So Wrong (the collected pornographica of Elsie)

1.
On Sunday night I took a bunch of pills, emptying out every bottle in my medicine cabinet and swallowing them by the handful, washing them down with warm Coke. Then I sat down on the couch and watched old Simpsons reruns while I waited. When my stomach started cramping, I panicked, and called 911. By this time the EMTs knew me by name.

“Oh, sweetheart,” they said, “Not again?”

They strapped me into the gurney, and hauled me downstairs to the ambulance, and I don’t know for sure, but I strongly suspect that they didn’t close my apartment door properly behind them. I think that’s when he got in.

It was a quick ride over to St. Luke’s, and I bypassed the usual interminable wait in the emergency room because my stomach was cramping something fierce and I was really scared and just a little hopeful I might have really fucked the pooch this time, and then a tired-looking resident had my stomach pumped, and they kept me overnight for observation, and then sent me on my way in the morning with my stuff in a clear plastic bag and a promise to never do it again.

I went straight from the hospital to work, which was neither any better nor any worse than usual: meetings all afternoon, pro forma sexual harassment from Brinks, and I had to stay late debugging. At home, I sat naked on the windowsill and ate cold pizza, drinking cheap vodka out of a pint glass and looking down through my window at the web of tangled traffic below.

It rained that night, and I stood out in the middle of the West Side Highway for a little over an hour, but apparently no-one felt like running over a drunk fat white chick in her skivvies, so eventually I got dressed and went home, bored and tired and wet.

The next day at work was more of the same: ‘self-assessment and inventory’. Brinks, my supervisor, speculated out loud as to what kind of panties I might be wearing. As usual, he was dead wrong. The new intern winced visibly. She was cute. I stayed in the office until 7:30, eating greasy Chinese food out of styrofoam containers. I wondered, if I hung myself in the supply closet, how long it would take them to find my body, who would handle the paperwork, and how many mandatory team-building seminars my suicide would generate.

That night, I briefly considered masturbating. I hadn’t done it in weeks. I used to be a dedicated twice-a-dayer. I even went so far as to put one of my old tapes on the VCR, but there was nothing. I was dry as autumn leaves.

Sometimes I couldn’t believe it was really me in those tapes; I couldn’t connect with that girl at all. It had been ten years and more since I’d had sex. Does your virginity ever grow back? I slept hard that night, and didn’t dream.

Ever get the feeling you’re not alone? I’ve lived by myself for a long time, and that’s the way I like it. When you live alone, you get used to things being a certain way; nobody messes around with your stuff. Something wasn’t quite right. There wasn’t enough toilet paper left on the roll. I could have sworn I still had a slice of left-over pizza in the fridge. I looked and looked, but couldn’t find my spare keys.

Once I knew what I was looking for, it didn’t take long to find it: my apartment isn’t that big. He’d made a little nest in the back of my coats closet. There was a battered blue sleeping bag and some candy wrappers and a roll of condoms. He was using my parka for a pillow. I touched nothing, beat a hasty retreat, and rode the subway up and down town for hours, dithering about what to do about it. It was one of those days when I wished I smoked.

2.
I remember when I was a little girl, my parents were always bringing ‘friends’ over to the house. These ‘friends’ always looked more or less the same: gym-sculpted bodies, golden deep-fried salon tans, perfect teeth, plastic smiles. When I was introduced to them, they always smiled really big and shook my hand in kind of a greasy, condescending way. I generally only saw them once, twice at the most. They stayed the night, and then they were gone. When I finally figured out what was going on, it was like somebody had thrown one of those ka-chung disconnect switches that turns on all the stadium lights.

There was always a ton of porn around the house: stacks of magazines, books, and video tapes filling up the bookshelves and spilling out across the counters and coffee tables. This was before the internet had come into its own, and VHS was king.

My mom got me a vibrator for my twelfth birthday, which was absolutely mortifying, but didn’t stop me from using it incessantly.

It was sort of all downhill from there.

One day, she announced that it was time for me to learn to give a proper blowjob. It was a Saturday morning, we’d just finished breakfast, and next thing I knew, Dad was sitting on the kitchen counter with his pants around his ankles, and Mom was slurping up and down his erect dick, licking his fat hairy balls, lavishing her tongue around the purple head, and pausing now and then to give me pointers. “Don’t try to cram the whole thing in your mouth, at least not at first.” “Keep up a good rhythm with your hand” “If your mouth gets tired, guys like it when you rub your boobs on their cock.” Which she then proceeded to do, peeling off her tank top, and capturing my dad’s penis between her breasts, so that only the head peeked out. He slid his dick up and down her cleavage, and she stuck out her tongue to lick the tip. He was juicy. Her boobs completely enveloped his cock, so it looked sort of like a pig-in-a-blanket. My own breasts were still just speed bumps, not yet developed enough to capture anything of the sort; but my nipples were suddenly achingly hard.

Mom turned to me, releasing Dad’s hard cock, which waggled and bounced like a jack-in-the-box. “Do you want to try it, Honey? Here, have a lick!”

I fled upstairs to my room, and locked the door. My panties were sticky wet. I masturbated on my bed, pressing my vibrator hard against my agonized clit, coming over and over again.

“Do you think she’s ready?” Dad asked. We were in the car, driving home from the mall. I was in the back seat next to Sherry, another one of my parent’s ‘friends’.

“I think she’s ready” Mom replied, “What do you think, Sherry?”

“Oh, I think she’s definitely ready.” Sherry squeezed my hand and smiled at me, and I felt my tongue go dry and my cunt get involuntarily sopping wet.

“Why don’t we start her out on Eric?” Mom said thoughtfully, “He’s got a pretty small dick.”

Eric was an Asian guy, in his late twenties or early thirties, with a lot of tight, compact, toned muscles, and a receding hairline. He was actually pretty cute, except for his orange salon-bed tan. His dick was not “small” in any normal sense of the word. Dad prepped the cameras while Mom got Eric ready to go downstairs in the rec room and I sat in a chair and watched; horrified, on edge, nervous, and intensely turned on. Then we all went upstairs to my bedroom.

Mom and Dad swarmed around us, dancing and weaving with the bulky video cameras balanced on their shoulders. I sucked Eric’s dick a bit, which I enjoyed, though I had the distinct feeling I wasn’t really doing it right; and then he went down on me for a little, which actually didn’t do much of anything for me. Then he came up and snuggled next to me, and played with my titties while my hand discovered his cock, and suddenly, quite insidiously, I wanted him inside me more than anything.

I wasn’t really prepared for the idea that it might hurt. Eric held my hands and gazed into my eyes and slowly slid his dick straight up my pussy. “Ouch!” I cried out, “Ow, fuck!”

Eric looked questioningly over at my mother, who nodded and gave him a ‘thumbs up’. He was reasonably gentle about it, sliding his dick rhythmically in and out, a little deeper and a little harder with each thrust. Mom was zoomed in tight on my crotch. Dad had his camera jammed right in my face. I gritted my teeth and held on tight, clinging to Eric’s hands as he pistoned mechanically in and out of me, grunting audibly, his brown eyes vacant and fixed on my forehead. I couldn’t look. It felt like my pussy was being turned into hamburger. Suddenly he pulled out, leaving me vacant and gasping, scrambled up the bed, and jerked off onto my face, splashing his hot sticky semen all over my cheeks, nose, and into my eyes. That was the one part I never understood. When I asked Mom, she said “That’s the money shot”, as if that explained everything.

Torn-up, sore and tender, I was still ridiculously turned on. I lay on my stomach and masturbated, squeezing my thighs together and tracing circles around my swollen clit while Dad filmed and Mom hissed at me to roll over and to spread my legs. There was blood on the sheets, blood smeared on my thighs.

When it was all over, I was definitely sore and tender, but not actually torn to shreds. I wanted to try it again, and my parents were more than happy to acquiesce. Before I knew it, I was addicted.

The other girls at school had a view of sex that was completely alien to me. They talked in hushed and giggling tones about French kissing and heavy petting and blowjobs in cars, and getting felt up, and the various bases; trying to walk an impossibly fine line between being a prude and a slut. I think because I didn’t participate, because I didn’t date boys and get crushes and preen and pout and pose and shriek, people assumed I simply wasn’t sexual. How wrong they were!

There is a video of me, I don’t know how old I am – maybe sixteen – where I am naked, in a room full of older men. I have a penis in each hand, and I am trying to suck two cocks at once, and a bunch of the other guys are jerking off onto me, and you can see it in my face: I am an enthusiastic participant. I was having a blast, enjoying every minute of it.

I had sex with Sherry, which was a little like having sex with a dress mannequin. I guess I had secretly hoped that doing it with a girl might feel different, special, magical somehow; and the truth was it didn’t, though she did make me come.

From time to time, Mom would try to get me to do a scene with them. “Come on Honey, I could just eat you out while your Dad does me from behind. Then if you want we’ll switch” I always demurred. I’m still not sure whether they thought the idea was hot, or if they just thought an incest film would make them a ton of money. Either way, the idea made me slightly queasy.

Dad asked if I wanted to try anal, and I said “sure”. The guy they assigned the task – I don’t remember his name – was actually really good. He took his time and did it right. He got me on all fours and attacked me from behind, gently licking and fingering my pussy and my asshole until I was literally squirming with want. I was braced for it to hurt when he finally slipped his lubed-up cock up my ass, Dad right there with the camera in my face whispering “Hold that look for the shot, hold that look…”, and I was mildly surprised when it didn’t hurt at all. The sensation was decidedly strange, and not necessarily in a bad way. I started to relax and sort of get into it, as he started sliding his dick in and out of my rear end. It started to feel really good; really, really good, and I suddenly realized that this had the potential to make me come. I reached down and started playing with my clit; and that was when he pulled out and deftly flipped me over and squirted off all over my face.

I had always assumed that the money from the movies I’d been making was going into a trust fund or something, that it was going to pay my way through college. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. My mom had a penchant for really good cocaine, and my dad had a bad habit of wrecking sports cars. Even while our house was being foreclosed on, they insisted on taking lavish Caribbean vacations and calling them ‘business expenses’. In the end, I didn’t even bother finishing high school. I walked out of their lives, got my own apartment, gained a lot of weight, taught myself how to code, and got a job. The first time I tried to kill myself, I jumped out the window and sprained both my ankles.

