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From: Nicholas Urfe <nickurfe@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} James 05 1/2 [Urfe] Ff, fM, mF, ff, Mm, fMm, Mf, voy, hints of others
Date: Sat, 24 Jun 2000 00:10:20 -0400
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The James Sisters
by Nicholas Urfe
activities described herein: Ff, fM, mF, ff, Mm, fMm, Mf, voy, hints of
squickable activities too numerous to mention but not that bad, really
Fifth Chapter: The Date (part 1 of 2)
I haven't been sleeping well. Lately.
Somebody was clomping up the front porch steps. I jumped. Needlessly;
it wasn't her. Not yet. Of course not. Much too early.
The letter slot creaked. There was a slithering thump, followed by a
clatter.
It was, of course, the mail.
Clatter?
There, among the usual clutter of envelopes (cable bill, two credit
card bills, a brand new internet bill, and a manila envelope from
Dolores), was an odd little black package with no return address on its
white mailing label. I picked it up, gingerly. It rattled, like the sort
of cassette tape it was pretty much the exact shape and size to contain.
I frowned. I dithered. I shrugged. Dumping the bills on the sideboard
to be dealt with later, I took Dolores's envelope and the odd little
black package into the study. I set the package on the desk I haven't yet
gotten around to thinking of as "mine" and frowned at it some more as I
dug about for my letter opener, with which I slit open Dolores's
envelope, but I paused before peering inside. I reached out and poked the
odd little package with a forefinger, then flipped it over. Nothing on
the back but three or four layers of old, sticky cellophane tape.
So I pulled out the stuff Dolores had sent: a not-yet-but-almost-
nagging letter about when I was going to be getting my next project off
the ground (I skimmed it; lots of turns of phrase like "feeding off the
momentum" and "strike while the fire's hot" and the word "synergy"
appeared three separate times. Bad Dolores); a royalty check (not as big
as you're thinking, honest, but welcome nonetheless); an assortment of
press clippings--"The Key to the Kingdom" had just been released in a
trade paperback edition, which apparently justified a new round of
reviews. Favorable; favorable; utterly if charmingly missed the point;
and apparently Lewis has found work at Newsday savaging books written by
old college chums. "Puerile insight" indeed. Thanks, Lewis. How's that
novel of yours coming along?
I dropped the whole mess on the floor. I wasn't in the mood.
A cassette tape.
Who the hell would send a cassette tape unbidden? I'm not famous
enough to have psychotic fans. Really.
Ah, well. One way to find out.
It was, indeed, a cassette tape, wrapped in a grubby piece of paper
with typescript on both sides: double-spaced, a pretty standard ten-point
machine, the same one that had typed my address on the package's label,
from the looks of it. The words "it is possible for him to get pregnant"
caught my eye. Frowning some more, I read the paper--both sides--on my
way over to the stereo to slip the cassette into the tape deck.
Whoever had wrapped it around the tape had ripped it from a larger
selection, top and bottom, so I had what amounted to two discontinuous
chunks of text, one from (I presume) somewhere near the beginning, and
one from somewhere near the end. The first words I could make out were:
"their fingers." Then the rip demolished a whole clause or so until the
next line took it up, reasonably legibly (the "e" had been filled in by
ancient crud, the "c" sometimes looked like it was going to take flight
up and away from the rest of the letters):
others rectum, she yanks the man penis and the
man rubs the womans clitoris. This position is
not written down in any publication that mentions
sex. The sexual relationship has to be perfect.
One disfunction and it will not work. The
physical experience the man has is a flood of
liquid, the consistancy of water, out the mans
rectum as the couple climax.
For about a year after the man has this physical
experience he can get pregnant. The man for this
year has a very itchy rectum and has to scratch
it. During this period of time the man who had
this physical experience would let another man
put his erect penis up his rectum and ejackulate.
After the usual period of time a normal baby
either male or female would be born out of the
mans rectum. After the baby was born the man
would have to cork his rectum. Men can nurse
And then something about "waddle," and the first chunk came to an end.
All of it sic, of course; sic, sic, sic. Goes without saying.
Side two:
hilarious experience for a woman. What happens
when a man is successful in having a woman do him
this favor (and it is a favor, the only favor a
woman can do a man), she watches him very closely
for the year or so in which it is possible for
him to get pregnant. It is obvious that this is
how a man got a life before women were created. I
would suggest to you that the first woman on
earth came out of a homosexual's rectum.
The fact that men can have babies has
implications for women. Everything inside our
bodies is reflected in our brains. This makes men
more complicated than women.
The reason that this is getting written down is
that since I was thirty eight
And that was it.
Meanwhile, the tape had been playing. Harry Connick, Jr.'s rather flat
voice singing "Don't get around much anymore."
And I had a sudden, sneaking suspicion I knew what was going on.
