So Wrong (the collected pornographica of Elsie)

When she asked if she could stay at my place for a while, I said ‘Yes’, and then immediately regretted it. I’m single, a thirty-something woman, lurching awkwardly toward middle age. I’m set in my ways. I live alone, and I like it. Besides, if there really was trouble at home, as she told me, I sure didn’t want to get dragged in.

She didn’t have much stuff; just a backpack, full to bursting. I gave her my spare house keys, and set her up on the futon in my living room; showed her the bathroom and how the shower worked, and then left her to her own devices. It was already late, and I had a presentation to do in the morning.

She was still asleep when I left for work, sprawled out on the futon, curly, artificially copper-red hair spilling over the side of the bed, still wearing yesterday’s black t-shirt. The blanket was pulled aside, and I caught a glimpse of her baby-blue panties. She was too skinny, and there were scratches on her forearms and dark circles under her eyes, and she looked painfully tired for someone so young. Even asleep she seemed tense, her forehead furrowed as if in concentration. She was so pretty my whole being clasped with wanting, a deep and aching need. I got dressed and left quietly, so as not to wake her up. I wondered if she’d be there when I got home. I wondered if I’d ever see her again.

When I got home from work, she wasn’t there. The spare keys were nowhere to be seen. Nothing seemed to be missing. I shook my head. I was a fool, a stupid fool, and someday it would bite me right on the ass.

I sighed and shook my head, feeling old and gullible and fat. I stripped out of my work clothes, and took a hot shower. After that I felt a little better. I put on my green terrycloth bathrobe and poured myself a very tall glass of red wine. And then the internet porn. And then one hand found it’s way between my thighs to where it was already warm and moist and slick, and I wasn’t really concentrating on masturbating, but trying to decide between ordering in pizza or Chinese, and if I was in the mood for a full-on vibrator/dildo session, or whether I’d just let my fingers do the walking.

I barely heard her knocking on the door.

It had been raining all evening, and she looked like an abandoned cat. Her makeup was running, and she looked tired and almost transparent. When she asked me if she could come in, if she could still stay, her voice seemed to tremble on the verge of breaking. I could see the outline of her bra through her damp t-shirt, and I felt a powerful rush of feeling for her that was not especially maternal.

I let her in, and stepped discreetly out of the room while she changed into dry things. Faded blue jeans with the knees torn out, and a crumpled white t-shirt with the cartoon image of a cat on it. No bra, I noticed that right away. Her skin was pale, pale as if it had never been exposed to sunlight.

I offered her a glass of wine, though she was far too young to be drinking alcohol. She accepted it gratefully, slurping the malbec down like it was Gatorade. I decided on pizza right then and there, phoning the order in as we sat together on the futon couch, her legs stretched out, lying casually across my lap, bare inches from my hungry, horny cunt.

Between the two of us, we killed the whole pie. She devoured it like a girl on a mission, eating two slices for my every one. I poured us both more wine, wringing every last drop from the bottle. I considered opening another bottle, getting her drunk, seducing her, climbing on top of her and rubbing my cunt up and down her face. Then I thought better of it.

I made my excuses and helped her turn the couch into a bed. We were both a little drunk, and there was a lot of giggling and fumbling that might or might not have been outright flirtation. I left her, and went to bed by myself, where I whacked off furiously, cramming the shiny steel Narwhale up my cunt and pinching, pulling, twisting my nipples until I came, came hard, gasping hoarsely into my pillow as my pussy and clit twitched and shuddered and twitched again.

I had erotic, confusing dreams, and woke up with a headache. She was asleep on the couch where I had left her, her mouth hanging slightly open, snoring almost imperceptibly. I wondered what she sounded like when she came, I wondered if she’d wondered that about me. I left her to sleep and tiptoed out of the room, coffee cup in one hand.

While she was in the shower, I snooped through her backpack. I felt guilty doing that, but it didn’t stop me. Rolled-up clothes, wadded-up panties. Tampons, cell phone, condoms. There was a baggy of pot, and a smaller ziplock full of white powder, and lots of pills. Bottles and bottles of them, all unlabeled or clearly mislabeled. I carefully closed up her bag and set it just where she had left it.

She came out of the shower, all pink and clean, wrapped up in one of my purple towels, and I felt like I was at my first high school dance. I imagined that towel falling to the floor, and me taking her in my arms and having my way with her, taking her to the edge and then bringing her back, over and over again until she was begging for it, and then making her come, making her come so that her entire body shook and she called out my name as her muscles strained and tensed and relaxed, and she collapsed on top of me, hot and sweaty and sexy, kissing my lips over and over again, thanking me.