3.
I discovered that work can be a lot more tolerable if you have a project that you are actually interested in. On the sly, I wrote a bit of code that told the camera on my computer at home to take a still photograph every fifteen minutes, and to email the file to me. It mostly turned up blanks, shots of my empty apartment, but around nine, there was an intriguing blur in one corner of the image. I finally saw my new roommate in the next picture. He was naked, and his hard-on jutted straight out from his skinny frame. I’m a lousy judge of age, but if I were a bartender, I wouldn’t have served him, no way. He had a cute face, and a pretty nice dick.

Brinks wandered by on one of his ‘I-am-a-supervisor’ mini-tours of the office, and I alt-tabbed double quick into the spaghetti code that I was supposed to be sorting out. He congratulated me on my productivity, compared my breasts to a certain variety of melon, and then he retreated to the safety of his own double-wide cubicle.

The intern girl, whose name was Holly, I suddenly remembered, asked me why I put up with that shit. “Meh” I said, “I’ve had worse.” She was cute, cute with a capital C; messy pageboy haircut, sticky-out ears, long, clever fingers with carefully trimmed nails. She was lithe and graceful in a playful sort of way: she reminded me of an otter or a mongoose. Her breasts didn’t look like melons. Peaches, maybe.

Brinks is a rodent. He wouldn’t dare sexually harass Holly. He just jerks off to fantasies about slipping her roofies and molesting her unconscious body.

I wondered what kind of panties Holly had on. Probably sexy boy shorts that don’t leave panty lines.

The pictures came in blank again for a while. Then, out of nowhere, there was a shot of a man in a shirt and tie and nothing else sitting on the edge of my bed, and my naked young roommate kneeling between his legs, blowing him.

Another picture, another man lying naked on my bed, my roommate sitting next to him, glancing up at the ceiling.

In yet another picture, he was squatting between the open legs of a thickset middle-aged lady in business attire, with her skirt piled up around her waist, her back arched, and her head thrown back in apparent ecstasy.

And then, starting around five o’clock, nothing. Just a series of blanks. He had either left, or retreated to his burrow in the back of my closet.

After work, I went straight to a bar I know and got thoroughly plastered on red wine. When I finally got home, I thought about climbing into the bathtub and slitting my wrists, but then I thought about him getting up to go to the bathroom and finding me there, cold and pale and bloated, floating in a tub full of pink water. I decided to wait.

My office has no specific sick-day allowance, which is a passive-aggressive way to shame employees into never calling in sick. On the other hand, if you don’t give a shit, it makes it really easy to ditch work. The next day, I stayed in bed, with the sheets pulled up over my head. About nine-thirty I got up to pee, and when I came out of the bathroom, I found myself face-to-face with a skinny, naked, surprised-looking kid.

“Who are you?”

“I live here,” I said, “Who the hell are you?”

His name was Jason, and he had run away from home. I didn’t ask him his age, so he didn’t have to bother lying to me. I told him he could stay as long as he wanted, but he had to stop bringing strange dudes home.

“I’m not gay,” he said defensively, “I just turn tricks to make a little money.”

“Do whatever you need to do,” I told him, “Just not in my apartment.”

Perhaps inevitably, we had sex. It was the first time I’d had sex in over ten years, the first time I’d done it with a guy wearing a condom, the first time I’d done it without a video camera pointed at me, recording every move. I’d like to say it was a fantastic, mind-blowing, life-altering experience, but I can’t. It was definitely nice though.

We lay naked in my bed together, and just kissed and touched for a while. That was probably the best part, for me. Then I sucked his dick a little bit, an activity that I’ve always enjoyed. Then he went down on me a little. For an amateur, he wasn’t bad at it. He could have stayed down there all day, as far as I was concerned. Then he put on a condom, climbed on top, and fucked me. He came pretty quickly, which I think embarrassed him, but I didn’t mind. I ordered a pizza, and we ate almost all of it, and then we did it again, and he lasted much longer this time, and I was even able to squeeze an orgasm out of the deal.

I set him up with sheets and blankets on the couch. He offered to sleep in bed with me, but I think we were both much more comfortable sleeping separately.

4.
The next morning at work, Holly asked if I’d gotten a haircut or something, and I actually caught myself blushing.

At the staff meeting, Brinks voiced the opinion that the company dress code should be amended to allow female staff members to wear lingerie to work, and suggested that he might be the ideal person to select said lingerie. That got a big chuckle all around the conference table.

After the meeting, Holly asked me completely out of the blue whether I’d ever dated a girl. I told her “No”, which was true: I’ve probably had sex with a couple dozen women, but to the best of my knowledge I’ve never dated anyone.

I stayed late, pretty much as per usual, and to my complete surprise, Holly totally seduced me while I was compiling. We did it right on the conference table.

It turns out that Holly eschews panties altogether, and prefers to go commando. Her pussy was unlike all the polished, waxed, professionally promiscuous vaginas I had encountered in the past: her kitty was covered in a dense matt of curly, soft fur, and the inner bits were petite and shy, and had to be gently coaxed out of hiding. And once she was really turned on, her pussy was wetter than I had ever imagined it was possible for a pussy to get.

She liked it when I played with her boobs, which were about peach-sized – firm, ripe, delicious peaches – and she seemed to enjoy me toying with her butt, and she definitely like it when I licked her tiny, erect clitoris; but what she really liked was getting finger-fucked, deep and hard. In the end, I had four fingers up inside her, my thumb curled up out of the way, and I fucked her pussy like I was karate-chopping a punching bag. When she came, her screaming should have brought a dozen or so security guards down on us. But somehow it didn’t.

Then she went to town on me. I had sex with a lot of different partners back in the day, and had a lot of orgasms. But I had never ever been with anyone as energetic, wriggly, playful, as fun as Holly.

She swarmed over my body like the Marines storming a beachhead. Her lips found mine and kissed me fiercely and urgently, without any restraint, as her hands roamed through my hair, down my neck, along my shoulders, across my breasts, down my torso, pausing to fondle and molest the twin mounds of my ass, before finally zeroing in on my pussy.

I rolled over onto my side and lifted one leg to give the camera a better shot, and then I remembered that there was no camera. It made me feel oddly naked.

“Is this good?” she whispered softly in my ear, “Do you want me?” It was an honest question. She really wanted to know if I was enjoying myself. One of the things that is so neat about guys is that it is always readily apparent just how turned on they are. There’s no lying: their cock is soft but firm; half-mast and mildly interested; standing up, hard and ready to go; or completely and utterly erect, swollen and rigid and drooling and practically quivering, ready to explode. That is exactly how my cunt felt at that moment. The things that her fingers were doing to me were driving me insane. Wetness isn’t an exact gauge of how horny a girl is, but it’s a pretty good barometer, and right then I felt like Niagara Falls. Sometimes we feel wetter than we actually are.

“Oh yes, oh yes I want you,” I told her, and in response, she slid down my body, kissing and licking all the way down, and dove straight into my almost painfully horny pussy.

I don’t think she had a lot of experience, but whatever she may have lacked in technique, she more than made up for with enthusiasm. She buried her face in my crotch, and her tongue and her fingers simply never stopped moving. I had to help her a little, stroking my clit while she alternated slurping at my pussy and running her fingers up and down and into my cunt, but I came, and I came good. And then I surprised myself by realizing that I was still turned on and ready for more.

She grinned up at me, and I rolled over so I was kneeling on top of the conference table, while I shamelessly masturbated, and she tongued and fingered my pussy and my asshole from behind. This time when I came, it knocked the breath out of me, and I ended up curled up into a fetal ball in the center of the big formica table, shaking and twitching and purring like a kitten. Holly snuggled up next to me, and we kissed and snuggled for a bit, and then she got herself off one last time by grinding her wet pussy up and down against the outside of my thigh.

We had made quite a mess on that conference table. The room smelled like sex, a huge improvement over the scent of stale potpourri and nervous sweat that usually pervaded the place.

When we finally scraped ourselves together and cleaned up, it was nearly eight. I felt dizzy, as if I’d just been picked up and spun around by a rampant tornado. My life, which until very recently had been depressingly monochromatic, had suddenly become a crazy-quilt of complications, and so far all the complications were pretty damn interesting. I wondered if my code had ever finished compiling; I wondered if I even cared.

“So, um, Holly,” I asked her as we strapped on our respective bras, “Did you imagine this being a one-time thing, or a recurring event?” Had I just been bushwhacked into a relationship? Because I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

She looked sheepish. “I didn’t exactly plan this…” she pulled her sweater on over her head, and flapped her hands at her adorably mussed-up hair. “I guess I’d say a one-off… with sequels?”

“Holly?” I asked just before we parted ways at the subway station, “Do you own a video camera?”

“Sure,” she said, “There’s one built right into my phone. Why?”

“Oh, no reason.”

As I walked home, I tried to picture tying a noose, putting my head through the loop and stepping off the chair, kicking and flailing until sweet asphyxiation took over and I slowly faded to black. But I couldn’t do it. Nothing about it sounded appealing at all.

When I got home, James was home, which was bizarre to me, but not all bad. He was naked on his couch-bed, watching one of my old pornos on tv, and looking delectable.

I had planned on just having a drink and going straight to bed – alone –; I was exhausted. But James had a hard-on, and he asked pretty-please if I could do him. He said he’d blown four different guys that day in the bathroom of a Starbucks. He wasn’t gay, he repeatedly defensively, but giving out all that action without receiving any in return had given him a bad case of the blue balls. Could I just fuck him, really quick, before I went to sleep?

Well, my parts were way too sore and tender for anything of the sort, but I’m not without compassion. Besides, like I said before, he had a really cute dick.

I knelt on the floor in front of the couch, while behind us, a younger, skinnier, less damaged version of me frolicked carelessly on the television screen. He rested his calves on my shoulders. I wet my middle finger and slipped it up his asshole, and made tiny beckoning motions while I flicked my tongue at the underside of his cock. It took him about ten minutes to come, but when he did, it was the strongest male orgasm I had ever seen in my life. He shot come all the way up his chest and onto his neck and chin. His dick twitched delightfully, his body wracked and spasmed, and his asshole clenched down on my invading finger like it wanted to squeeze the damn thing off. It was deeply gratifying.