I reached out and stabbed the fast forward button, listening to the
high-pitched cricketing whine of Harry Connick, Jr. and his band not
getting around much anymore at a good clip. When the song punched to its
climax, I let off the fast forward just in time to catch the segue.
An orchestra tuned up, rather nicely after the horn break at the end
of the first song, then was suddenly cut short by some found-sound
recording of a man saying something I couldn't catch, followed just as
suddenly by an organ playing Medelssohn's saccharine wedding march. And
then into a slow funky bass and drum line, with a synthesizer vamping
along the top in a way that I almost recognized. In fact, the whole
fucking thing was damnably familiar.
Wait a minute.
Oh, fuck.
"If I was your girlfriend
Would you remember
To tell me all of the things you forgot
When I was your man..."
I slapped the stop button.
"Nicky," I said. Actually, I might have bellowed.
I played the tape in the car on the way to Flicker.
Joe Jackson was next, with "The Other Me," followed by The Divine
Comedy, striking a cautionary note with "Something for the Weekend." Then
whatshername, doing that song called "Everybody Loves Me But You," which
had that video years ago with her cavorting with a giant Madagascar
cockroach or whatever the hell those huge hissing bugs are called. I have
no idea why I remember that.
As you can see, subtlety and Nicky have never really known each other
all that well.
But say what you want, every now and then he can surprise you. The
next piece was a beautiful thing, equal parts violin and accordion and
two women singing these aching, wordless harmonies that floated out into
the cloudy summer's day. I actually stayed in the car when I parked,
engine running, until the song soared down to a perfect finish and I came
back to myself and realized this is just what Nicky wanted me to be
doing. I popped the tape out as the next song began (delicately rough
guitar) and flipped it into the back seat and got out and went into the
video store, thoughts of what movies to rent floating through my brain.
Hey. I said I'd treat her to dinner and a movie. I never said anything
about taking her out for the dinner and the movie.
I'm not an idiot, you know.
Okay, but at least I'm not daft.
What to rent, though. I mean, there I was, suddenly confronted by
shelf after shelf of glossy, empty video boxes, and just as suddenly
confronted by the truth: I had no earthly idea.
What do we know about Jessie James? She's almost sixteen years old.
(Maybe.) She lied about fucking her sister. (We think.) She enjoys
masturbating by the poolside of a complete stranger and staging live sex
shows with her stepmother. She has enough taste to wear Mucha on a T-
shirt and quote Robyn Hitchock, and she's never read "Lolita," though
she's been in a school play. She devours you with her kisses, her lips,
her teeth, her tongue. Her body. Her eyes, when she comes. Her skin, in
the morning half-light of my bedroom, with the shades pulled. Her hand.
Her cunt.
And what sort of movie does she want to see?
"Amateur"? No. Hal Hartley is a dodgy choice for a first date. (First
date? We've already fucked twice, you know.) (And anyway, whatshisname
took me to see "Simple Men" when it came out, and that was sort of a
first date.) (Yeah, and remember how well that turned out?)
"Rushmore"? Christ, let's not think about how choosing that movie in
this context could be construed.
I poked my head into the Psychotronics section. Serial killers and
cannibal whores, and the soft-core flicks: "Chained Heat," "Girls After
Midnight," "Alexandra's Sisters," "Emmanuelle"... No, no and no. And no.
And I fumbled through the anime, though I don't know nearly enough,
despite having written about the stuff. (What do you make of something
called "All-Purpose Cultural Cat-Girl Nuku Nuku," anyway?) "Wings of
Honneamise" I've heard good things about, but no. Like the rule about not
eating fried chicken on a first date, you should never pick something too
weird or too personal; ease into it. Avoid greasy, messy things.
So Bollywood musicals are right out, too.
But something mainstream? What? A Bruckheimer action flick directed by
the latest TV commercial wunderkind? A Nora Ephron or Rob Reiner boomer
weepie? Hey, that Ron Howard's at the top of his game, or so I hear. How
about "Shakespeare in Love"?
It's probably saying something that I stood for a long moment by the
Gay and Lesbian shelves, weighing the box for "Sister My Sister" in my
hands, a small if unpleasant smile on my face.
I put it back.
In the end, I grabbed four--effectively putting the real decision off
till later: "The Last Seduction," because who wouldn't love Linda
Fiorentino; "The Hudsucker Proxy," in case she doesn't know from the Coen
Brothers; "Chinese Ghost Story" (the first one) because, properly done,
eating fried chicken on a first date can be fun; and--what the hell--
"Amateur." Maybe she'll love Hal Hartley after all. Or Martin Donovan, at
the very least.
Christ. What if she really, really, really liked "Titanic"?
