I felt like a star that had burned too brightly, exhausted its energy, doomed to collapse endlessly in on itself until nothing, not even light could escape. I was a singularity, an event horizon, a black hole.
You already know the story. Sandra and I met at a writing group I belonged to. She only ever made it to a few meetings, but I was hooked right from the start. She was a tiny, pixyish girl with shocking red hair and bright green mischievous eyes. There was an amazing chemistry between us right from the start. She obliquely asked me out the first night we met; we went out for drinks later that week and ended up spending the night at her apartment. The sex was good, delicious, and pretty much nonstop. We became inseparable. I moved in with her. And then slowly, almost imperceptibly, things started to suck.
Enough became enough. In the end it was mutual. We had the obligatory fights and make-ups, tears were shed and promises made and broken and all that was over now. I had moved the last of my stuff out last Friday; I was staying on a friend’s sofa until the first of the month when I could move into my own apartment.
Start to finish: slightly less than twelve months.
And now, just a day less than one week since we had said our final goodbyes, I was meeting her for a drink. To talk things over, to start becoming the friends we had always said we would be if it came to this; to wallow in what had once been love and what might have been two lives joined together into one. To cry into my beer and then to go home and depressingly masturbate myself to sleep.
It was barely eleven o’clock in the morning on a sunny Thursday in June. Being chronically underemployed has its advantages. I knew Sandra had called in sick to work. We met at a bar she had suggested out in Williamsburg called Shelter Island. I’d never been there before. It was dark inside, with some sort of nautical theme going on, kind of a faux-working class aesthetic. It seemed young and hip; too young and too hip for me. ‘Please God,’ I thought, ‘Please don’t let her be introducing her new girlfriend to me.’
Sandra was there, looking sprightly in a little black skirt and a top I hadn’t seen before; shiny black stretchy fabric emblazoned with the mock-scowling visage of a samurai. Her almost comically tiny Doc Martins and a precious little black choker completed the ensemble. I felt gawkish and underdressed in my jeans and plain blue v-neck t-shirt. What had she ever seen in me anyway?
She gave me her patented big sweet smile and ran over to hug me close. My breasts pressed up against her smaller ones, triggering a thousand unwanted memories. I hugged her back, luxuriating in her smell, the sense of her closeness.
The place was nearly empty. There was a group of construction workers sitting at a table near the bar, enjoying an early liquid lunch: Budweiser out of the can. A few hours later they would have been utterly out of place; this wasn’t the kind of establishment where working Joes came to sip $12 martinis. As it was, I found their presence somehow humanizing. A poet, or an aspiring rockstar-type sat at the far end of the bar, writing furiously in a well worn spiral bound notebook. Well, he sure had the look down: high pale cheekbones, shaggy tousled blonde hair, torn jeans and long unruly limbs. He was wearing an oversized SpongeBob Squarepants t-shirt, and was sitting on his black biker’s jacket. I wondered idly if what he was writing was any good.
Sandra and I sat down at the bar. The bartender took our order. She was not a small woman; the fact that she was wearing a horned Viking cap straight out of Hagar the Horrible and that she had her (bleached) blonde hair twisted in two thick braids down past her shoulders did nothing to make her seem any less physically imposing. I meekly ordered a beer. Sandra went straight for the hard stuff.
Our conversation was remarkably civil and low key. We danced carefully around the painful bits, sticking to safe topics like the weather and tv and gossip about mutual friends. Damn, she was cute! What a pity she could be such a God Awful Raging Cunt when the mood was upon her.
Sandra ordered another shot of whiskey. I was still only halfway through my beer. I wasn’t used to drinking this early. She was starting to slur her words a little. She casually rested her hand on my right knee. I thought I might melt. Dammit! That fucking bitch was making me horny!
The construction workers got up and loudly vacated their table, tromping back up into the world of light. The Viking goddess bartender was at the far end of the bar, talking to the mangy poet kid.
“You fucking little slut,” Sandra whispered to me, startling me out of my little reverie, “You are so fucking sexy.”
Unsteadily, she leaned over, kissing me on the lips. Her kiss was fierce, aggressive. She bit down on my lip, hard, making me wince, almost hard enough to draw blood. Interesting. Very interesting.
She broke off the kiss and squeezed my knee, hard, urgently. Hey, I thought we were broken up?