5.
Video cameras had gotten a lot smaller during my sabbatical. Holly’s was the size of a tarot card, and the video it shot was much higher quality than anything my parents’ old Panasonic could do. She cradled it in the palm of her hand as I sucked Jason’s cock, zooming in tight for a super-close-up, and then pulling back and circling around for an overview of the action.

Horny didn’t even begin to describe it.

I could tell he was getting a little over-excited, so I had him flip over, and I rimmed him for a little bit, tracing my tongue all over his balls, and darting up between his buttocks to lick his asshole before meandering back down to his nuts again. It was pretty hot on my end, and it really made him moan! Holly was capturing it all in high-def. Her shirt had, at some point, come off, and her nipples were all swollen and pointy. I knew for a fact, though Jason didn’t, that she wasn’t wearing anything at all under her jeans.

Jason rolled a condom on, and lay on his back on my bed, his dick pointing straight up like a totem pole. I climbed on, and sat down, luxuriating in the feeling of being penetrated, pleasantly being filled up with cock, stretching the walls of my pussy. I rocked back and forth, savoring the sensations. I didn’t have to worry about him coming too soon; Holly and I had given him a combined hand-job before she had started filming. I bounced up and down, like a happy kid on a pogo stick.

After just a little of that, I extracted myself from his jutting cock, and clambered up his prone body, and presented my wide-open, dripping wet pussy for him to lick. Holly handed me the camera phone, peeled off her jeans, and climbed aboard for a ride of her own. Jason kind of forgot to lick me much for the next little while, but I didn’t really mind.

I watched, my eyes flicking between the tiny screen and real life, as his slimy, latex-sheathed cock nosed its way into Holly’s furry little pussy. I had never been the one behind the camera, and I found it a shockingly sexy place to be. Addictive, even.

I zoomed in on her crotch, until it filled the little screen, Jason’s dick sliding in and out, burying itself in her folds, pulling out until just the tip remained inside her, and then plunging back inside. She was madly rubbing at her clit all the while, like she was trying to erase indelible ink. I pulled back just in time to capture her full-body orgasm. She came hard, and she came loud, yipping like a coyote, her little tits shaking and blushing red.

One of the great things about having sex with Holly is that she is both multi-orgasmic, and really easy to bring off.

“Why don’t you fuck her in the ass?” My voice would show up clearly on the sound track, and the beautiful thing was that I didn’t care. At my parents’ house, ‘silence on the set’ had been the golden rule.

He repositioned himself behind her. She grunted softly as he entered her. Holly closed her eyes and rested her face on my lap as he slowly eased his cock up her asshole. Jason was pretty considerate and meticulous about it, for such a young kid. I assume he’d been on the receiving end himself at some point, and had some idea how it felt.

They got into it, and really started to fuck in earnest. Holly lapped a few times at my pussy, which felt juicy and swollen, but she soon forgot all about that. She was growling softly and humping back against Jason’s ever-more-desperate thrusts. Each time he shoved himself into her, she slid a little bit up my body, until her head was level with my boobs. I kept filming with one hand. The footage at this point started to get a little shaky. Jason was huffing and puffing like an old-time steam engine. I reached underneath Holly and found her fluffy little muff. I slipped two fingers up inside her cunt, which was soaking wet and slippery and tight with the cock in her ass. I could feel Jason’s cock thrusting inside her, rampant inside her asshole, making her pussy squeeze my finger every time he shoved into her. They both began to make urgent coming noises, and I struggled to hold the camera steady, or at least to keep them in the frame, as I finger-fucked Holly.

“Oh shit, I’m coming!” she looked up at me, craning her neck, her brow wrinkled with concentration, “I’m fucking coming!”

Jason was right behind her. Watching the video later, all by myself once again, with a tall glass of cheap red wine close at hand and fresh batteries in my vibrator, the best part was the way he came inside her. Instead of pulling out at the last moment and jerking off onto her face, he hugged her close, buried his face in her hair, and shot of silently, his whole body twitching with the effort. When I watch that video, I always time my own orgasm to coincide with his.

Holly and Jason really hit it off, and he ended up moving in with her, which was good by me. Like I said earlier, I like living alone.

Holly threatened a sexual harassment suit against our company; it was quietly settled out of court, but that was the end of her internship. Jason gave me back my spare keys and got a place of his own. I see him and Holly from time to time. Sometimes we get together to fuck, but more often to just hang out. Life sort of meandered back toward the status quo. Except that it was different. Staff meetings notwithstanding, I no longer had any interest whatsoever in killing myself.

6.
An epilogue of sorts, because the story doesn’t really have an end, and life keeps on going on. Holly is using the money from her settlement to go to grad school. Jason got his GED and is taking classes at a community college; he wants to be a NICU nurse.

I lost weight; not a ton, but a step in the right direction, and I’ve been trying not to drink so much. I blew my Christmas bonus on a decent digital video camera with built-in image stabilizers and crap, and an expensive tripod. When I got an email from Holly telling me that they’d just bought a strap-on and wanted to try it out, and could I come over and bring my new camera with me, I literally wet my pants.

Brinks got transferred to another division, upstairs or downstairs, I don’t honestly know, and I went and got myself a promotion, which meant a little more money, and a ton more meetings. I started to put together a résumé; but more and more I realized that what I really wanted was to be a pornographer. But not like my parents.

The other day, I was sitting around the apartment eating take-out sushi and getting quietly loaded, when the doorbell rang. I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. I opened the door with trepidation, half expecting a throng of Jehovah’s Witnesses.

It took me a second to recognize him out of uniform. He was one of my regular EMTs, one of the faithful guys who used to haul my butt over to the St. Luke’s emergency room on a regular basis. I couldn’t help but check out his package, which made a bulge in the crotch of his jeans, and looked pretty nice.

“I haven’t seen you in a couple months,” he explained, “I started to get worried. So I thought I’d, you know, swing by and check in on you. Make sure you’re ok and all.”

“I’m good.” I said, “I’m pretty good. Things have changed, I’m in a better place now. Thank you, you’re very sweet.”

“Great,” he said, standing there looking very sweet and appetizing, “I’m glad…”

We both stood there, like awkward teens on the sidelines of the school dance.

“Hey,” he said, “Would you like to get together sometime? Like for dinner, or whatever?”

“As in a date?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“That sounds great.”

He stood there in the door, still hesitating, so I felt compelled to ask him in.

His name is Henry. I wonder how he would feel about being videotaped.

END

I met her at a self-help seminar, one of those awful twelve-step things. I’d had it about up to here with human misery, and I had filled out the Saturday Times crossword puzzle until I got stuck, and I was just about to bag it all and go back home to the ranch, when something passed between us and ignited a spark.

The motivational speaker droned on and on. The girl next to me sneezed –I don’t know why I hadn’t even taken her in before, but she was that kind of girl – and I said ‘Bless you’ and put my hand comfortingly on her thigh. Her leg was pleasantly thick and warm through the denim, and I let my palm rest there longer than was strictly necessary. When I did move my hand away, she adjusted the way she was sitting so that her jean-clad leg pressed lightly against my own. Gotcha.

She was fat, or maybe ‘thick’ is a better adjective; but not in a happy, healthy, lounging-around-and-eating-too-much-French Provencal-sort-of-way. She was the kind of overweight one gets from too much stress, unhappiness and bad food. Underneath all that though, I could see that she was beautiful. I whispered in her ear that we should get out of here, go get a cup of coffee or something, and she immediately agreed.

We sat together at an outdoor café. When I offered to make it my treat, she looked insanely grateful. Her hands had a slight tremble. She spilled her guts to me over iced lattes, telling me all about her money troubles, her ex-husband, her on-again/off-again struggle with alcoholism. I listened sympathetically, and then steered the conversation toward sex, which certainly wasn’t difficult.

It turns out she had only ever been with one man, her ex, and she was eager to try new and different things. I asked her about her fantasies, and she blushingly confided in me that she would like to have two men at once. She was perfect.

Then she told me that she’d like to try being with a girl too, and I got all hot and gooey between my legs.

I explained to her what we were all about. She asked if I was serious, and I said yes. She said she’d have to think about it, which was fair enough. And then I seduced her, which was totally against the rules.

I fucked her in the back of our pickup, in a far-flung corner of a mostly-empty shopping mall parking lot, under a clear blue sky and the watchful eyes of a couple dozen reeling, crying seagulls.

She had a pretty, petite little pussy, hidden under a tangle of soft mousey grey-brown hair and nestled beneath protective pillows of pale flesh. It blossomed under my touch, parting eagerly like a blooming rose, and we kissed like that, naked under the glare of the morning sun, my fingers playing up and down, up and down the slit between her thick thighs for a long time. She was worried at first that we’d get caught, but I assured her that we wouldn’t, and as it turned out I was right. Finally, she relaxed, laying back and spreading her legs wide, exposing her secret parts to me, and I dived in, a little shocked myself at just how horny I was to lick her pussy. My own clit was screaming to be touched, and I took perverse pleasure in not touching it, making it wait.

It was amazing how wet she was. Her little pussy was drooling under my tongue, copious amounts of slippery, tangy wetness, soaking both of us. She was tight, as if she hadn’t been touched in a very long time, and with one finger up inside her pussy, my tongue danced tiny circles on her clit, she started to come, sprawled across the bed of our pickup truck, shaking and twisting and writhing, her pussy clenching down on my finger, her hands opening and closing, her head lolling back and forth as she called out my name to the sky, imploring me not to stop, not ever, begging me for more, more, more.

Like I said before, she was fat; maybe not clinically obese, but definitely overweight; which made it hard to see, but there was something just below the surface, trying hard to get out. When she came, she positively glowed. Her skin was pale and flaccid, her hair was dirty blonde and frazzled, her boobs sagged; but her eyes were bright and full of life. I was in love.