The girl behind the counter was tall and she had an astonishingly
chaotic tumble of blond curls piled rather haphazardly on top of her head
and she wore an old black T-shirt featuring a bimbo on a motorcycle and
the words "Milwaukee Vibrator" and she smiled that way when she processed
my form. You know--or maybe you don't. The grin crooks a little over to
the side, the eyes dip down to check the name again, then look up,
deferentially, I don't want to bother you unduly, but, "Are you that
Carter MacLeod?"
I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a charge out of it. It happens
infrequently enough it's still a special thing, in the quotidian light of
a video store.
"The only one I know of," I said.
"I mean, 'Keys to the Kingdom'? I loved that book. I really liked what
you had to say about the active participation of fans. The whole slash
fiction thing, and all that."
To which I cocked an eyebrow; it's not usually the bit of the book
people leap to, immediately, to comment on; not, anyway, a little before
noon in a video store, no matter how cool and funky a selection it might
have. But I was polite. "Thanks," I said.
Which is when this dark, glossy head appeared, floating up from
beneath the counter which came up to the blonde's sternum, and it slowly
eclipsing the faded bimbo on the faded motorcycle. Someone was standing
up from where they'd been kneeling or stooping below the counter. Another
girl, younger than the first, with long straight black hair and a tattoo
on the palm of her right hand, something arcane, occult, which I know
because, as she stood, slowly, turning but not exactly looking at me, she
raised that hand and wiped her mouth with the back of it. As she reached
her full height (a head shorter than the blonde), she said, with a
crooked grin, "Yeah. Gotta love that Buffy/Faith slash."
It was like a moment from a dream, some portent dropped suddenly into
my lap. Here. Mull on this for a while. So I might have been an instant
too slow to say, glibly, "Indeed."
Blonde looked down at brunette, who looked right back up. And they
both shared one of those little, silent laughs, that rocks the head back
and forth a wave or two, leaking out your nose, more of a sniff than
anything else.
I scooped up my movies and my receipt, nodded, smiled, and left.
No, I don't really consider the whole package from Nicky thing to be
that odd. Trust me, if you knew him, you'd see what I mean. Strange, yes.
Eccentric. But forced. He tries to hard, God love him. Genuine
strangeness is as natural as the air you breathe; so close to you that
you don't sense it until you wake up one morning and you ask, how the
hell did I get into this? or you stand there, thinking, did what I think
just happened really happen? And you can't make heads or tails of it, or
of yourself. And that's when you really start to come unhinged.
The next song on the tape? Big Star. Alex Chilton singing plaintively:
"I'm in love with a girl
Finest girl in the world
I didn't know
This could happen to me..."
See what I mean? Nicky. Subtlety. Not on speaking terms.
Strange?
She was waiting on my front steps when I got back.
Not Jessie.
Leah. Her sister.
I sat in the car a moment, the tape murmuring ominously in the
background ("Who's getting scared now, tell me, who's getting scared?").
She stood there, in baggy khakis and a white T-shirt, little round
sunglasses hiding her eyes, her blond hair pulled back simply with a
leather barrette. Her arms folded, her face expressionless. I didn't like
the fact that I couldn't see her eyes.
"So you gonna chase me now, boy," sang the Fiona Apple clone Nicky'd
taped for me, "yeah, you gonna corner me now, boy, you think you gonna
threaten me now, boy -- well somehow I don't think so." His stupid,
pathetic, passive-aggressive tape. Sweet, really. A message from another
world. I popped it out, shut off the car, took a deep breath, and got
out.
The first thing Leah James ever said to me?
"I want to know what the hell your intentions are towards my sister."
Me? Standing there in my ratty jeans and Nike sandals, an armload of
pretentious videotapes and my hair blowing in my eyes? I was doing my
best not to laugh.
"You'd get further asking Jessie what hers are towards me."
"So you're just along for the ride, then. Huh?" Her voice dripped
contempt, but her shoulders shook, and she hadn't unfolded her arms, and
she lifted her head too consciously at the end of that sentence,
remembering too suddenly to be assertive, to look me in the eye.
"Something like that," I said. I fished around my keyring, finding my
front door key by touch, and pushed past her.
"What, are you ashamed?" She was following me, her steps short and
choppy, her arms still folded, herself full of false bravado. "You don't
want anyone to know you're fucking my sister?" Her voice a little too
loud.
"No," I said, opening the door. "And if you thought about it for a
minute, you wouldn't either." And in I went.
She must have followed right on my heels; she clattered into the TV
room as I was dumping the videos on top of the VCR. "Look," I said,
before she could say anything. "We've gotten off on the wrong foot. Maybe
we should start all over again. Okay? My name's--"
I was turning around to face her, and there she was, standing in the
doorway, her hand up, her sunglasses half off. Her face suddenly pale,
her eyes, blue, blue green like the ocean off Jamaica. Not looking at me.
"--Carter MacLeod," I finished, more from momentum than anything else.
"You're," she said, not looking at me. Over my shoulder. "You're the
King of Beetles."