And then I realized I was running late for work and wasn’t dressed or properly caffeinated yet. I said goodbye with a flutter of my fingers as I pushed my bike out the front door, my helmet dangling from one hand.

That evening, when I got home from work, the house was empty. I figured she’d probably be back, but I also figured I probably had a couple hours. As per my custom, I ditched my work clothes, and fired up the computer. Right away I noticed that the browser history had changed. Ok, she’d been checking her email and whatnot. Then I looked closer and saw that she had been to a bunch of porn sites I wasn’t familiar with. Of course, I had to check it out.

Her taste in porn was clearly not my own. She seemed to favor video clips of porn-star looking women getting energetically nailed by porn-star looking dudes. Not really my cup of tea. I went on to browse my own sites: bookish, slightly chubby girl-next door types getting shyly naked; and geeky, tattooed gay boys getting it on with each other.

And then, as usual, one thing led to another. I got the Narwhale out and warmed it between my thighs. I ditched my panties entirely, and fetched out my toy bag and the bottle of lube. While I was at it, I poured myself a glass of wine. Might as well make a party out of it.

The Narwhale is a beast. He is one-of-a-kind, bigger than any penis has the right to be– not quite scary big, but definitely right on the edge of what’s comfortably possible. An artist friend of mine with access to a CNC lathe made him for me out of stainless steel. He must weight seven pounds, with exaggerated features that create interesting textures: bulging veins, a pronounced, flaring glans. He retains heat really well, and takes lube like a piston. After you’ve been fucked by the Narwhale, as the boys like to say, you know you’ve been fucked.

I put a video on that looked hot, expanded it to full screen. A skinny, younger guy, with black, mussed-up hair and glasses who was improbably well-hung, gave a good impression of being inexperienced and nervous. He was paired with an hard-faced older guy: crew cut, tattoos, and muscles; not as ridiculously dicked as the skinny kid, but still formidable.

They were in a basement somewhere, a cluttered, dingy basement. The scene was poorly lit. They horsed around a little bit, then Old Guy made Skinny Kid suck his cock. That was pretty hot. Then Old Guy relented and did some licking and kissing and nibbling of his own. They were both pretty clearly turned on, and I was right there with them.

I lubed up and slipped my anal beads up my butt, one after another, as Old Guy maneuvered Skinny Kid into position, bent over a filthy old radiator. The beads felt nice and squirmy and naughty up my ass. I rubbed the Narwhale up and down my vulva, spreading the lube all over my cunt, tormenting myself. This was going to be hot.

He took aim, and carefully skewered the Skinny Kid, impaling him, inexorably grinding forward like some bizarre sexual bulldozer, until he was balls deep in the poor moaning, squirming, sweaty kid’s asshole.

I mirrored them, bearing down on the Narwhale, shoving it up my slippery cunt, full to the point of bursting, the beads in my ass rattling around obnoxiously.

It was then that I noticed her watching. She was standing in the hall, just outside the room, half-hidden by the door. From where she was standing, she had a prime view of me masturbating.

Normally, when I get to this point, the pressure of the dildo stretching my pussy and interacting with the toy in my ass is plenty: I ride the wave, delicately petting my clit with one finger until I explode. I took a different tack this time.

I rolled over onto my hands and knees, my tits hanging down, one hand on the Narwhale to keep it from popping out of my cunt like an artillery shell. I aimed my posterior at the doorway where she stood watching, took the Narwhale in both hands, and started working it violently, shoving it in and out, in time with the gay boys on my computer monitor. The dildo squelched as it invaded my body; pressing hard against the roots of my clit and bumping into my cervix, it sent waves of shuddering pleasure coursing through my body. I moaned out loud, losing myself in it, fucking myself hard, harder, harder yet. I shut my eyes even as the guys fucked, buried my face in the pillow and came, grinding hard and viciously. It left me gasping and quivering, curled up in a tender, sweaty little ball. She was nowhere to be seen.

I don’t know where she went during the days. Maybe she went to school, but upon consideration that didn’t seem very likely. She watched me masturbate most evenings; I made sure she caught me, and she made no real attempt to conceal herself. Sometimes I’d be nude, sometimes my panties would be bunched up around my knees; sometimes I’d use the Narwhale, sometimes a humming little vibrator, sometimes I just let my fingers softly roam. Sometimes there would be porn playing in the background, sometimes not. When I orgasmed,  I let myself come extra loud, just for her.