She wasn’t lying when she told me she’d never been with a girl. Her attempts at cunnilingus were eager but awkward; earnest and sweet, but incredibly frustrating. She’d lick at me once or twice, then come up to look for approval before diving back in. It was hit-or-miss on my poor, aching, frustrated clit. Finally, she lay down on top of me. She was heavy but I didn’t mind, and she kissed my mouth hard and deep while I guided her fingers. When I came underneath her, it was the most intense orgasm I’d had in months, and I kissed her back with ferocious hunger.

We got dressed, shyly and sheepishly, like a pair of teenage lovers on a hot-and-heavy first date, and I dropped her off at the downtown bus station with my cell phone number and a promise to call whatever she decided to do. She kissed me one last time, and I sat there behind the wheel of the truck after she had gone, sticky and wet between my legs, wondering what I had just set in motion.

She didn’t call for over a week. At first I obsessed over her, and then I just sort of wrote her off. When she did call, it was late, I was sitting on the back porch reading by moonlight and contemplating going to bed, when my cell phone rang. She kept it simple: “I’m in” was all she said.

I picked her up at the same bus station I’d dropped her off. All her belongings fit inside one lumpy black duffel bag, which seemed tragic and sad. We didn’t talk much on the long, bumpy, dusty ride out to the ranch. She was in an introspective mood, and I was hesitant to break into her thoughts.

The next four weeks was paradise squared. She spent her days lounging by the pool, reading books and sipping cocktails, or strolling through the woods, getting massages, and eating Jack’s fabulous, over-the-top meals. He outdid himself, cooking omelets and crepes for breakfast; fabulous lunches of fresh picked salad greens and ham and cheese croissant sandwiches or quiches; and intricate, seriously epic dinners of duck a l’orange, braised lamb, Normandy chicken, roasted Cornish hens, or ratatouille. There were mouth watering puddings too, his specialty — tarte tatin, almond and pear clafouti, mille-feuilles, chocolate and fig flan.

Her body subtly changed shape: a doctor would still have tut-tutted and made noises about losing weight and exercising, but she started to look more like one of those beauties from a French Renaissance painting, and less like a refugee from the Jerry Springer show. She liked to sunbathe nude in the vegetable garden, and I liked to just sit and watch her.

There was sex play too, though orgasms were strictly forbidden. We instructed her in the art of fellatio, and she was an eager student. She ravenously devoured Jack and Martin’s cocks (sometimes both at the same time) like a woman half-starved, while Melissa watched approvingly. She would drink their come as if it was some exotic delicacy, slurping up any stray droplets, and squeezing their penises like a spent tube of toothpaste to wring every last bit out. She got good quickly, and it was beautiful to watch. She learned to swallow their (sizeable!) cocks whole, taking virtually the whole shaft down her throat without gagging. She would carefully and tenderly suck their testicles, eventually opening her mouth wide and engulfing their entire ball sacs in her mouth; she would wet a finger and slide it up Jack or Martin’s tight asshole while she sucked, exciting delighted moans of pleasure and earning a quick mouthful of hot semen. She also learned how to slow it down, how to not gobble like a hungry dog; how to draw it out and torment the guys until they were literally begging for release. Now that was hot to watch!

Martin would give her backrubs. She would lie naked on her stomach on a folded-out deck chair, and he would knead the tension out of her shoulders, his fat dick nudging at the cleft of her buttocks. He would work his way down her back, working her lumbar region with the heels of his hand, and then he would play with her pussy, tracing his finger up and down her slit, teasing her clit and her asshole, and even penetrating her vagina, but never bringing her anywhere close to coming. This inevitably resulted in a big fat blowjob for him.

She may not have been allowed to have orgasms, but she had orgasms all right. Late at night, when everyone else was asleep, I would sneak into her room, and we would get it on, like a pair of horny tigresses. If Melissa had found out, she would have slit my throat. I gave her multiple, muffled-screaming-into-her-pillow orgasms in her bedroom, and she learned to give as good as she got. I enjoyed pushing her limits, straddling the knife edge between pleasure and pain. She would clasp the pillow to her mouth in anticipation, as I pinched her clit, and fucked her pussy with two and even three or four fingers, until she came, her whole body shaking and clenching, howling uncontrollably into the goose down. I gazed with lust at her tiny, sensitive asshole; but aside from a few tentative brushes across her anus with my tongue, which made her shiver and inhale sharply, I left that part of her anatomy alone. She got really good at licking my pussy; any remaining shyness or hesitation disappeared as she buried her face in my crotch, flicking her tongue at my engorged clit, and sliding her soft, plump fingers up my pussy and asshole, playing me like an erotic finger puppet. Sometimes she would lie on her stomach on the bed, and I would lie down on her back, taking one large soft breast in each hand, and grinding myself to orgasm against her ample buttocks. Other times, we would lie face-to-face, her big breasts squished against mine, her warm tummy pressed against me, and we would kiss and finger each other’s pussy until we shuddered and came, lips mashed together, bodies trembling with desire. Then I would tiptoe back to my own bed.

She feasted well, on Jack’s exquisite French cooking, and occasional forays by the rest of us into Tex-Mex, American Southern Home Cooking, and Thai; and she grew pink and fat and sleek. Her large breasts, which had been kind of sad, droopy things when we first met, seemed to fill out and perk up, like a neglected houseplant that has finally been watered. Her stomach was full and round, and her cheeks blushed red. Melissa announced that she was ready.

We told her after breakfast that morning. She looked around, at all our faces, and nodded. She was ready too.

She asked me if she could make one last phone call, and I gently told her ‘No’. She nodded, understanding.

She took a long hot bath, with honey-clover scented oils, and the boys scrubbed her all over. Then we shaved her, all of her. She cried a little when Martin drew the buzzing electric razor across her scalp, and her dishwater-blonde curls fell on the tiled bathroom floor. I could understand that: her hair might not have been best feature, but even so it was hers.

We took her down to the basement, and had her lay down on the block. The block was an elevated slab of concrete, stained black, with intricate channels carved into the surface. It had hot water pipes running throughout it that radiated heat, and made the surface warm as sun-baked asphalt. First Martin gave her a good long massage, notably non-sexual in nature, methodically kneading and rubbing every part of her body, from her freshly-shaved scalp and temples down to each individual toe. When he was done, she rolled over onto her back, and we each licked her pussy for a while: first Jack, then Melissa had a few licks, then Martin took a turn, and then me. I buried my face in her slippery wet folds and let my tongue dance all over and around her erect little clitoris, whispering ‘Don’t come yet, don’t come yet, don’t come yet…’ silently into her cunt.

Then we rolled her over, and she got up on her hands and knees, and I poured heated olive oil all over her backside, and down the valley between her ass cheeks. As the others watched, I spread her soft cheeks, and gently toyed with her little puckered anus, eventually working my oil-slick finger inside, slowly and carefully butt-fucking her with my index finger.

Martin took over. Of the two guys, her had the bigger dick, though neither of them was what I’d call ‘small’. I oiled him up. The bulbous red head of his cock seemed to swell eagerly from under the hood of his foreskin as he pressed up against her tiny, puckered anus. She whimpered softly as he slid up inside her delicate, virgin hole, grunting as he shoved it home. She didn’t seem distressed, though she took deep, measured breaths as he started sliding his cock slowly in and out. Her big tits hung down, swaying like the pendulum of some erotic clock.

They rolled over, so that Martin was on his back on the slab, and she lay atop him, his cock buried balls-deep in her asshole. Melissa and I spread her legs wide, wide apart, and Jack speared her pussy with his own erection. She made a muffled mewing sound as the two cocks competed for space inside her body, stretching and squeezing her. Slowly, haltingly, after a few false starts, they found their rhythm, and started really pummeling her. They were fucking competitively, each one implicitly daring the other to fuck her harder, daring the other guy to come first. Sandwiched between them, she was breathing raggedly, in sharp little gasps.

“I’m going to come!” she cried out, “Oh my God, I’m going to come! I’m going to come! I’m fucking coming!”

Melissa reached deftly into the fray, and with the skill and precision of a surgeon, slit her throat with a matte knife, opening up a gaping crescent-shaped wound from just under one ear to just under the other ear, severing tendons, trachea, veins and arteries along the way.

Bright red arterial blood sprayed everywhere, spattering me and Melissa, soaking Martin and Jack, and running in rivulets down onto the black slab, where it filled the intricately carved channels, tracing a macabre design in the concrete.

Jack cried out and came in her still-twitching pussy, which sent Martin off, growling like a bear and shooting off, filling her rectum to overflowing with his milky-white semen.

Quickly and efficiently, we cleaned and dressed her carcass, and transferred her to the oven, putting her in a big roasting pan on a bed of yams, potatoes, and garlic cloves. We sprinkled her with salt and rosemary and set her to broil, basting her occasionally with her own juices.

When she was done, when her skin was brown and crisp, when her flesh was tender and juicy, we took her out of the oven, and served her up along with an arugula salad.

Before we ate, we all raised our glasses in a toast to her. Then we dug in, eating our fill. She was delicious.

END

What does a guy look like, the kind of guy who would cheat on his wife, sight unseen, with some stranger from off the internet? I can tell you they’re all over the spectrum, but this one was a bit of a knuckle-dragger.

I’d scheduled three appointments for the day, which was kind of a lot; but not, I thought, excessive. This one was early.

I was in the shower, of course, when he knocked on the studio door. We are four stories up, and the bell is broken. I got out, wrapped a towel around myself, showing off plenty of cleavage, and answered the door, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the grimy hardwood floor. My hair was wet and straggly, and I wasn’t wearing any make-up, but I didn’t care. My breasts are, I think, my best feature anyway. And that isn’t really saying all that much.

Like I said, our boy “Roger” (and I am willing to bet that wasn’t his real name) was a gorilla, a real meat-head. He was my height (and I’m a big girl), but he probably outweighed me by fifty or sixty pounds. He’d been an athlete in high school, football I’m sure, and he’d let himself slide. He had pink, shiny skin, and a receding hairline. He wore cut-off shorts, Teva sandals, and a white t-shirt that should have been a size larger. There was a diamond stud in his left ear, and a circular indentation around his ring finger where a wedding band belonged.  I let him inside, and he shut the door smugly behind him. How do you shut a door smugly? I don’t know, but Roger managed it.