She was staring at one of the silly anime posters I have hanging over
the stereo system. Young girl curled up in a fetal position, asleep in a
weird comic-opera uniform, her pink hair spread out in an obsessively
rendered circle, the whole of it surrounded by gaudy, over-the-top roses;
the sort of plastic bright-and-shiny pop culture Art Nouveau that only
the Japanese can pull off.
"Leah?" I said.
She looked at me. "You're in my dreams," she said.
"Not on purpose," I said.
She turned around, walked away, back into the dim hall. Stumbling a
little. Alarmed, I followed her. "Leah?" I said again. She was leaning
against the railing of the stairs up to the second floor, her head
hanging down, as if she were about to vomit. "Do you need some help? To
lie down, or something?"
"Where did you get that? Where does it come from?"
"I wrote a book," I said. "On subcultures. Fandom. Sci-fi, anime. That
sort of thing." She straightened up, swallowed. Her face was so much more
serious than Jessie's. Quieter, if you can say that a face is quiet. I
got the sense she didn't smile as often as her sister, or as brightly.
"It's a Japanese cartoon. 'Utena,' I think it's called."
"The world revolution," she said.
"Yeah," I said. "Something like that. You've seen it?"
"No," she said. She turned to look at me, her eyes dark, her face so
serious. "Do you love my sister?"
The question hit me like a bucket of ice water. My guts froze solid at
the idea that I was having this conversation here, in my house. About
this thing that I've done, that I've allowed to happen, that I can't
speak about. (And she's going to be here in a few hours, you know, and
even at the thought my bastard cock stirred a little, my lizard brain
flashed images through my head. Jessie. What she told me. About Leah. Her
sister.) I shook my head. Focus. "I barely know her," I said. I
swallowed. Questions swarmed my brain. Love?
("Do you think you can trust me?" Jessie'd asked. "Because I think I'm
falling in love with you," she'd said.
(Then again...)
"You listen to me," she started to say.
"Wait," I said. "Please. I--I can't begin to explain it. I start to
say something and it sounds like I'm making excuses which is the last
thing I want to do. I know what I--what we're doing isn't right. But--" I
took a deep breath. Questions. "I don't think it's wrong, either." Don't
I?
"If you so much as even think of hurting her," she said.
"Jessie," I said, "can more than take care of herself." Can't she?
"Yeah," said Leah. "Well."
A long moment hung there between us.
And then, because I had to, because I couldn't not, I spoke. "Can I,"
I said, and I started again, because I had to know, "can I ask you an
obscenely personal question?"
That got a smile, a small one. She shrugged. "Go ahead," she said, her
voice wary.
So I asked her.
I haven't been sleeping well, lately. I think I already said something
to that effect.
I dozed off, after Leah left. Half awake, half dreaming, groceries
gotten, vids selected, nothing to do but wait, and I'm sitting on the
couch, three or four books I can't read scattered about, and my mind is
full of too many thoughts to stop and think about any one of them, and I
haven't been sleeping well, so of course I dozed off.
For some reason, I was back at Flicker, looking for different videos.
Because Jessie would laugh at the ones I'd picked out. (Scared of her?
I'm terrified! Do you know--do you remember--how casually cruel teenagers
can be?) And the blond girl is behind the counter, with her chaotic hair
and her "Milwaukee Vibrator" T-shirt, only for some reason I know what's
going on behind the counter. The younger girl, the black-haired girl with
the mysterious tattoo on the palm of her hand, she's kneeling there, and
the blond girl is wearing these tight cut-off jeans that I never saw
because the counter comes up to her sternum, remember, but the cut-off
jeans are unbuttoned and unzipped and tugged down just far enough, down
just above her knees, her thighs spread but not far enough, she's leaning
forward, hips canted forwards as far as she can, her hands pressed,
white-knuckled, against the edge of the counter, and the black-haired
girl, squatting there, her mouth glued to the blond girl's cunt, her
tongue licking out, one hand, her left hand, clenched on the blond girl's
bare ass, levering her further forward, and the blond girl grunts and
tries to keep what's happening off her face, but I know, and she knows I
know, and somehow it's my fault I know, and the black-haired girl's other
hand, her right hand, has worked its way between the blond girl's thighs
which are spread as far as she can spread them, given her shorts, there,
around her knees, and the palm of the black-haired girl's right hand is
turned towards her face, not that she can see it, because that way her
middle finger can slip inside, there, between the lips of the blond
girl's cunt, creamy velvet smooth and warm, and a drop of something
viscous, clear, like honey, like clean motor oil in a television
commercial, falls to obscure the symbol tattooed on her palm, the symbol
I still can't make out. The black-haired girl hums tunelessly. Milwaukee
Vibrator.
"Can I help you?" asks the blond girl. And I know, and I know she
knows I know, and still she doesn't let on what's happening to her.
