“I admit, I like to eat women.”
“Poor, helpless, older women, all alone in their humble homes.”
“And little girls in short red dresses.”
“Oh, Nana, what big teeth you have.”
“Forget about the teeth. Look at the tongue.”
Rose lowered her eyes.
Nana, in her high black heels, now towered over her. Rose swayed toward Nana, pliant, almost confiding.
“Do you know, Nana, there’s this bulge — just there. Yes, just where I have my hand. Are you pleased to see me?”
“Extremely pleased.”
“Yes, you do seem pleased.”
Rose slipped her hands around Nana’s buttocks and massaged them and pulled them inward. She rubbed against the mysterious bulge in Nana’s satin groin, back and forth, back and forth.
Nana tilted back her head and closed her eyes.
Nana was feeling very near the edge again.
It had started as she shaved herself and creamed herself, and it got more and more as she dressed in the cool shivery silk and it slithered and shivered all over her, and kept on slithering and shivering and slithering, teasing at her, and then the warm, tactile silicone padding, of the brassiere rubbed on her nipples, her male nipples, which were the nipples of none other — what a shock! — than Wolf. And by the time the stockings were hooked to the garter belt, it was with enormous — enormous being the absolutely right word — difficulty that Wolf packed his rampant and colossally aroused penis into the satin and lace modesty pouch.
“If you keep on at that, Rose, I’m not going to be able to hold on to myself—”
Rose shook her head with surprise, and ran her arms all up him, all up Nana, and lifting herself up his body, by some magical acrobatic feat, somehow lifted up Nana’s skirt as she came, and wriggled down the pouch, so out popped the gigantic rearing waving almost howling snake, red-hot to bursting. And supporting herself on his shoulders, while Wolf-Nana held her up by his hands cupping the smooth round little curves of her bottom, Rose sank on to the snake, absorbed it deep within her divine recesses, and so began to dance.
“Oh, Nana — how big — how big—”
Wolf pushed hard against and into her. He must think of other things. Not silk, not being danced upon. Not her wonderful enfolding vagina, that had him now as if it would never let him out. And not—decidedly not — about the white breasts rising up now from the neck of the dress, blinking their two adorable shy pink eyes at him, going in again, creeping up again, appearing, vanishing, and creeping up—
Think about the wood.
Think about the city.
Think about the stars.
But the wood is all thick and twinkling with white, half-naked young women, their breasts playing hide-and-seek, their naked bottoms filling the hands, and their legs wrapped tight around the waist where the corset is, and the silk, and the brassiere above, tweaking him innocently so two ravenous little stars ignite there, and Rose is throwing back her head, her neck is arched, her breasts rise like two moons, first with a faint flush, and then with her nipples all bare and upright, and he is going to, again — going to—
Think of the moon.
The moon is a breast.
Think of — think — of — the subway—
A tunnel, lined with wet eager velvet—clinging, surging—the train is—coming—
Think—
“Oh, Wolf—faster—”
He is on the couch — did they fall? — and she is on top of him, and he is thrusting and thrusting her home upon him, with his hands on her bottom, and her dress is just a red rope around her middle, and her breasts tickle his lips, and he is nuzzling them, and now she is gasping, and now giving a little sound nearly like the start of the first word of a sentence — Oh, come, Rose, come, oh, come into the garden, Maud — oh, Rose, Rose, come before it’s too late—
And then she comes.
She makes a noise like laughter, and she shudders all over, again and again, and he sees her, shuddering, laughing in ecstasy, her breasts and her hair, and he rushes her body up and down the length of him, and tingles and rills and impossible yawns of unbelievable pleasure tumble up his spine and across his blood and through his penis, until he detonates, in what must be the fireworks display of the century, but, alas, all invisible inside her.
In the early morning light, punctual as a clock, after her six or seven hours, Ryder wakes up and joins Rose and Wolf-Nana, and they shower together and eat a small but healthy — and nourishing — breakfast, and go back to bed, which is Ryder’s bed, all lambent with her scent and the size of Central Park. And here the two women praise all Wolf-Nana’s virtues, which are many, and play games all over him, until in the end, in a knot of limbs and hair and laughs and shudders and spasms and shrieks, they are coming together, and coming apart, and coming and coming and coming.
And perhaps, being so well-suited as they are, at the top of that cliff in the city wood, they will live happily ever after.
Ashes on Her Lips
Edward Bryant
HERE IS WHAT HAPPENED so many times later on. Naked and sweaty, chest thick with curled dark hair, muscles taut and finely delineated, he whirled her across the bedroom. It was the season of heat, and this was an old, old dance. Nicky or Carl, Tad or Paulie, whatever his name was, the man was a late spring blossom of color and passion, testosterone and promise.
“Here,” Chiara said. “Right here.” She felt almost unable to speak. His superheated breath brushed aside the hair on the back of her neck.
“Not the bed?”
“Not yet,” she answered. “Soon. For now, right here.” She gripped the edge of the smooth cherrywood vanity with tight fingers, the tips already tempted to slide with sweat. She felt his arousal as hotly, tightly, vividly as she registered her own.
Then Chiara reminded herself to tell him what she truly wanted.
“Use the box,” she said, voice low, breath ragged. “Now. Like I told you.”
He reached past her right shoulder and opened the container. He clumsily extracted a substantial pinch of the iridescent gray powder inside and lifted it to her waiting mouth. Her lips and tongue took it smoothly off his hand.
Chiara turned sinuously, dropped to her knees facing him, and took a fair length of him into her mouth. She imagined she could feel him absorbing the heat of pliant lips, the insistent wrap of her tongue, the slickness and slightly abrasive texture as she anointed his hard penis with the mixture of saliva and grit.
On her feet again now, she turned back to the vanity, her eyes meeting his in the beveled mirror.
“Do it now,” she said. “No more waiting.”
Using strong fingers to spread her, he slid up high and taut inside.
“It feels—”
She ignored his words and flexed tight around him.
“You feel—”
She reached down with one burning hand and cupped his balls.
He finally found the word he apparently groped for. “—fine!” he said, slamming up against her. He hesitated for just an instant, resting, before sliding back into the aggressive, escalating rhythm she knew he would generate.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “Do it, baby. Just do it.”
He did — for as long as she wanted.
After a time they were both so slick with the heat, it was hard to stay inside her.
She found another way to squeeze, and that was enough to trigger the explosive pyre that consumed them both.
Later he said, as they all did, “When can I see you again?”
Chiara hated that question, because she already knew the answer.