“So,” I said, “What’s your bag?” When he looked blank, I added “What do you want to do to her?”

He grinned. “I wanna rape the shit out of her. I want to throw her down on the floor and rip her panties off, and I wanna fuck her cunt. Then I want to shove it up her ass. Then I want to cram it right down her throat. And then I want to come all over her face and wipe it around with my dick.”

“Ok.” I stifled a yawn.

He seemed a little taken aback that I’d agree so readily, but the play-rape thing is so common with these guys that it’s less appalling and more just boring. “What’s the catch?” he asked suspiciously.

“You know the rules.” I said. I was dripping shower water, forming a little puddle on my studio floor. “You don’t do any permanent damage, and you wear a condom.” I’d had to pry one of these dudes off Tiffany by spraying him with a fire extinguisher and threatening him with a cell phone. I have a Taser too, in case things really go south.

He nodded eagerly.

“And you have to pose for two pictures: a before and after shot.”

“No way,” he said immediately, “No pictures.”

He obviously hadn’t bothered to read my email. Jerkoff. I sighed. “It won’t show your face, Jackass.” I gestured over to the unpainted sheetrock wall, which was covered with paired photos of penises, erect and flaccid, side by side. I’m working on a coffee table book, and I let my little sister Tiff live with me rent-free in exchange for helping me out with the material.

“I’m going to go get dressed. She should be here any minute. Go crazy. Do you need a rubber, or did you bring your own?” He leered and pulled a chain of four or five condoms out of his back pocket. In case he fumbled the first three times, I supposed. I was betting he didn’t make it through the first item on his little agenda without shooting off. I stepped back into the bathroom and got dressed and started putting on my makeup. My lipstick of choice is French Whore Red; I should buy the stuff by the case.

I heard the front door open and shut; I heard her scream; and then I heard the thunk of her body hitting the floor. That was my cue: I grabbed my camera and stepped out into the big open room of the studio.

Tiff was wearing her red plaid little-catholic-schoolgirl skirt, complete with fishnets and a stuffy white blouse that was just begging to be ripped open. He obliged me, scattering buttons everywhere, and yanked her bra down around her middle, setting her perky little tits free, the pink, puffy little nipples pointed up at my studio lights.

Tiffany can blame her name on our parents. At school, she calls herself ‘Jezebel’. I’ve asked her why she doesn’t just legally change her name, and she just gives me the finger. She’s working on her doctorate, but she looks all of about fourteen. We’re both tall, but unlike me, she’s a skinny little waif, the kind you could break in half like a stick of kindling.

With a knee placed squarely on the center of her chest, he lifted up her skirt, and with a sneer, tore off her plain and boring white panties, exposing her brown furry muff. Tiffany, unlike a lot of girls of our generation (myself included) doesn’t believe in waxing or shaving. Her pussy was already pouting wet. She gets off on this kind of shit.

He slapped her open-handed across the cunt, and then punched her in the gut for good measure. I heard her ‘whoof’ as the wind was knocked out of her. Then he grabbed a fistful of her hair, and rolled her over onto her stomach, encouraging her with a kick or two from his sandaled feet.

He placed one foot right on the back of her neck, and favored me with a big fat grin. She was weeping piteously and protesting incoherently, and he was absolutely eating it up.

As she whimpered at his feet, he pulled down his cut-off shorts. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Classy. His dick was straining eagerly up and out.

“Hold it right there!” I swooped in with my camera. The shutter clicked, I got my shots, and I got out. “Carry on.” I said.

I have this theory that every guy’s dick is like a miniature version of himself, in the same way that dog owners tend to look like their dogs. ‘Roger’ was no exception. He had an ok dick, I guess. It was about average length, but definitely on the thick side. He was circumcised, and the head was shiny and pink, disproportionally small compared to the shaft. It reminded me of the nose cone of an ICBM, and the pee hole was red and irritated-looking. He had a neatly trimmed triangle of pubes, but his balls, which hung down like ripe fruit on a vine, were completely shaved, which made for an oddly disturbing look.

He carefully rolled the condom on, which would have been the ideal time for Tiffany to kick him in the nuts, if that had been her inclination. Then he got down on one knee, muscled her legs apart, put a big meaty hand around her throat, and jammed his cock straight up her cunt.

She wailed, a long, high-pitched scream of terror and pain, saccharine-fake, and kicked her legs wildly, struggling underneath him. My money was that he would come just from that.

Our boy Roger proved me wrong. After two or three brutal strokes, he pulled his cock out of her cunt, all wet and glistening; spread her little butt cheeks, and with a series of low grunts like he was power-lifting, he proceeded to cram his dick right up her anus. Tiff howled again, and this time maybe it wasn’t quite so fake.

He was fucking her asshole like a bulldozer, one tit clutched in each hand and gnawing on the back of her neck. Suddenly he yowled, “Ah, you fucking bitch!” That was it for Roger. So much for fucking her throat and wiping his come all over her face. He bucked and squirted into the condom. Tiff milked him for all he was worth.

They’re contrite afterward, always. ‘Roger’ was no exception. He tenderly pulled out and removed the condom, and I got my ‘after’ shot of his dick all limp and sperm-slimy. Then he got dressed, apologizing profusely to Tiffany, who was curled up on the floor whimpering with one hand clutched between her legs. He’d never know that she was masturbating. He got dressed, said he was ‘so sorry’ one more time to Tiff, who never acknowledged him, and then he left.

Tiff had a nasty split lip, and a bunch of fresh finger-shaped bruises on her neck. She loves that shit, later on she’ll highlight the bruises with purple makeup, accentuate the cuts and scrapes with scarlet eyeliner, and make up elaborate lies about where she got them, just to fuck with people. For now we had another appointment coming right up, so she took a quick shower and changed into her prom dress outfit.

What does a guy look like, the type who would cheat on his girlfriend with some stranger from off the internet? Alex knocked on the studio door while Tiffany was still pinning on her corsage.

Alex threw me for a bit of a loop. She wore grey gas station attendant coveralls, with a white jog bra underneath, and Birkenstocks. She had hairy toes, and one lock of her unruly brown hair kept falling down her forehead in front of her eyes, which she would then impatiently brush back into place.

She stepped confidently into the studio, and shut the door behind her. She was stocky, shorter than either me or Tiff, and she had wide hips, and two circle-cross Venus symbols intertwined, tattooed on her neck.

“So what are you after?” I asked.

“You know,” She smiled knowingly and winked. It was kind of obnoxious. “What everyone wants. The usual.”

“So spell it out for me,” I said. To the best of my knowledge, Tiffany had never been with another girl. I didn’t know if she was interested, but that was sort of beside the point.

Alex sighed. “Ok. I want to sit on her face and have her lick my kiki while I play with her pussy, but I won’t let her come. At least not until after I get off. Ok?”

“Ok,” I said, “You know the rules?”

“Sure,” Alex said, “Before and after shots. Just don’t show my face, my girlfriend would kill me.”

She shrugged off her coveralls right then and there. She was commando underneath, what was this, a theme for the day? I took a close-up shot of her twat. She was one of those girls who waxed everything. Her pink and crinkled inner labia peeked eagerly out from in between smugly pouting soft and puffy outer lips. She was already glistening with excitement.

Tiffany lay down on her back on the floor, and Alex straddled her face. She lifted Tiff’s dress up and pulled her lacy red panties aside, wetting a finger and brushing it lightly up and down Tiff’s furry cunt. Tiff started to make a noise that was quickly muffled by Alex’s pussy covering her mouth.

Alex rode her like a cowgirl in the saddle, mashing her pussy all over my kid sister’s face; sometimes lifting up so that Tiff had to crane her neck and stick out her tongue to reach Alex’s juicy bald pussy; sometimes shifting forward so that Tiff could lick her asshole. All the while, she was playing with Tiff’s pussy; tracing her fingertips up and down Tiffany’s twat, occasionally bending over and giving her frustrated puss a quick lick or two, which made her squirm and kick. The lips of Tiffany’s pussy were swollen, pouting out and drooling; she must be dying of frustration. She likes it rough, and all that teasing had to be absolute torture for her.

When Alex came, she let loose, bearing down and almost violently grinding herself against Tiff’s tongue, reaching behind and yanking on her hair for emphasis, while she howled like an opera singer belting out an aria. When she was done, she climbed off Tiff, who was practically writhing with frustrated lust, and let me get my ‘after’ shot of her sticky, satisfied pussy. Then she got dressed and left us.

Now I bet Tiff was glad I’d made three appointments for us that day. The next one was due any moment; she barely had time to change into her Raggedy Ann costume before he was knocking at the door.

What does a guy look like, the kind of guy who will cheat on his wife, sight unseen, with some stranger from off the internet? Andrew looked shockingly normal; innocuously cute. He had a high forehead and hairy arms, he was slim and well-muscled, he wore jeans and a button-down shirt and a wedding ring, and he smelled faintly of marijuana. He looked slightly shy or befuddled, so I asked him in.

“So what’s your bag?” I asked.

He stepped bravely up to the plate. “I want to lick your pussy” he told me, “I want to lick it until you come all over my face.”

“O-k…” I said, “Only my pussy isn’t the pussy in question here. Then what?”

“I want to lick your pussy,” he repeated, “Until you’re satisfied, and then I’d like you to jerk me off. With a finger up my butt.”

Well, he certainly knew what he wanted. “My sister provides all the action here,” I said, “I just take the pictures.”

“But I came here to see you.” He was twitching a little bit, like he might just cut and run; but he stood his ground. And there was a nice-looking lump in the front of his jeans. He was cute. I figured what the hell.

“You know the rules?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I read the email.”

He dropped trou, and I snapped a couple shots of his cock. He had a really nice dick: big without being scary big; nice and straight and thick, with a purple bulbous head that was modestly hidden behind foreskin, and peeked eagerly out at me. His pubes were neatly trimmed, his balls fat and compact. I wondered if his wife knew what she was missing.