Sandra kissed me again, hard. Then she grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled, forcing my head back. Her free hand unerringly found my nipple, all poikey hard through my bra. She pinched it mercilessly, pulling and twisting till the tears came to my eyes. Fuck me! Why hadn’t we ever played this way when we were together?
I could feel the heat of her crotch through my jeans when she finally released me.
“You fucking horny little tramp,” Sandra hissed at me, her voice dripping with playful-serious malice. Swish- smack! She slapped me hard across the face. I tasted blood in my mouth. I would have a fat lip for sure. “I’d like to fuck you right here, right on this bar. You want that don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whispered meekly. I did. I really did.
She pulled out a little red-handled pair of safety scissors, the kind they give you to do crafts with in grade school. Oh My! I had a pretty good idea what her next move was going to be… When we were together our sex life hadn’t been particularly kinky. I’d never really felt comfortable suggesting any of the really nasty stuff. I guess I’d been afraid of what she might think of me. So why was she starting this now?
Snip snip snip- she cut jaggedly straight up the middle of my nice blue t-shirt. I didn’t move. I was tingling- yes that’s the word dammit, my whole body was tingling with excitement. Snick snick- my bra suffered the same fate as my shirt. Damn, those things aren’t cheap either. My tits hung out for everyone who happened to be in the bar to see. I may not be stacked, but I’m not small either. I looked down the bar. Both the bartender and the poet kid were gaping unabashedly. Blushing, I looked down at my chest. My nipples were red and erect. I became aware that I was hugely, grotesquely physically excited. My pussy was already soaking, and my clit throbbed in time with the Green Day cd on the jukebox.
Sandra slipped the scissors back into her purse and stood up, placing her hands firmly on my hips. Obediently, I got up off my stool and scooted my ass up onto the bar. I knocked over my beer with a clunk. I ignored the cold sticky liquid pooling all over the bar and soaking through the seat of my jeans. My eyes were locked on Sandra. It suddenly seemed very quite in there, despite the thumping music.
She went at my tits again, pinching and twisting them without mercy until I cried out loud in pain. When I looked down my nipples were long and hard and red, more erect than I’d ever remembered seeing them before. I noticed that the front door, which had been open to the blinding spring sunshine outside was now closed. Some distant part of my mind hoped that now wasn’t the time they got their lunch rush.
I felt strong hands pinning my arms behind my back, and Sandra started tugging my jeans off while the big Valkyrie bartender chick kept me from sliding off the beer-soaked bar. Once past my hips, my pants came off easily and landed in a crumpled wet heap on the filthy floor. I felt incredibly vulnerable at that instant. Things were way, way out of control. I felt dizzy, as if I weren’t inhabiting my own body, as if I were watching this whacked-out scene unfold from a safe distance. I looked at Sandra. She had a wicked little smile on her face. It didn’t exactly melt my heart, but it was definitely melting certain other parts of my anatomy. She looked so fucking sexy standing in front of me, hands on her hips, short skirt riding up, her flame red hair wild and messy. She licked her lips, slowly and deliberately. My panties were soaking wet, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t just the spilled beer. No ma’am.
“I am going to fuck you cross-eyed,” Sandra whispered to me. I just nodded dumbly. Sandra pulled out the grade-school scissors again. I shook my head ‘No’. These were my favorite pair of panties, black with lacy fringe and a tiny red heart embroidered right over the clit. I’d been wearing those panties the night of our first date, the night Sandra took me back to her apartment the first time. Sandra understood. She put away the scissors and I lifted up my ass, letting her pull the damp-bottomed black undies down past my ankles, leaving me completely naked and utterly exposed sitting up on the bar, my bare ass squooshing in a pool of spilled beer.
Sandra took a seat on the barstool in front of me, like a demented gynecologist, pushing my legs apart until they were spread wider than I would have thought possible. Oh My God, I wanted her. All that time we’d been together and we’d never had sex this hot. Ever. She stuck out her tongue and carefully licked the length of my vulva, from my ass cheeks all the way up to my clitoris. I was so hot at this point, so turned on. Her tongue felt amazing on me. I didn’t know if I was going to explode all over her face, or just melt right then and there. I closed my eyes and let my body fall lengthwise onto the bar while Sandra kept licking me, softer and harder, slower and faster, driving me crazy but never quite letting me orgasm.