My phone bill was out of control, with long calls to numbers I didn’t know in places I’d never been: Quebec City, Montreal, Lisbon, Sao Paolo. The contents of my liquor cabinet dwindled, and yet I said nothing.

A Saturday morning, a warm and sunny early spring morning. When I left for my ride, she was asleep on the couch, snoring softly, still wearing the clothes she’d had on lthe night before. By the time I got back, sweaty and grimy from the road, the couch was empty except for the mussed-up sheets and a crumpled blanket.

The bathroom door was closed, and the shower was running.

I stripped out of my crusty jersey, my damp spandex.

In the bathroom, the water was running hot and steamy.  She smiled through the curtain when she saw me. She was still too skinny, and there were purple and blue bruises on her upper arms and thighs. She had smallish, up-turned breasts, the kind with large brown-pink aureole, and her nipples were mere dimples. Her pussy was shaved bare but for a little tuft of hair just above her fleshy crease.

We embraced under the cascade of hot water, breast upon breast, stomachs touching, my pubic hair pressed against her mons. I reached down and stroked her pussy with one finger tip, traversing the seam of her vulva all the way back to the crack of her ass.

She turned to face the tile wall, water streaming down her back. I knelt behind her. She had a gorgeous ass, like a ripe, pale peach. Was my own butt that fine when I was her age? I thought not. Gently, carefully, as if I were afraid of damaging them, I parted her cheeks.

I licked up and down her ass crack, the hot water running down her spine into my nose and mouth, mixing in with the earthy, feminine taste of her posterior. Her asshole was small, shy, delicate. I attacked it with the tip of my tongue, probing, forcing my way inside. She yielded, humping back against me, pushing her ass into my face as my tongue drilled deeper and deeper up her anus.

My finger insinuated itself up her pussy as I licked her asshole. She was wet inside, slick and hot and wet. She was rubbing her clit as I tongued her, one hand reaching behind, tugging on my wet hair. My own neglected cunt was drooling into the tub.

She came, my tongue buried in her asshole, my finger beckoning ‘come-hither’ inside her pussy. She came with a hiccupping series of little gasps or grunts. I fell back onto my ass in the tub, my knees parting wide. She turned to watch while I fingered myself to a long, wet, wracking orgasm.

The afternoon meeting turned into a forced death march. I tuned out the Power Point presentation, amusing myself by thinking about what might happen when I got home. I imagined pulling her panties off with my teeth, inhaling her scent, teasing and tormenting her with my tongue. I imagined her copper-red locks spread out on my lap as she licked me, cupping my ass with both hands as her tongue danced on my erect clit, trying earnestly to bring me off. I imagined fucking her with the Narwhale, her babbling incoherently as I stuffed the big hard steel dildo up her wet cunt, fucking her with it with one hand while I yanked mercilessly on her hair with the other.

By the time the meeting got out, it was dark outside, and my panties were damp. I’d ridden my bike to work that morning; now I had to ride home. It started to rain, and I nearly got splatted by a bus.

She wasn’t there when I got home. The house reeked of cigarette and marijuana smoke. My bedroom had been rifled through. My underwear drawer had been dumped out. My wallet had been emptied: driver’s license, credit cards, and some two-hundred dollars cash were gone. My toys were spilled out all over the bed. The Narwhale, an expensive rechargeable vibrator, and a pair of real police handcuffs were missing.

I started calling the credit card companies to report my cards missing. As I sat there on the crumpled sheets, listening to banal hold music and assurances of how important my call was to them, my hand found its way inside my heavy, rain-wet pants, and I idly began to masturbate.

post-script

I don’t remember where I found the link exactly.

I have gotten over her, moved on, and though I still occasionally grieve for the loss of my Narwhale, I don’t waste much time moping over it.

I love riding my bike in a skirt, especially in the spring time. I get a petty semi-exhibitionist thrill out of it. Some days I wad up my panties and stuff them into my backpack, and ride home commando-style. I like the feeling of the fresh air on my pussy, the sense of being naughtily semi-naked in public, and I love the idea that anyone I pass might be catching an utterly pornographic crotch shot if they just happen to look up at the right moment. By the time I get home, I am primed and ready to go.