Feeling inordinately self-conscious, I stripped out of my own tight jeans and stretchy black top. Feeling his eyes, and Tiffany’s eyes on my naked body, I arranged myself on the little studio futon. Sure as shootin’, our guy Andrew hustled down between my legs, like a puppy after a chew toy. Rarely have I been so glad to have been freshly showered.

When was the last time I got my kitty licked? I mean really licked, not just a polite slurp or two, a perfunctory excuse for some dude to get his dick wet? It had been, my friends, a really long time. And Andrew, whatever else he may have been, was shockingly good at it.

He started off slowly, warming me up, teasing me, getting me into it. By the time the tip of his tongue made contact with my clit, I was sopping wet, and my legs were splayed shamelessly wide. He lapped eagerly away at me, sliding the flat of his tongue up and down my cunt, flicking at my asshole, drawing meticulous circles around my aching clit, sliding two fingers up my juicy pussy, pulling them out and licking them off, and starting all over again. He found my groove, and ran with it. I came all over his face, not once, not twice, but at least three times. By the time he finally came up for air, grinning like a madman, his fat cock bouncing and rigid, I was glowing and exhausted. I don’t know when I’ve come that hard, ever.

He sat on my lap. He had kind of a bony little butt, but I didn’t mind. I wrapped one hand around his dick and started jerking him off, whispering sweet nothings in his ear about how good it had felt when he had eaten my pussy. I felt his cock swell and strain in my hand. I whispered that he was a sexy little pervert, and I wet one finger and slid it up his asshole.

He was tight. His body stiffened, and his anus clenched down on my invading digit, but his dick got even harder. As his asshole relaxed, I started finger-banging him from behind, in time with the hand jerking off his cock. He was going wild, moaning aloud, rocking back and forth on my lap. I was determined to draw this out as long as possible and then some. I removed my finger and released his dick, and he whined. I ran my fingers up and down my still-drooling cunt, and then slipped two slick fingers back up his naughty little hole and he gasped. I resumed the handjob, with just my thumb and forefinger barely petting his quivering cock.

Of course Tiffany had to get in on the action. She got down on her knees and started lapping at the bright red head of his dick, now boldly exposed, free of his foreskin. It took about three licks, and he went off like fireworks. His dick pulsed under my fingers and his asshole spasmed and squeezed, and squirted about a bucked of semen straight into Tiffany’s pretty little mouth. Together, we milked out every last drop.

Tiff shot a couple ‘after’ pics of his soft, worn-out cock, which still looked mighty nice, and then he got dressed and took his leave.

Together, we printed the pictures we’d taken. Alex’s pussy made a nice contrast to all the dicks. The differences ‘between’ before and ‘after’ were subtle and sexy; she clearly belonged right at the center of the book. We worked on the order of the rest, arranging and re-arranging all the cocks, hard and soft, into a rough proof. The book wasn’t complete. I still needed more material.

Tiffany was fidgety and antsy; she still hadn’t gotten her rocks off. She’s a tough nut to crack, but her sexual frustration wasn’t my problem, and even if I chose to make it my problem, she was out of time. She was supposed to be giving a lecture on Woolf to a roomful of uninterested undergrads in a little less than twenty-five minutes. Resentfully, she took of her Raggedy Ann outfit and changed into a more professorial outfit, before heading out the door. The bruises on her neck were turning purple and livid; her split lip was swollen and crusty with blood. She knew, and I knew, but her students wouldn’t know that she wasn’t wearing any panties under that charcoal-grey wool skirt. Maybe she’d find some nice young English major to help scratch her itch.

I shrugged, and started to get dressed myself. I thought about masturbating, then thought better of it; my parts had received more attention than they’d gotten in a coon’s age, and were feeling more than a little tender and sore.

I switched off the tiny video camera that looked just like another unused studio floodlight, and pulled the memory card. Before I burned a disc, I considered editing out the part where I got my own kitty licked, but then I decided ‘fair’s fair’, and left it all in.

I sell the dvds to my landlord, a creepy Albanian octogenarian with halitosis, erectile dysfunction, and a decades-long drinking problem, in exchange for a fistful of crumpled, greasy twenty dollar bills, and a significant break on the rent, all under the table. Someday I’ll finish my coffee-table book and the rent will go up accordingly, but for now it’s a work in progress.

END

I used to hate flying. No, that’s not true. I had no problem with the actual flying. It was the process I hated: the airlines, the airports, the god-damned TSA.

The flight looked to be pretty full. I settled into my window seat and watched my fellow-passengers trudge up the aisle like so many portly zombies, dreading spending the next seven hours dueling elbows with some obese, halitosis-ridden, armrest-hogging businessman.

A guy sat down in the aisle seat. Scruffy dude, about my age, skinnier and shorter than me, with a pointy nose and chin and unruly copper hair. He looked like a hiker, a mountain biker, a musician. I suddenly had the strong feeling I should recognize him, that I had seen him on TV or Youtube or something. He nodded to me as he settled in, and I returned his nod with a friendly-ish half smile, and went back to my book.

And then we were pushing back from the gate. The middle seat between us was vacant, almost the only empty seat on the plane. Guy and me exchanged another look: Score! In the land of small blessings, we had just hit jackpot. He wasn’t bad looking, not at all; pretty cute actually. I was nearly certain I recognized him. Some band du jour? A face from the news? I’m lousy at spotting famous people.

We leveled out, high above an unbroken layer of clouds, and the stewardesses started driving their carts down the center aisle: crappy meals for sale, soft drinks and booze and water for sale, no cash, all credit cards accepted.

“I can’t believe they make you pay for water now,” he said to me. He had a nice voice, a baritone, deeper than I had expected, with just a hint of a southern accent. “What’s next, bathroom fees?”

This was almost too good to be true. I checked his hand: no ring. He was really cute, in a hillbilly/hipster sort of way. The thought of an extended flirtation, followed by a surreptitious make-out session tickled my clit, and made me feel pleasantly warm between my legs. I pictured snuggling up next to him, the cabin lights dim, laying my head on his lap, carefully unzipping his zipper… Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad flight after all.

Just as I was trying to come up with a response that was both witty and vivacious, the plane lurched violently. Drinks were spilled up and down the cabin.  Somebody screamed. We exchanged a look. My hand more or less inadvertently landed on his jeans-clad thigh and squeezed: it was partly an automatic startle response, partly me seizing an opportunity.

The intercom crackled to life. Garbled, staticky noises came over the speakers. Grunts, thunks, somebody yelling in what sounded like a foreign language. And then, “Shit! Put that down! Put it down! Mayday! Mayday!”

There was a single gunshot, an unmistakable, final bang that echoed through the airframe, and the loudspeaker went dead. A moment of silence, as everyone in the plane collectively sucked in a breath. My hand stayed on his thigh, strong and tense.

The engines revved up to an agonizing howl as someone’s hand pulled the throttle all the way to maximum. The pitch they reach when the plane is taking off is nothing; those big engines sounded like they were going to tear right off the wings. We were pushed back into the seats by the force of the acceleration. The nose of the plane angled radically down, and we pierced the clouds like a spear. There was screaming, and the crash of a drinks cart careening down the aisle. I clenched the hand on his thigh, so hard I probably left bruises. All around us, people were hysterical; we sat there wide-eyed and petrified, like a pair of Easter Island statues.

After what seemed like an impossibly long power dive, the aircraft finally pulled up, groaning and complaining. We were crushed into our seats, and the wings bowed up so far I thought they must snap. For a few moments, there was dead silence in the cabin. Then pandemonium broke out once again.

I looked out the window. We were low, way too low, skimming just above treetops and suburban homes. I knew, right then, I knew that I was going to die.

People had more or less settled down. Some were trying their cell phones.  A contingent was performing CPR on a lady. Maybe she’d had a heart attack, or been injured during the sudden dive. Flight attendants were circulating up and down the cabin, shakily telling people not to panic. Up front, a burly group of passengers was using a drinks cart as a battering ram, trying to bust down the armored cockpit door. It wouldn’t work, I knew that. The designers had done their job too well; nobody was going to break into that cockpit.

He placed his hand on mine. Turned to me, raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t normally ask this,” he said. Where the hell did I recognize him from? Was he in a rock band? On some reality tv show? “But what the hell. Do you want to fuck?”

I’ve never understood the cachet of the mile-high club. Airplane bathrooms are gross and claustrophobic. I don’t even like going into one to pee, never mind to get some quick and dirty illicit action. My guess is that it’s a notch in your belt type thing, bragging rights or whatever, and that’s never really been my cup of tea.

My pussy was wet, wet in a deeply inappropriate way for this situation. My nipples were hard, threatening to poke straight through my bra. I should have been pissing my panties or praying; I just wanted him to stick a hand down the front of my pants and touch my clit. If he had so much as pinched one of my nipples, I would have come right there in my seat. The thought of fucking him, right here and now, made me even wetter. I squeezed his crotch through his jeans and found him bone-hard. We were in agreement.

We got up and made our way to the bathroom at the rear of the cabin. Getting there was tricky. The plane was shuddering through what I would have thought of as scary turbulence, if I hadn’t known that we were now riding an oversized cruise missile, and had more to worry about than choppy air. We had to dodge other people, panicked, petrified, and otherwise, all with agendas of their own. Once inside the loo, two people crammed into a space designed for barely one, it was like we had stepped into a separate reality.

We didn’t waste any time. There wasn’t any time left to waste. Tripping, tangling with each other, we pulled off our pants. His cock jutted obscenely out, trapped under the waistband of his undies. He lifted me up onto the tiny plastic sink, and I wrapped my legs around his backside. He pulled my boring blue panties aside, took his dick in one hand, and skewered my juicy cunt. We kissed, hard and violently, as we fucked.

I had a strange cock in my pussy, unprotected by so much as a condom. I tensed up, pulling involuntarily away. What, I wondered for a millisecond, the fuck was I thinking? And then I remembered that it didn’t matter, not one little bit, and I relaxed and let myself enjoy the sensation of being fucked, fucked hard and deep.

He smelled of fresh-cut cedar, and his red hair was all mussed up. His cock felt amazing in my pussy. He grabbed my ass with both hands, pulling me forcefully toward him as he thrust.