When she stopped licking, I opened up my eyes. My clit was throbbing. I literally ached with lust. It felt like my pussy was my whole body, swollen and wet and slippery and teetering right on the edge of a massive come. It was pornographic, incredibly erotic. I looked around. The bartender, the Viking warrior chick was standing behind the bar, stroking my hair.
Sandra slipped a finger up inside me. I was so ready to be fucked. I knew I was ridiculously wet down there. I’m one of those girls who gets moist just from hearing the word ‘s-e-x’; I’ve soaked right through a pair of jeans before. At this point I must have been as wet as the freaking Amazon River. I spread my legs even wider yet, and got a finger going on my clit. Sandra slapped the back of my hand and firmly moved my finger away: there was to be no self-stimulation. I pulled back my clit hood. My clitoris was swollen, straining out toward Sandra. She gave it a playful little lick and went back to concentrating on fucking my pussy. She slid another finger, then another up inside me, fucking me harder, rubbing my g-spot.
Sandra got three fingers up inside my (incredibly squishy, juicy!) pussy. It was great, just like getting fucked with a nice thick cock that was hitting me in just the right places. She grinned (or sneered) at me and added another finger. I was stretched tight. I knew what she was up to now. This wasn’t a place we had ever gone in our lovemaking before, not even close. I wasn’t scared. No, that’s not true; I was really fucking scared, I had never been fisted before, but I trusted her completely. And besides, it felt so fucking good.
Viking Chick distracted me at this point, lifting one knee up onto the bar next to my head and hiking up her leather (yes, leather!) miniskirt. She was wearing yellow panties with red skulls-and-crossbones printed on them. Stray hairs spilled out the sides, and the crotch bulged with the fat lips of her sex. I could make out the crease of her labia through the yellow fabric, and there, right in the middle was a dark wet stain. I could feel her heat, smell her arousal.
Valkyrie pulled her fashionable pirate panties to one side, exposing a very hairy brown muff. She was just within reach; if I strained I could get my tongue on her. She was already very wet. Sticky strands of girl come clung to the hairs. She smelled strongly of sweat, stale urine, and of excited woman. I stuck out my tongue, and craning my neck, managed to trace the length of her slit. She tasted strong, salty and earthy. I could see her clit peeking out, like a big pink snow pea.
I kept getting distracted by the action going on down between my own legs. Sandra was fucking my pussy with four fingers, and it was driving me insane. I felt full up, stretched to the limit. I knew she wanted to put her whole hand inside me, and I wasn’t sure I could take it; I thought my poor pussy might rip in two. But I was sure enjoying being right on the edge. Meanwhile, I couldn’t keep my tongue on Viking Chick’s clit. It was a long reach, and I had to crane my neck, and I kept forgetting to lick. It must have been frustrating; she climbed up onto the bar and squatted so that she could watch and masturbate and I could tongue her crinkled brown asshole whenever I remembered to.
Sandra adjusted her stance, easing up on my pussy for a second. I pulled my tongue out of Valkyrie’s butt and glanced around. The guy in the SpongeBob t-shirt was standing a little way off, arms crossed, apparently utterly enthralled. I could see his erection through his thin, ragged jeans from ten feet away. I totally felt like a porn star, and the really scary thing was that I liked it. I really liked it. I placed my feet on the top of the bar and lifted my ass up in the air. The bartender chick’s big tits were hanging out and her fingers were a blur on her clit, making sexy little squishing noises as she wanked. Sandra winked briefly at me and blew me a little kiss. “I really want your hand up my cunt.” I said meekly, “Please.”
That seemed to push the bartender over the edge. She back up into me, mashing her ass and her soaking wet pussy into my face. I slurped blindly, as vigorously as I could while she frenetically worked her clit. Her taste was strong, earthy, metallic; it might even have been unpleasant if I hadn’t been so damn turned on. I couldn’t even breathe. Fortunately it didn’t take her long. In a couple seconds she was moaning and shaking, grinding herself all over my face.
When she climbed off me, my face was covered in her sticky juices. Our eyes met, and she winked at me, then kissed my come-slick cheek. God, it was so sexy!
