a bit, to
get her to do it, but she laughed, "Not yet, boy! First, I'm going to fuck
you." And she did. She mounted me, and stuck my huge dick up her
steaming, slippery, cunt.
"God, Julie! God! Slow down! If you don't, I'll come." It was true.
She stopped, and sat there looking at me with a wicked grin on her
face. She ground her cunt into my belly, slathering her girl-juice all
over me.
"Simon, don't you like to get fucked? Doesn't it feel good. Oh yes,
baby, doesn't it feel great?" She was in a trance almost. But I was
totally unprepared for what she said next. "Are you sure you've never been
fucked by a man? Right here?" she reached around and stuck her finger on
the opening of my asshole. "You'd like it, baby. It feels so good." And
she began to work her finger up my rectum slowly. The feeling really was
amazing, and I almost felt like I was getting it in two places.
I had no idea where she learned this trick. My shock at her boldness
was surpassed only by my lust that she had created. The words came
tumbling out of me: "Julie, you little cunt. That feels so good! God!
Yes, fuck me. Fuck me harder! Slide that fucking wet pussy over my cock.
Your pussy is so wet. God! Fuck me with that pissing-wet cunt. Now. Don't
stop!"
But she did.
She stopped, and got off me. She got off and kneeled over my big, wet
slimy cock and took me in her mouth. "Simon, you are so hard! Your pretty
cock tastes so good. I'm going to taste your cum for the first time,
baby." She said these things alternating with great sucking and humming
mouthfuls of my dick. She had me on the brink several times. And then she
said, "Just like you taste the cum of all your man friends. You have
tasted cum, haven't you? You suck off all you friends at work, don't you?
It's good, isn't it??!!" By the time she got these words out, I was
spewing buckets and buckets of white sperm into her mouth.
I was reeling. Millions of impressions, fragments of thoughts, were
crowding into my head. I hardly knew what would come out of my mouth when
I opened it. Julie kneeled in front of me with a sly grin spreading from
ear to ear. Here's what I finally said:
"Julie. Sit on the edge of the bed and open your legs. Wide!"
She did just that and I took a position on the floor, on my knees, so that
I could look into her gorgeous cunt and easily peel back the lips and see
it all. I was in no hurry; I had just shot a huge load, and knew that it
would be some time before I could fuck her properly. At first, I just
looked, amazed as always at the structure, the detail, and the smooth
symmetry from top to bottom and side to side. As I did, I stroked her
inner thigh gently, blew hot air on her pussy and kept talking: "Oh, yes,
Julie. You have the prettiest vagina in the world. I love your vagina. I
love to look, to smell, to taste it. I bet it feels good for me to touch.
I bet you like my finger up far in your pretty vagina." As I said this, I
inserted one finger in her gaping hole.
"Yes, Simon. Yes! That feels so good. Look at me. Look at my vagina. My
pussy. Don't you want to taste it?" She was getting hotter and hotter,
and my cock started its slow swell again.
"Yes, Julie, I do want to taste it. I want to lick your little clitty,
and stick my tongue up your pussy. Yes..it tastes so good! I love to eat
your cunt, baby. Oh yes. That's so good. So pretty." I don't have much to
say when I'm in this position, but I love to talk. So I pretty much just
blabber away, pointing out the obvious again and again.
I was in heaven as I licked and sucked her cunt. When I brought my
tongue to her asshole to gently touch her there, she gasped.
"Oh yes, M...Simon! That's it!!"
When I sucked her clit hard, and drove two fingers up her cunt and
another into her asshole, she began to shudder and buck, and then slammed
her legs shut as her climax tore through her slender frame.
We snuggled on the bed for half an hour before falling asleep.
As I drifted off, I thought, "M...Simon?"
My August was filled with doubt and worry. Julie was getting stranger
and stranger; she often came home late and her interest in sex wax and
waned. Half the time she would have nothing to do with me; the other half
she was wild and demanding. Her sweet nature was still basically sweet,
but she was troubled, clearly, yet would not tell me why.
Meg was keeping the apartment very neat and clean, but I never saw her
anymore. I guessed she came during the day when I was at the university,
and left before we came home. She never came to see me at work, either,
and appeared to have resigned herself to not getting an academic job.
About week before the semester was to begin, around mid-morning, I
remembered that I had left an important paper at the apartment. I went
back to get it before my next appointment, and while there became
distracted by another journal article, which absorbed me for about a
quarter of an hour. Just as I was about to leave, I heard a key turn in
the lock. I froze. For some reason, I decided not to announce my presence;
I guess I was so surprised that the natural time for doing so passed. Any
movement on my part then would have seemed dishonest, guilty.