Christ, I can practically feel it. The black-haired girl's finger is
slipping inside me, her mouth is licking at me and I can feel the
prehistoric pressure building in my thighs, straining against the rough
denim, Christ, I'm standing there looking for movies and her girlfriend's
eating her out and I'm the one about to come.
"I, uh, what sort of movie, would you recommend?"
The black-haired girl takes her mouth away and my knees nearly buckle
in relief. The blond girl blinks, slowly, licks her lips. The black-
haired girl's finger is still inside her, inside me, still, unmoving,
deadly as a coiled snake, waiting to strike. The black-haired girl begins
to press sticky, wet kisses against the blond girl's thighs and belly,
and I feel the lingering traces of them, cool and wet on my skin, the
brief warm pressure of her tongue as she licks, under my shirt. "Well,"
says the blond girl, "that depends. What are your intentions?"
I turn away. It doesn't help. Everyone can see, but no one seems to
notice what's going on. They're all too polite. "Intentions?" I say.
"What do you want?" she asks.
The black-haired girl takes a deep breath there under the counter and
I can feel it stirring the hairs at the root of my cock inside my pants,
just above the cleft of the blond girl's cunt, and then she dives in. A
second finger slips inside, her tongue managing to find the blond girl's
clit despite the bad angle, her left hand spreading the blond girl's
cunt, her fingers pressing there and there against my pelvis, pushing,
opening her, opening me, as her jaw works and her fingers work.
"Something like that?" says the blond girl. I double over, gasping.
Coming. Everyone can see. Everyone knows. Great jagged bursts, squeezing
my muscles, blasts of white light, and I tumble to the floor, curled up
on my side, and my stiff cock aches as if something too large stretched
it wide on its way out.
A woman's feet, a woman's legs stride into my view, there, on the
carpet. Stockingless, smooth, fastened into sandals with spindly heels
and thin black straps. Toes freshly painted. Green, in case you were
curious. Four flat white pebbles, milky, translucent, litter the thick
carpet near them; one foot lifts idly, toes one of the pebbles, kicks it
away to clatter against an unseen video shelf. "Are you quite through?"
says a voice I know to be Virginia's.
"I don't know," says the blond girl.
I get up, unmussed. Unrumpled. Unstained. Behind me, I know, the
black-haired girl is rising slowly to her feet, her head obscuring the
faded bimbo on the faded motorcycle. Milwaukee Vibrator. I turn. She
smiles. She raises her right hand, wipes the back of her mouth with it.
The symbol, tattooed on her palm: a stylized rose, simple, geometric
petals folded artfully into a rosette. She opens her mouth.
The doorbell rings.
Did I see what I thought I saw? Did what I thought just happened
happen?
The doorbell?
That's when I jerked awake, a hard-on yanked to one side by my ratty
jeans, still in the old white T-shirt with the cigarette burns and the
Nike sandals. Not what I want to be wearing when Jessie shows up at, oh,
Christ, it's seven o'clock now, isn't it?
I leaped to my feet, tried to arrange pants and stiff cock in some
mutually beneficial arrangement, gave up when the doorbell bonged again
and scuttled, bent over, to the front door. Which I opened.
Jessie smiled.
Tight black capri pants--more like tights, really, a second skin of
matte black riding low on her hips down to just past her knees. A black
halter with spaghetti straps. Simple black shoes, like a jazz dancer's,
with low, flat heels. She stood there, arms crossed in front of her, a
black tin case like an old-fashioned lunch box emblazoned with her
favorite cartoon penguin in her hands. Hair brushed back, simply, behind
her shoulders, her face clean, her lips, touched with a hint of dark,
dark red, crooked in a smile.
"I'm sorry," I said, I babbled, "I don't know how, I must have dozed
off, had a hell of a dream--I'm not ready yet, I'm really sorry, if you
just come in--"
"I don't know," she said. Looking down. "You look ready to me."
Oh. My erection. My French sex-farce of a stiffy. But she was stepping
in as I backed away, setting her tin case down, grinning, her hands
reaching for the hem of my shirt, lifting it. I batted them away.
"Jessie," I said. Backing up. She grabbed my shirt again, snaked under
for the hem of my jeans. "Jessie," I said again.
"Let me at it," she said.
I backed into the stairs, my heels hitting the bottom step. Pop! went
the button of my jeans. "Dammit, Jessie," I said.
"Fuck the dinner. Fuck the movie. Let's just cut to the chase." Zip!
went the zipper as her hands yanked open my fly, my cock surging forward,
exultant, almost free, her hand grabbing the waistband of my tented
shorts. I took a step back and missed and hit the edge of the riser and
went down, hard, falling out of her grasp even as my cock popped free
into the air and my butt hit the steps, hard, air whooshing out of me as
one hand smacked hard into the banister and her eyes went wide, hands
going up almost comically, oh, oh, "Carter?"