It’s my standard after-work routine: hang up the bike in the hallway; fire up the computer; pour a glass of wine and hike up the skirt; mouse in one hand, the other hand between my thighs, free to roam. One link leads to another, the beer diminishes, and the slippery situation between my legs becomes even more so. I throw one leg up on the arm of my desk chair and spread my lips, penetrating myself with one slick finger. The next video starts, fuzzy and amateurish.

And with a start like a kick in the tits, I recognize my bedroom, my bed. Those are my down pillows; the red sheets are my sheets, neatly made up, the camera held by an unsteady hand.

She tumbles into the frame as if thrown. Her hands are cuffed together in front of her. She goes sprawling, giggling across the bed like a felled tree. Her eyes seem glassy, as if stoned, but it may simply be my imagination. She doesn’t seem unhappy about her predicament. No not at all, not one bit.

Two guys enter the scene, one on either side of the bed. They are not particularly attractive men, not in my book. Why do they always find the skeeviest guys to do heterosexual porn? The skinny dude has a crew cut and a lot of mismatched tattoos. He has a beer belly that doesn’t sit well on his frame. His dick is hard, and curves aggressively upward. The other man is thicker, reminiscent of a hard-boiled egg. He looks greasy, and has a pony tail. His balls hang down heavily, and his cock is also erect.

They pry her legs apart. She is already wet, her shaved pussy a blooming flower. They roughly finger her cunt, pinch and slap her breasts, shove their fingers up her tiny asshole, calling her rude names all the while: Cunt, Bitch, Slut, Whore. She wriggles, giggles, writhes, and moans.

There are no condoms involved. They drop her legs and then separate. Greasy Guy straddles her face, back to the camera, shoves his cock down her throat. He grabs her curly copper locks and starts humping, rocking his hips back and forth as she gurgles and gags, taking his meat all the way to his pendulous balls. He looks almost bored: in other context he would look like a middle-aged participant in some naked Jazzercise class.

Skinny Dude takes a knee in each hand and starts fucking her. He buries his cock in her cunt, pulls it out, bouncing and glistening with her juice, and then jams it back in. He turns and grins at the camera. She appears to be lost in a fog of ecstasy. He is fucking her like his cock is a fist and she is a punching bag. I wish he would lean forward and rim his partner a little bit while he is at it, but there is not chance of that. Her legs kick wildly in the air, and her mouth and cunt stuffed full of cock.

On some off-camera signal signal, they stop, pull out. She is left flopping, like a fish torn suddenly from the water. Greasy Guy slaps her face with his erection, left-right, left-right. He looks distracted, bored, just another day at the office. Skinny Dude retrieves the Narwhale from underneath the bed. Without any ceremony, he jams the big steel toy straight up her pussy. She grunts as if punched. He shoves it in and out a few times, making as if he were reaming out a pipe, or swabbing out the barrel of a cannon. Then he spreads her pretty butt cheeks, spits on her asshole, and sticks his bent erection straight up her ass.

Her cuffed hands are doing their best to keep the toy inside while he spastically fucks her ass. He is fucking her to come now, you can tell that. There is a violence to his fucking that appalls and excites me. She is making guttural noises, grunts and whimpers. Skinny Dude’s face is contorted into a sneer, a twisted parody of passion.

Another signal from off-stage. Greasy Guy starts jerking off, as fast as he can, pointing his dick at her face like a gun. Her head is raised in anticipation. With a girly yelp, he shoots off: long, ropey, sticky white strands of come spattering all over her cheeks, nose, forehead, chin, into her open mouth and eyes and up her nose. At almost the same time, Skinny Guy pulls his cock out of her grasping asshole, squirting his pearly come all over her back, all the way up to her pale shoulder blades. She is fucking herself with the Narwhale, bearing down on it with everything she’s got, the cuffs digging into her wrists, leaving livid red dents that will turn into vicious bruises. She turns her face away from the camera as she starts to come, and the guys milk their wilting dicks onto her violently twitching body as the screen fades to black and ends in an advertisement for some website that I will never ever join.

It is not my kind of porn, not at all. And yet. I have watched the video over and over again until I have it memorized. Every move, every detail. I masturbate to it obsessively, and when I come, I time my orgasm to coincide with hers.

She is too young, too skinny, lost at sea in an ocean of storm-tossed waves. I am locked in an insurgency with my credit rating: someone in Macon, Georgia tries to buy a string of foreclosed-upon houses using my identity; somebody in Lithuania charges several thousand dollars worth of high-end consumer electronics to my credit card. I wish I had never met her. And yet, despite everything, I wish her well.

END