by Christopher K. Miller
(06/17/09)
Charles tiptoes up behind Linda, who is leaning over the bathroom sink's countertop reading some Year's Best Erotica anthology. It must be a good story because she's got her legs spread a bit and is mostly unconsciously rubbing her pubis against the counter's outside edge. She ignores him while he reads over her shoulder. Charles can't read as fast as Linda can, so he only gleans the first paragraph or two of every other page.
It's night. A voluptuous woman is tied to a fruit tree in a garden. The tree is gnarled, old and wise. The woman is blindfolded, helpless. A dark, faceless man appears out of nowhere and, without preamble, tears off her top and pinches her nipples roughly, almost jealously, then flicks at them with his fingers. Miraculously, even as she cries out, they elongate and stand erect...Charles wonders why Linda would find that arousing. He's probably missed some character development. Then on the next page the woman groans as the man rubs her pussy, first over her skirt, then under her skirt, and then under her panties. Charles assumes from the vernacular that it's an American anthology. The man is clumsy, seems not interested in her pain or pleasure, only in gratifying his ego and curiosity. The man fumbles and prods. The woman bucks and groans...Linda turns the page.
Charles thinks the woman must like what the man's doing though. That they must have agreed to this game earlier on. Charles lifts Linda's skirt from behind and reaches under it. She feels warm through her silky thong, like she's running a bit of a fever. Linda's reading slows for a moment and Charles is able to skim over half a page while stroking her up and down. Linda lifts up her arse while resting her ribs on the countertop, her back arched like a cat in heat, her breath steaming up her cleavage's reflection in the vanity mirror. She looks flushed in the mirror, like she might be slightly piqued. Charles rubs her labia up and down with his knuckles...casually...up and down...quietly...up and down. Linda turns the page.
Atop the next page, the man has taken out his "staff." It glows in the moonlight, "a great golden snake with an apple for a head." Because the woman is tied standing with her arms pulled back, the man must chin himself on a low branch to bring the snake's apple close to her face. His biceps bulge. The woman bobs her head up and down as though fervently nodding. It's hard to tell if she's trying to vehemently avoid or enthusiastically not avoid the man's penis, which brushes and bumps against her chin and cheeks. Then, just as he gets the tip in her mouth, Linda sighs and turns the page.
If it were him, Charles thinks, he'd be afraid she'd take a bite, and then suddenly realizes how hard he is. He puts his fingers under Linda's thong's crotch. She's soaking wet there. He pinches her clit softly, then a bit harder to be more like the man in the story. Linda squirms, parts her legs, and bends over a little more so that her tummy is resting on the countertop. The book is open on the faucet's taps. The top of her head presses against the mirror. Up on her toes, up almost out of her spiked heels, she turns the page. The man, hanging from the branch by one arm now like a monkey, has lowered himself so that his golden apple peeks up from between the woman's ample heaving breasts. She bows her head to it as he fondles her, but he evades her lips by twisting from side to side. Emboldened by the narrative, Charles slides his thumb into Linda from behind. Linda squeezes back as he fingers her clit and thumbs her G-spot.
Linda appears to lose her place, and Charles takes advantage by skimming down the page until the man is on his feet again, poking at the woman's panties with his "member" while she thrusts back at him. It's almost like he's trying to please himself without pleasing her, and failing and succeeding miserably at both. Linda moans softly at some passage and gyrates around Charles's fingers. Undulating like a belly dancer, the woman tries to use the coarse bark of the fruit tree to snag and tug her panties down. Linda turns the page.
Charles decides it's probably an apple tree and fingers Linda more roughly. Then, still maintaining his grip on her sex, he places his other hand just below her tiny vestigial tailbone, catching, then stretching down her thong's waistband until his fingertips graze and explore around her anus. Linda grunts and wriggles on his fingers. She is like a musical instrument being played. But as with the woman in the story, Charles can't tell if she wants him to stop, or play harder. He can't tell if she likes or dislikes his arrangement. She might be nervous, he decides, nervous but excited. Ambivalent. But either way, it can't be that urgent since Linda continues to read, and turns the page. Now the man is standing between the woman's legs which, even though her feet are bound at the ankles, she's managed to wrap around his waist, scissoring him, holding him between her long thighs, squeezing, her head thrown back and to the side as though trying to peek under her blindfold. Charles has missed a lot of story, but assumes the man, who's needlessly supporting the woman's ass with his hands, is now deep inside her. Charles imagines he can feel the woman's clenching, the scratches left on her by the tree as her arse writhes wetly against his palms. Only then does Charles feel Linda's free hand warm and willful on his fly.