I felt a new pressure down at my pussy. I looked down and sure enough, Sandra had all five fingers pressed together like the bill of a duck, and was trying to work them inside me. There was a little bottle of lube sitting on the bar- I was sure it had come out of Sandra’s purse, and I could see the clear slippery wetness glistening on her fingers in the low light of the bar. She was pressing harder into me. I wasn’t sure it would fit, but Oh God!, I wanted it.
I’m not sure how long we were like that, just me and her. The Valkyrie bartender had left my field of vision. SpongeBob still stood a little way away, just watching.
It could have been tens of hours or tens of minutes, but little by little, I felt my body opening up under her cruel, patient, insistent pressure. I wanted to come so fucking badly!, I wanted to come all over her fist.
There was a sudden flash of pain that was shockingly intense. I really thought I had been split right up the middle. I made some kind of animal noise, half groan, half scream. And then I looked down and Sandra’s fist was buried in my pussy, all the way up to the wrist.
There was something very much like a smug little grin on Sandra’s face. “You look really sexy like that Babe” she said. I saw that her skin was flushed; her lovely chiseled collar bones just above the samurai blouse had a familiar speckled rash on them that told me she was just about as turned on as I was.
She started to move her hand inside me. Gently, subtly. Like quantum events bumping against the root of my clit. I can’t adequately describe the sensations that her fist was causing me; it was incredibly intense.
I had been right on the edge for quite a while, and the sensation of what she was doing pushed me right over. Her hand in my distended pussy, bumping into my cervix, grinding against my g-spot, absolutely drove me wild. Just as I was starting to come, she leaned over, and really started fucking me with her fist. She kissed my mouth and bit my lower lip and pulled. I came harder than I’ve ever come before. It seemed to go on and on, rolling over me like surf, tumbling me helpless over and over. I think I may have peed. Finally, as the shaking stopped, Sandra withdrew her hand from me. Getting it out was a little scary, but it ended up not hurting at all; there was just a sense of pressure and it slipped out. Her hand was totally covered in my come. My pussy felt sore and used-up and empty without her hand inside.
Sandra wiped her hand off on my ruined t-shirt. She kissed me lightly on the cheek. “I’ll miss you Kiddo,” she said. “Take good care of yourself” Then she was off, through the door and out into the bright sunlit street.
The Valkyrie chick was down at the far end of the bar, cleaning glasses as if nothing had happened. I wiped myself off as best I could with the remains of my t-shirt. Feeling like I was moving through a waking dream, I retrieved my jeans from where they had landed in a heap on the floor. The seat was still wet and chafed on my naked ass. I never did locate my panties, I’m pretty sure Sandra stuck them in her purse. I didn’t know what to do about covering my top half; my bra and t-shirt were both slit down the middle and soaked in girl-come and beer. The bartender-chick was making a point of studiously ignoring me.
Someone tapped on my shoulder. It was the poet/rockstar kid. He was bare-chested, holding out his SpongeBob t-shirt for me. “Here,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said gratefully donning the oversized white tee. “But what about you?”
“Oh, I’ll just wear my jacket and zip up. Can I walk you to the train?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?” I was feeling more than a little shaky on my feet. I wasn’t at all sure I trusted myself to not pass out on the way to the subway.
“I saw what you did,” he said as he gathered up his notebooks. “That was pretty wild. You’re really brave, to act out a fantasy like that. I admire that.”
“I don’t know about brave,” I said. We walked out the door and up the steps where I was momentarily blinded by the bright spring sun. “It was wild though. That was the most intense thing I’ve ever done.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Intense is definitely the word.”
We reached the subway entrance. My head was starting to clear. I no longer felt like a collapsed star. I needed a shower, badly, and a good stiff drink. Or three. My eyes strayed to the promising looking lump that still bulged in the front of SpongeBob’s jeans. At least he had enjoyed the show. I was glad of that. When was the last time I had fooled around with a boy? Too long.
“Hey,” he said. “Can I have your phone number?”
What the hell, why not? On any other day, I probably would have politely declined. Instead, I took his ballpoint pen and wrote my cell number down on one of his spiral bound pages with my name and an email address. Then we parted ways, and I descended the dark stairway into the subway system and home to my friend’s apartment, a hot shower and a change of clothes. It would be good to have my own place again, my very own bed.
I had never even caught his name. I hoped that he would call soon.
END
So Wrong (the collected pornographica of Elsie) 