The study was just off the hallway where the two of them stood.
"But I left it right over there, Julie. I won't be a second." It was Meg.
"Hurry. I really don't like to be here with you. It gives me the
creeps. Simon has been so nice."
"OK. OK. Just let me use the bathroom, then we'll get out of here and
go to my place."
"No!"
"Why? Don't you like me to pee? Huh? Does it bother you?" Weirdly, it
sounded like Meg was actually mocking her. I was totally dumbfounded. But
the shock, intense as it was, did not stop the electric current that began
to course through my balls.
"You never tire of it, do you? Sometimes I think you hate me." Julie
seemed resigned, as though she knew she was lost. My heart was beating and
breaking all at once.
"It's not my fault that you canıt, shall we saycontrol yourself. Just
wait here and I'll be right out." Meg seemed very tender now.
"Meg, please, canıt I just."
"What, Julie? Canıt you justwhat?"
"You know.."
"No. I donıt. Or maybe I do. But you have to say it, Julie."
"I want to watch, Meg. Dammit. You know I want to watch you."
"Watch me, what? Say it, come on."
"God! OK! I want to watch you pee! There, dammit!"
"Fine. You can watch me. Again. You can watch me piss, if you want. You
can watch the water come out of my pussy, isnıt that what you want? You
like to look at me while I sit on the potty, donıt you? Julie, I do
believe you are turned on. Iım just talking, and you canıt keep your
little hands off your pussy."
"Meg, I just canıt help it! Why do you torture me? Simon *never* treats
me this way. He loves me."
"Glad to hear it. You stay with him, then. In the meantime, if you will
excuse me, I have to urinate, or my bladder will burst and there will be a
big mess to explain right here in your stupid old apartment that *I* keep
clean."
The bathroom door opened.
As soon as I dared, I peeked around the corner of the study, down the
hall and into the bathroom. I wished I were dead.
Meg was sitting on the toilet with her skirt and panties on the floor
beside her feet. Her legs were opened at a most oblique and grotesque
angle, her thighs supporting her small weight over the ring of the seat.
My darling sweet Julie was on her knees beside her, her hand languidly
polishing the mound of wispy hair between Meg's out-angled thighs. They
were both already in a trance, and appeared to be repeating a scene they
knew very well. There was no sound coming from the water in the bowl.
As I watched, Meg raised her cotton top, and held it up with her hands,
exposing her small breasts and surprisingly large nipples. The effect was
mesmerizing. It felt like a dream world where others controlled my fate. I
was powerless to commit any action at all.
Julie leaned forward to suckle the nearest huge nipple, while she
increased the speed with which she rubbed Margueriteıs mound. This was
lewd and poetic all at once. I was repelled, yet spellbound. Julie slowly
licked, then sucked, the expanding nipple on Megıs right breast. Pretty
soon, she was treating it like a small cock, moving her mouth up and down
the way she did on me. Her free hand roamed over Megıs sweep of jet-dark
hair. The two were in their own world, and it was clear that they had
visited there many, many times.
Suddenly, Marguerite looked over to where I was standing. She brought a
finger to her lips and smiled: "Shhusssh!", she quietly mouthed. And she
began a silent chuckle as she gazed right into my eye. At that very
moment, she released her pee. As it flowed out, first slowly then in a
gathering flood, Julie rubbed Megıs mound faster and faster. I could hear
the water below mightily disturbed; I saw Megıs face contort in ecstasy; I
heard Julie moan with her own obsessive pleasure as she brought Meg to
orgasm.
I came in my pants, turned tail and ran, and only returned at dusk
after wandering the streets of New York.
When I got back, there was a note. It read: "I am truly very sorry. I love
you. And I don't. Good-bye. Don't look for me. Julie"
In the weeks and months after that day people tell me I lectured and sat
on committees and wrote papers, so I guess I did. But all I remember is
walking the streets of New York, sitting in bars and cafes, thinking
about the shipwreck of my life, and making lists: Julie's six favorite
restaurants; Julie's five most hated painters; Julie's four prettiest
sweaters.
And my favorite list of all: the three things I miss the most. In the
first place, it is her smile: a most glorious transforming force that
promised me eternal happiness.
Marc Proust (May 1998) proust@scsn.net
Comments always welcome.
Apologies due to VN for stealing at least two of his devices.
--
Marc Proust
All comments are welcome and appreciated. Please respond to proust@scsn.net
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