"Ow," I said.
Laughing, delighted, she half-toppled onto me, catching her weight
with one hand on the step by my shoulder, her tongue licking my lips,
kissing me, as her other hand found my cock, a warm little thing
skittering along it, her fingers light, sliding, tickling, down to the
base and back up again, and another kiss as I opened my mouth to her and
licked her in turn, why not, when in Rome, what else was all this about
anyway, right? Not the way you planned it, but hey. Of course, the front
door was open. And her fingers danced at the tip, slicking themselves in
the drops of Cowper's fluid that'd oozed up there, called up by that damn
dream or vision or portent or whatever the hell, puddled now in the lip
of my straining foreskin, imagine that, some seventeenth century
biologist dicking around and here we are, three hundred years later, this
girl's fingertips wet and shining with his namesake. Immortality. "Mmm,"
she said, "you're already wet for me. Like a girl."
"The front door," I said.
"What about it?"
"It's still open," I said.
"So?"
"I do," I said. Which stumbled us both, her with her head looking down
towards her hand busy skinning me back, freeing the red and swollen
glans, just like the whole assemblage was freed from its skins of cotton
and denim, me trying to push myself up and back and away, until I figured
out I'd thought she was going to say "Who cares?" and not "So?" and my
response had been primed and out it popped, automatically, the rest of my
brain focussed on other things, like how to get away. Momentarily, you
understand. Not as a permanent solution. Ow. Her fingers pulled down too
harshly, stretching, straining. Something too large, fighting to get
free. Which I did, pulling myself up a step or two with the banister,
getting a foot under me, then another.
"Aww," she said. But leaning back to let me pass down the steps,
careful of my pants that wanted to slide down my legs. The door wouldn't
close, which was worth a moment of sheer angered panic ("Goddammit!")
until she cried out "Badtz!" and I remembered her damn cartoon penguin on
that tin box that she set down on her way in, her hands outstretched for
me, it was between the door and the jamb and I was closing the door on
it, and she swooped in to rescue it, clutching it to her breast. I closed
the door.
"You hurt him," she said. I turned my back to the door, sank to the
floor, pants uncomfortably low, sitting on belt loops, but I didn't care.
She was holding out the tin box for my inspection, see? I'd dented it a
little, put a scratch across the penguin's phlegmatically blank face.
"Come here," I said.
She took two steps towards me, her face still dark and petulant, Badtz
Maru in her hands. I reached up, took the tin box away, and she let me,
and I took her hands, still hot, the fingertips of her right hand still
sticky, and I pulled her closer. She stepped so that her feet were on
either side of me. "I'm sorry," I said.
"Prove it," she said. Mock-angry. Pretend-pout.
I got my feet under myself, half-squatting, back braced against the
door, as I tucked my thumbs into the waistband of her tights and tugged,
down and down, like her hands skinning me back, a little roughly,
perhaps, she hissed, but. Yanked down to half-mast, above her knees,
allowing her thighs to spread, a little. There she was, bare, from the
hem of her halter clinging a couple of inches above her navel down the
swoop of her golden belly to there, the pale thicket of hair, neatly
trimmed, a slim and regular delta tamed from a tangled thatch, and below
it--I leaned forward, kissed her thigh there, her belly there, my right
hand sliding between her legs, ineluctably, turning so that my palm faced
me, not that I could see it, my eyes were closed, my tongue was licking
out, my first taste of her, tangy, electric, like licking a penny,
because this way my middle finger could crook, slip, there, between her
outer lips already wet, slide, up and down, up and down, creamy, velvet,
warm and smooth, and then, as she hissed, in.
I think she came almost instantly, a little tremor shivering through
her, "Oh, she murmured, bracing herself against the door, arms stiff
above my head, I could hear her palms rasping against the wood, "oh,
gamahuche..." and I did, I kept at it, my finger still inside her as she
arched her hips forward, rocking a little, and I licked as much as I
could reach with my tongue, lifting the loose folds of her labia with my
lips, licking them apart to find the hot, hard little kernel inside as
she gasped and grabbed the back of my head and groaned and I slid my
finger out, and then two fingers in, and out, and in, licking, licking,
spreading her as wide as I could with my left hand, licking.
What else could we do, really?
The halter-top ended up tossed near the sideboard. Shoes kicked off
there, and there, as I yanked my T-shirt over my head. I had her tights
off in two quick yanks, step, kick, and then she was on me, not even
bothering to pull off my pants, tumbling down between my legs, a lapful
of naked Jessie. "You know," I said, as she kissed my stomach, spreading
her left hand across my denim-covered thigh, taking my hard, trembling
cock in her right hand, bending it to one side so she could kiss its
base, "we never really talk anymore."
"Shut up," she said, lifting her head, eyes flashing. "My turn."