The plane lurched hard, and I fell awkwardly against the bulkhead. I heard the snap of my wrist breaking, and saw, as if from a long way away, my hand flapping at an unnatural angle at the end of my arm. “That,” I thought to myself, “Is really going to hurt later on.”

He was fucking me with a renewed energy, puffing and panting like an Olympic sprinter. He was sweating hard. One finger was buried in my asshole. I could see the look in his eyes, and I knew he was going to come soon, and that was fine by me. I was right there with him. I wanted to feel his cock twitch, I wanted him to flood my pussy with his semen, I wanted to see his face as he came inside me.

The plane lurched again, banking hard, rolling through at least ninety degrees, and we were tossed together across the tiny lavatory. His head struck the ceiling hard, flattening the back of his skull with an ugly-sounding thunk, breaking his neck just like a swimmer diving into the shallow end of a pool. His eyes, wide and staring, were glassy and fixed, and his head lolled sickeningly atop his neck.

I was now fucking a dead man. His body was like a big sandbag, neither stiff nor especially limp; but his dick remained obstinately hard. There was a lot of blood from the massive head wound, smeared all over the tiny bathroom. I was weeping, tears streaming down my face. I suppose I should have felt something, but all I had left was the overwhelming need to come. I kept on riding his hard cock, too far gone to stop, nudging myself viciously toward the edge of the precipice.

We were flying even lower now, insanely low. I could see through the tiny lavatory window. It was a wonder we weren’t taking out church steeples and telephone poles. I made fleeting, startled eye contact with a lady hanging up her laundry to dry. My broken hand was already swelling up like an eggplant. I was going to come.

The intercom crackled to life, a garbled, disembodied voice yelling into a microphone “God is great! God is great! God is the greatest!” and my orgasm hit me, and I let loose, screaming and flailing through wave after wave of toe-curling, clit-trembling, pussy-slurping pleasure.

I never even felt the impact. There was one final lurch, a horrendous screaming-rending noise that was the fuselage snapping in half and the wings sheering off; a bright light, and then nothing. Darkness and the reek of jet fuel.

END

I’ll tell you what I’d do, if I had the time and money. I’d buy up one of those abandoned malls, the sprawling, multi-acre kind that litter the country, that had their own on-ramps and used to be filled with cruising tweens and rent-a-cops; Mrs. Field’s Cookies and Sears and cheap-o ear piercing joints and are now just a waste of real estate.

I’d gut the place. I’d brick up all the doors. All except two, one on each side of the building. Those two I’d replace with oversized metal security doors, painted black, with big yellow signs on them, one labeled “ASTERION” and the other labeled “ARACHNE”. I’d install electronic locks on them, so I could control them from my computer, right here, where I’m sitting.

I’d knock down all the interior walls. Demolish all the shoppes, all the movie theatres, the food court, all the potted plants and decorative fountains, pull down all the drop ceilings and inoffensive public works of art. Maybe I’d leave a fountain, trickling away in the semi-darkness; it’d be kind of creepy.

I’d design up a maze, draw it out on graph paper, one square equals five feet. The maze would have two entrances, one at each door, and it would wind through the building; up and down stairs, full of dead-ends and wrong turns and long passages to nowhere. In the heart of the building there would be a central chamber, which each half of the maze would eventually lead to.

I’d have workmen construct it, stud walls and three-quarter inch plywood, floor to ceiling. I’d bring in illegal laborers from Thailand, pay off the local inspectors. There would be low-level light throughout, compact fluorescents, a perpetual twilight. I’d install security cameras everywhere, fancy high-end models, super high resolution, quality optics, the kind you can control with your keyboard: pan and tilt, zoom in and out.

The central room would be more brightly lit, with recessed dimmable LED fixtures. There would be a big, industrial-sized refrigerator, stocked with food. Racks and racks of freeze-dried and canned food, everything from diced pineapples to Meals, Ready to Eat. There would be a microwave, a sink, some dishes and utensils. There would be a bathroom, a toilet and a shower with two towels but no curtain over in the corner. There would be a futon mattress and a cabinet filled with every sex toy I could think of. There would be a full-length mirror that took up most of one wall, the kind with a pair of angled panels that displays three images at once. There’d be a chin-up bar, a weight machine, a treadmill; and reams and reams of pornography. I’d stock a library with all kinds of ink-on-paper porn: everything from the Kama Sutra to Anais Nin; everything from Playboy to Hustler magazine, and everything in between.

When it was all done, I’d send my carpenters home to Cambodia or wherever it was they came from, pockets stuffed full of cash. I’d bribe the local fire marshal, it never takes much; he wouldn’t even take a peek inside. Then I’d settle in for the wait, cameras trained on the two outer doors rigged with motion detectors, wired straight into my computer.

It might take months or even years. The parking lot would sprout brambles and poison ivy, scrub oak and skinny pine. The walls would crawl with graffiti and kudzu. Eventually a likely prospect would come along.

Oh, there would be others before him. Homeless dudes looking for shelter; groups of teens out scrounging around for trouble; looters and vandals and petty criminals in search of scrap. They’d all find the doors locked, impregnable.

This one would be different. Say he’s a teenager, a smart kid, but a bit of a loner. An aspiring poet maybe, from a broken home, the kind who always looks like he needs a haircut, and slouches around in hand-me-down jeans that are a size or two too big.

He comes furtively snooping around one night. Maybe he’s just had another fight with his dad. Maybe he wants to find someplace quiet to write, maybe he is looking for somewhere to have a smoke, or to jerk off, I don’t know. Anyway, he walks up to that big metal door labeled ‘ASTERION’, and when he tentatively nudges it, it swings smoothly and silently open on oiled hinges.

He steps inside, and the door swings shut behind him with a click. Being a sensible guy, he checks the handle, and finds it locked. He might spend a little while trying to get it to open again, but he’ll have no luck. The door is locked, and nothing short of an oxy-acetylene torch or a large-scale battering ram will open it again without my say-so.

Eventually, he gives up on the door. His eyes adjust to the dim lighting. He starts to explore, and I track him on my cameras as he wanders up and down the empty corridors; past the eerie fountain tinkling away in the semi-darkness, where he stops for a drink because he’ll be thirsty by then; groping along passages that all look the same, coming to dead ends, retracing his steps, getting more and more profoundly lost.

In the end, of course, he finds the central chamber. By then he is famished; thirsty, disoriented and exhausted. He slurps water straight out of the tap and scarfs down one of the energy bars that I had conveniently left sitting on the counter, and then he falls asleep fully clothed on top of the futon. I leave him there, make a run to the Seven-Eleven to stock up on junk food: chips and salsa and pretzel bits and Cheetos; and spend the next few hours padding around my apartment in my bunny slippers, nervous as a cat, jumped up on caffeine, just waiting for my motion sensor to tell me he was up and about.

I imagine that when he wakes up, he starts to explore his surroundings. He probably won’t stray too far from the room at first, for fear of getting lost. I haven’t done anything stupid, like supply him with a ball of twine or a bag of M&Ms to make a trail with. After poking around the maze a little bit, and it pretty much all looks the same, he retreats to the central chamber. He examines the contents. Makes himself a meal from the supply of freeze-dried and canned foods. He leafs through some of the pornography, and gives the cabinet of sex toys a puzzled look; there are dildos, butt-plugs and vibrators of every size, shape, and description. He holds up a string of anal beads, looking charmingly quizzical; probably not his cup of tea, and certainly far outside his realm of experience. God, I’d love to know what he’s thinking about now!

Eventually he takes a shower – at least there’s hot water, and plenty of it! – and boys being boys, he’ll probably jerk off.

He has a nice body. Smooth, slender, almost like a girl. He could have been an athlete: a long distance runner, or a rock climber, or a gymnast, if he’d ever put his mind to it. He has a little bit of fluffy, sandy body hair, and a surprisingly big dick. I wonder what he smells like.

I zoom in with my hidden security camera, admiring his hardness, watching the way he touches himself, the way he starts slowly, almost tenderly, before the excitement overtakes him, and his hand is ratcheting up and down his cock almost too fast for the camera to pick up. I feel a warm rush of satisfaction when his face is drawn up tight into a twisted grimace of pleasure as he orgasms, and his semen jets out from his swollen cock in a beautiful arc, splashing across his belly so crisp and clear that I can almost reach out and touch it. I watch, glowing, as he lays there panting, his tired cock slowly diminishing. Maybe he plays idly with the puddle of come as he recovers, dipping his finger in the pearlescent lake and spreading it about. Finally he cleans off and resumes exploring.

In time, he traverses the entire maze. There is nothing particularly remarkable, no lurking Minotaur, no Shelob, nothing but raw plywood and CFLs. He makes his way back to the place he came in from; eventually he finds the other entrance. Both doors are locked. He might bang on them for a while, he might scream silently against the cold steel, but it doesn’t make any difference. They stay impassively shut.

He will commit the entire maze to memory. It doesn’t matter, there’s nothing there, no secret passages, no cryptic message, no fiendish riddle that will unlock a hidden door to freedom. Sometimes; not often, but sometimes; he wonders if there actually is an outside, or if that was just a dream, and the maze is all there is.

I never get tired of watching him masturbate. It feels like an act of intimacy. I know his body by heart. He usually does it about once a day; sometimes more, sometimes less. Time doesn’t mean very much in there; the lights dim in some approximation of circadian rhythms, but the days quickly blur together.

I always feel my heart rate increase when he whips it out, coaxes it to full erect hardness. He experiments with the toys: I made sure to stock the place with plenty of lube. He is tentative at first, barely tickling his anus with the smallest, least intimidating of the dildos. Apparently he likes the sensation. His dick seems to curve up and out from his body as he eases the toy inside. His forehead is wrinkled with concentration. He fucks himself, and I can see his cock bobbing and waggling, he is watching himself in the mirror, and when he orgasms, the come seems to shoot halfway across the room.

Eventually he moves on to the bigger, scarier looking toys. He spends hours sprawled out across the bed, hard-on pointing up at the ceiling, balls drawn up tight, carefully working an enormous dildo up his ass. He inserts a large butt-plug, and walks around with a boner all day, plug in his asshole, just torturing himself. He leafs through the porn, hands on his knees, dick pointing straight down, hard and thick, until he has memorized every single picture. He’ll even practice deep-throating the dildos and occasionally lick his own come out of his palm.

He grows a fringy little beard, and when his hair gets long enough he pulls it back into a pony tail, binding it like a bonsai. Sometimes he writes feverishly in a little spiral notebook, erasing and scratching out what he’d written before until the pages are thin as onion skins. I’ll never know what he is writing; he cups the notebook in his hand and hunches over it like a secret agent. Otherwise he passes the time by reading, jerking off, lifting weights, and doing sit-ups and chin-ups and running on the treadmill. It becomes a routine for him: work out, jerk off, shower, read, nap, repeat. It may be the only thing that keeps him sane. He gets skinnier. All the extraneous fat melts away. The old, shaggy clothes that he brought with him hang off him like rags. He mostly doesn’t bother to wear them; I keep the temperature inside comfortably warm. He is almost unrecognizable as the boy who wandered in. He is ripped, a far-out warrior monk, a Jedi recluse.

Outside, the unemployment rate continues to soar. The suburbs whither, atrophy, withdraw into themselves. The shell of the old mall starts to seem more and more like an organic part of the landscape. The parking lot has become a jungle. Visitors to the abandoned shopping mall are fewer and further between. And yet they still come.

Eventually the right one comes along. She is older, in her thirties, maybe pushing forty. She keeps her dishwater blonde hair piled up inside a battered blue baseball cap.

She has an MFA in sculpture, but no job. Maybe she still lives with her parents; maybe she squats in one of the innumerable half-finished McMansions that litter the country like toadstools. She wears a lot of black, and walks aimlessly through the woods and fields in an ankle-length skirt and hiking boots, looking for something but she doesn’t know just what.

When she finds the door labeled ‘ARACHNE’, she pauses. Thinks it over. Maybe she walks away, but she comes back, the next day or the day after. She finds a comfortable place to sit in the sun, and just looks at the door as she eats the cheese sandwich she packed for herself. There is something disturbingly significant about that black door, menacing or monumental. The proportions are off; it is slightly too large for comfort, and it is not marred by a single scratch of graffiti, though the walls around it are an overlapping tapestry of spray paint and markers.

She seems to make a decision. She gets up, puts the remains of her lunch away in her pack for later, dusts off the crumbs from her dress. She tries the door. It swings easily inward. She looks around one last time, and steps inside. The door swings closed behind her.

I can almost hear the click as it shuts. She doesn’t appear particularly surprised to find it locked. She tries for a minute or two, just to be sure, but of course the door is unyielding. She composes herself, shoulders her pack, lets her eyes adjust to the low light, and sets off to explore her surroundings.

It takes her a long time to find the central chamber. The maze was designed that way. The destination is obscured, but inevitable. She must be tired, footsore and hungry and thirsty by the time she finds the room, but it doesn’t show.

He is asleep, nude, on the futon when she enters the room. The lights in the central room are dim right now, in twilight mode, though outside it is early morning. If she is surprised to see a naked young man asleep on the bed before her, she doesn’t show it. This one doesn’t give much away. She sits down, eats the last of her sandwich, drinks water out of the tap, and waits.

I wish I could hear the words they speak to each other when he wakes up and finds her there, but I don’t have microphones in the place. I have that much decency, at least.

He is embarrassed by his nudity; she is amused by it. He covers up, wearing dirty jeans that are three sizes too big and blown out in the knees and butt.

She takes stock of the contents of the room. There is still enough food for many years, even with a population of two. She raises an eyebrow at the cabinet of dildos; he blushes so red I can see it on camera. Apparently she asks if she can use the shower; he steps out of the room while she disrobes.

She doesn’t have a bad body, not at all. She would have been pretty as a twenty-year old. She is a little bit heavy, a little utilitarian. Her breasts are not large, but they aren’t as perky as they once were. She has large, dark areolae, and dimpled nipples. Unbound, her hair falls halfway down her back. Her bottom is wide and rounded, and her legs are thick.

Together, they explore the maze all over again. It has been a long time since he has strayed very far outside the room. What’s the point? There isn’t anything new to find: the fountain still trickles creepily away, a fine layer of green slime spreading across the damp room. The doors are still resolutely locked.

They don’t fuck, certainly not right away. They aren’t really each other’s type. They learn to co-exist. They share the bed, because there is nowhere else comfortable to sleep, but they don’t touch at night. He sleeps in his ancient boxers; she keeps her underwear on. The rest of the time, they divide up the space between them, dancing around each other like fish in an aquarium.

She goes for long walks in the maze, all by herself, searching even though there is nothing to find. She must know that. Maybe this is just a way for them to give each other a little privacy.

Sure enough, probably sooner rather than later, she comes back to the room in time to catch him masturbating. He is lying on the floor, naked, a dildo shoved up his ass, and his hand wrapped around his cock. She freezes. They make eye contact. He doesn’t stop. She stands there for a long moment, a dozen heart beats. Then she turns around and leaves him to it.

She finds a convenient dead end, and sits down with her back against the wall. She piles up her skirt on her lap and masturbates right there, sitting on the floor. She jerks off primly, one hand squeezed between her thighs. Even with my high-tech camera gear, I can’t see any of the goodies. It doesn’t matter: it is a beautiful thing. When she comes, she squeezes her eyes tightly shut and bites down hard on her lower lip.

I wish I could hear what they say to each other, but I feel that I owe them at least that modicum of privacy. In any case, it isn’t long before he is jerking off while she watches. She sits, fully clothed, on the futon mattress while he does his thing. The first time is awkward, tentative, but soon enough he loses his inhibitions. He shows her how he uses the different toys; stretches the act out for an hour or more, balancing himself on the edge; does a shoulder stand so he can jerk off into his own mouth.

When he is done, she always excuses herself, walks out into the maze, sits down in her private corner, and gets herself off with one expertly minimalistic finger. I know he wants to watch her, but either he can’t bring himself to ask, or she won’t let him.

They finally fuck, of course. I am surprised by how long it takes; but given the circumstances, it was pretty much a guarantee. They go straight to the main event, that first time, no fooling around or making out first. It is the first time he has seen her naked, and I try to see her through his eyes. She is flat on her back on the bed, he climbs carefully on top of her, cock jutting out like a figurehead. He is tender about it. His movements are slow and gentle. She responds eagerly, wrapping her limbs around him, pulling him closer. When he has stopped moving, they lie like that together for a long, long time.

It is like a sea wall bursting. Suddenly, they are doing it all over the place, in every way, every day, sometimes more. I can barely keep up with them. I see them, conjoined and bouncing joyously, reflected three times over in the big mirror. The image is etched into my mind like a tattoo.

From my bird’s eye view, I watch their negotiations. He wants to go down on her, she isn’t sure she wants to let him do that. I only figure that out later, of course. I play back the tapes, reconstructing their conversation, making up my own words for them. In the end, he convinces her to try it.

She takes a shower, achingly self-conscious under his watching eyes. His dick is already hard. Surely she must take that as a compliment, a vote of confidence.

She sits on the bed, back against the wall, looking at their triple reflections in the mirror. He lies on his stomach, between her legs. She shuts her eyes and folds her hands behind her head. He is patient. It takes him a long time to bring her there, but when he finally does, the results are spectacular, a flower blooming in fast forward. She writhes and bucks and heaves, caressing his hair as he continues to lick her, staying with her to the very end.

She learns how to suck his dick. I have the impression that she has never participated in oral sex before, or that it has been a long time, and was not an especially pleasant experience the first time around. She starts out tentative, but once she gets going, she is doggedly persistent. That first time, she isn’t able to bring him off; in the end he has to push her away and jerk himself off, spilling his come all over her breasts.

Practice makes perfect, and she is an excellent student. Before too long she is swallowing him whole, taking his entire length and girth into her mouth; jamming wet fingers up his asshole; playing him like a musical instrument.

Slowly, they get kinkier. With much giggling, they try out different poses from the Kama Sutra. They sixty-nine. He fucks her in the ass. She seems to approve; this becomes a regular part of their repertoire. She finally masturbates for him, sitting shyly across from him on the bed, legs just barely spread so that I can see a flash of brown fur and her finger drawing tiny circles until she stiffens and clenches. It makes him so hot that he stands up and masturbates right there, and his come falls on her like a warm summer rain. This only makes her start up again. When they are done, they are both grinning and ravenous.

I don’t know whether they are trying to get her pregnant, or trying to avoid it, but either way it doesn’t happen. Maybe she is too old, maybe they aren’t fertile, maybe that’s just the way the dice roll. It is, I suppose, probably for the best.

When she comes now, she completely lets go. She explodes outward, bursting like a chrysanthemum: fists clenched, hair flying wild, head thrown back, face contorted and red, ecstatic. It is amazing to watch.

Inevitable, they start to grow old together. She has a head start, but as the years go by it matters less and less. They have sex somewhat less frequently, and rather less acrobatically, but it is still just as beautiful.

One day, for no reason in particular, maybe they’d go for a walk hand in hand through the maze. He’d be wearing his ragged old jeans, worn spiral-bound notebook tucked into the back pocket. She’d be wearing her old black skirt, and nothing else. Her hair will have gone grey, but she’d seem taller and leaner. If anything, her breasts would have improved with age; they’d seem larger, rounder, more perfect. Maybe she has just gotten more comfortable with her body as she has gotten older.

The maze will also have aged. It would be darker; many of the fluorescent tubes will have burned out, and some of the ballasts may have gone bad over the years, and would flicker epileptically. The fountain will have slowed to a trickle, choked with algae. There’d be a fine layer of dust coating the floors, and on the cameras I’d be able to see where they have walked like footprints in new snow.

When they got to one of the big steel doors, they’d give it a push, out of long habit more than any kind of expectation. This time, they’d find it unlocked. It would swing outward with a complaining creak of metal on metal as the long unused hinges pivot. They’d step blinking and half-dressed out into the natural light, moving slowly as if in a dream. Outside. It is the same old sun shining down on them, but the world has changed.

END