And in I went. Her mouth was warm, and soft, her lips surrounding the
glans sweetly, her tongue rushing around it, then down, and up again, her
fingertips lightly stroking the base, then suddenly switching to the
desperate, muscular jerking of a fifteen-year-old boy as she bobbed her
lips--something few fifteen-year-old boys have on those late summer
evenings alone in a sweaty bed--up and down around the tip, swirling,
rushing, and something enormous passed out of me. She caught most of it.
Some spattered onto my jeans, the floor. Her cheek. I reached out to wipe
it off, but she lunged at me, and we were kissing, toppling to the floor,
tasting each other, her acidic tang, musky, my salty, basic blandness.
Somehow my jeans and shorts ended up off me, though not without some
tangled kicks at the ankles. My hand found my cock as we kissed, no time
to slack off now, bucko, even as her hand, wet with herself, found mine.
Her lips grinned into our kiss, and I matched it, licking them as our
fingers tangled about my cock, stroking to keep it awake. I pulled back
just enough to look her in the eye as I levered her onto her back, on the
throw rug, her head by the leg of the sideboard, her hair spilling out
over her discarded halter.
"Christ," she said, "why aren't we doing this every fucking day?"
I shrugged, stroking, feeling my flagging cock--thank God!--rally
itself for another go, blood in a tidal rush back to its veins, filling
it, heating it up again. "You know where to find me," I said. I wanted
her. Questions? Fuck 'em. I wanted her. In the end, it's that simple. I
hovered over her, weight on my hands on either side of her head, my
knees, rocking forward, feeling the head of my cock nestle just so, in
that sweet spot, her cunt just kissing it with that incredible warmth,
and I knew all I had to do was fall on her, forward and down and I would
be oh, yes, inside.
"So you always, ah, do this, on a first date?" she asked.
I laughed. And fell. Oh, yes.
Of course, sooner or later you have to stop.
Naked, the both of us, in the kitchen. Later. Water coming up to boil
for the pasta and I'd given up on actually making a salad; we were
feeding each other slices of cucumber and tomato as I chopped garlic and
grated cheese. Momus on in the background, and Jessie was already singing
along with the chorus: "Professor Shaftenberg, Professor Shaftenberg, he
is sponsored by Lufthansa to screw the pants off Japanese girls!" and
lewdly licking the end of the cucumber during the verses, a stupid joke
which I let her know in no uncertain terms was beneath her. And those
thoughts were starting to swarm around in my poor, beleaguered brain
again. The shreds of fact I'd managed to collect. How I was going to try
and use them to leverage my position in what was going on here.
"You've gone all serious," she said, as I gingerly dumped spaghetti
into the boiling water. Cooking naked makes you leery of splashing and
gas jets. She pouted, sidled up behind me, her arms snaking around me,
the tangled curls of her pubic hair tickling the back of my thighs, the
bottom of my ass. She pressed a kiss to my shoulder. "What are you
thinking about?"
"You," I said.
"I make you all serious?" One bare foot stroking my calf, down to
brush lightly the top of my own. Arm lifted to allow me to reach the
pasta stirrer. The water was coming back up to a boil, and I broke apart
the clumped strands, already softening, stirring them around.
"I worry about you."
"You should," she said. "I've got this big ol' creep taking advantage
of my young," her breasts pressed in against me, "nubile," one hand
shivering down my flank to my hip, "body every which way and then some.
It's horrible. It is." Kisses, along my shoulder.
"I'm talking," I said, and I took a deep breath, leave this unsaid,
buried, just go along, go along, "about your family situation." She
stopped, stiffened against me. There. It's said. Can't back out now.
"It's unhealthy."
"We're not about to sell out and go on Jerry Springer, if that's what
you're worried about."
"Dammit, Jessie."
She let go of me, though she stayed close. "Is it Leah? Are you
worried about her?"
I watched the spaghetti roil. Did she know Leah had been to see me
today?
"Is it Virginia?" She backed away. "What, you want me all to yourself?
Carter doesn't want to share?"
I turned. Her face was unreadable. I reached out, dumped the grated
cheese into the bowl with the olive oil and eggs and garlic and the
vinegar and sherry and sundried tomatoes. "What's going on between your
mother and Andi--"
"Stepmother, dammit."
"Whatever. Your stepmother and Andi James."
She crossed her arms, leaning back against a counter. "Okay," she
said. "You found out about Andi. You found out about what she does, and
what Virginia does for her. Right? Snoop much?"
"How did you know my middle name?"
She blinked. Aha. "You told me."
"I never tell anyone. I hate my middle name."
"You know they sleep together, don't you. Virginia and Andi."
Thrust, and counterthrust. Parry. Dodge. Spin. When did this become a
duel? How? "And you, too, sometimes. Right?"
She snorted. "Snooping and spying? What, you've got binoculars or
something?"
"And a pretty good view of your house."
"Oh, I know about the view," she said.
"Your room, even."
"So you watch me fuck myself to sleep every night?" Her voice went
singsong ugly. "You like watching teenage girls with their hands in their
panties? There's websites for that sort of thing, you know."
"Not," I said, "for you and your sister."
Our eyes locked together across the kitchen with an almost audible
click. "Oh," she said quietly. "You like that, don't you."
"Oh," I said. "It does the trick."
And triumph flared in her eyes, her sudden, cruel grin. "You," she
said, "Carter, you don't know the first thing about my quote family
situation un-fucking-quote. So shut up. Stay out. Leave it alone." She
looked away. "I don't need fucking rescuing, okay?"
"Rescuing?" I said. I fished up a strand of spaghetti. "Who said
anything about rescuing? I'm talking pragmatism." I nibbled at it. Al
dente, just. "Self-preservation. I need to know what's going on. What's
the score. Who's playing, what the pieces are. What the game is. I'm not
a nice guy, goes around rescuing people all the time."
"You are nothing but a nice guy," said Jessie, scornfully.
"Virginia certainly seems to think so." I lifted the pot off the
stove, dumped it into the colander in the sink. Big clouds of steam.
"Since when did you get to be such good friends with her?" she asked.
I dumped the drained spaghetti into the bowl with the eggs and the oil
and everything else and started stirring it all together. "You never did
try to figure that out, did you?" I asked.
"What?" she said.
"The second time you were over here. Monday morning. I'm telling you
all this stuff about how Virginia wants me to meet your sisters and you
don't ask when or how we got to talking."
She frowned a pretty little frown. "I heard you. While I was
showering. You guys were out in the hall. Watching me."
I stopped stirring, looked her in the eyes again. "We weren't there
when you got out. Were we."
"You have got to be kidding me," she said.
"I wasn't in the kitchen," I said. I wouldn't let her look away. "She
wasn't out by the pool. Though you were. We were quite inspired, watching
you, you know. You're insatiable."
"And you're an asshole," she said.
"And Virginia is quite, ah, persuasive. But I'm sure you know that."
"You fucked my stepmother."
"What's the matter, Jessie?" I said. "Don't want to share?"
She looked away, at that, her jaw working, her face unable to make up
its mind whether to screw itself up in rage, or a grin, or tears. I was
kind of the same way, though I kept it off my face. I tend to keep that
sort of thing in my shoulders, and in my gut. Hide it away, no matter how
big it gets. How the hell had this happened? I just wanted answers, not a
chess match. Not a dick-slinging "I know more than you think I do"
contest. Christ. I stood there, and watched her, and tried not to think
of Daffy Duck's quarterstaff. Parry. Dodge. Spin. Or Virginia's face, for
that matter. Looking up at me. The silken mockery in her voice. "I knew
you had to have a little bit left for me."
What have I gotten myself into?
"Okay," she said, at last, blessedly breaking the silence, "all right.
You want to know what the game is?" She took a step towards me, and
another. "You want to know what the score is?" I stood there, unmoving.
Three feet away. A foot. Right there, her toes brushing mine, her nose
just below mine, if I took a deep breath I'd brush against her nipples,
which I did. Her hand around my balls. Firm grip. "You want to take this
to the next level?"
"Next level?" I said. "Who's writing your dialogue?"
She squeezed. "Do you want to take this to the next level?" Hard
enough for a sharp spike of that nasty, nauseous pain. I grabbed her
wrist, hard, twisted a little just so, and she let go. About the only
trick I remembered from Aikido class. Not that it's normally used to
force pretty young girls to let go of your balls.
"If taking it to the next level," I said, "involves pain, bondage,
domination, that sort of crap, I've got to tell you. I've tried it. I
find it terribly dull."
"Yes," she said, "or no. Which is it."
We stood there for a long time like that, naked. Her wrist in my hand.
Our skin brushing together along a dozen planes and surfaces, arms, legs,
hips, shoulders. Her breath in the hollow of my throat. Mine stirring the
fine hair near her ear.
"Of course," I said. "What else do you think this is all about?" Gee,
Carter. I don't know. What the fuck was all that about?
She smiled, and suddenly, shockingly, lifted herself up, her mouth
meeting mine, melting into a tender kiss, her hands on my shoulders. "Get
dressed," she said, in my ear. "Something nice. Presentable."
"Presentable?" I said. "Where are we going?"
"Out," she said, skipping out of my arms, into the hall.
"Out?" I called after her. "What about dinner?"
She stuck her head back through the doorway. "Fuck dinner," she said.
cont'd---
nicholas urfe
nickurfe@yahoo.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Nick/wwwure
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/
--
DICK. That happened in the reign of queen Dick, i.e. never: said of any
absurd old story.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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