“We are both exiles, awaiting the day of our release,” she murmured. “Take heart. This is a presage of things to come.”
Smiling, light-footed, she scampered across the lawns and into the woods, never looking back. Her shape was already indistinct, transformation initiated.
He turned and reentered the house. Echoes danced up the stairs as the door struck the jamb. The house was empty, save for him. As it had to be.
Tastings
Neil Gaiman
HE HAD A TATTOO on his upper arm, of a small heart, done in blue and red. Beneath it was a patch of pink skin, where a name had been erased. He was licking her left nipple, slowly. His right hand was caressing the back of her neck.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He looked up. “What do you mean?”
“You seem like you’re. I don’t know. Somewhere else,” she said. “Oh … that’s nice. That’s really nice.”
They were in a hotel suite. It was her suite. He knew who she was, had recognized her on sight, but had been warned not to use her name.
He moved his head up to look into her eyes, moved his hand down to her breast. They were both naked from the waist up. She had a silk skirt on, he wore blue jeans.
“Well?” she said.
He put his mouth against hers. Their lips touched. Her tongue flickered against his. She sighed, pulled back. “So what’s wrong? Don’t you like me?”
He grinned, reassuringly. “Like you? I think you’re wonderful,” he said. He hugged her, tightly. Then his hand cupped her left breast, and, slowly, squeezed it. She closed her eyes.
“Well, then,” she whispered, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. “It’s wonderful. You’re wonderful. You’re very beautiful.”
“My ex-husband used to say that I used my beauty,” she told him. She ran the back of her hand across the front of his jeans, up and down. He pushed against her, arching his back. “I suppose he was right.” She knew the name he had given her, but, certain that it was false, a name of convenience, would not call him by it.
He touched her cheek. Then he moved his mouth back to her nipple. This time, as he licked, he moved a hand down between her legs. The silk of her dress was soft against his hand, and he cupped his fingers against her pubis and slowly increased the pressure.
“Anyway, something’s wrong,” she said. “There’s something going on in that pretty head of yours. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
“It’s silly,” he said. “And I’m not here for me. I’m here for you.”
She undid the buttons of his jeans. He rolled over and slid them off, dropping them onto the floor by the bed. He wore thin scarlet underpants, and his erect penis pushed against the material.
While he took off his jeans, she removed her earrings; they were made of elaborately looped silver wires. She placed them carefully beside the bed.
He laughed, suddenly.
“What was that about?” she asked.
“Just a memory. Strip poker,” he said. “When I was a kid, I don’t know, thirteen or fourteen, we used to play with the girls next door. They’d always load up with tchotchkes—necklaces, earrings, scarves, things like that. So when they’d lose, they’d take off one earring or whatever. Ten minutes in, we’d be nude and embarrassed, and they’d still be fully dressed.”
“So why’d you play with them?”
“Hope,” he said. He reached beneath her dress, began to massage her labia through her white cotton panties. “Hope that maybe we’d get a glimpse of something. Anything.”
“And did you?”
He pulled his hand away, rolled on top of her. They kissed. They pushed as they kissed, gently, crotch to crotch. Her hands squeezed the cheeks of his ass. He shook his head. “No. But you can always dream.”
“So. What’s silly? And why wouldn’t I understand?”
“Because it’s dumb. Because … I don’t know what you’re thinking.”
She pulled down his jockey shorts. Ran her forefinger along the side of his penis. “It’s really big. Natalie said it would be.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not the first person to tell you that it’s big.”
“No.”
She lowered her head, kissed his penis at the base, where the spring of golden hair brushed it, then she dribbled a little saliva onto it and ran her tongue slowly up its length. She pulled back after that, stared into his blue eyes with her brown ones.
“You don’t know what I’m thinking? What does that mean? Do you normally know what other people are thinking?”
He shook his head. “Well,” he said. “Not exactly.”
“Hold that thought,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
She got up, walked into the bathroom, closed the door behind her but did not lock it. There was the sound of urine splashing into a toilet bowl. It seemed to go on for a long time. The toilet was flushed; the sound of movement in the bathroom, a cupboard opening, closing; more movements.
She opened the door and came out. She was quite naked, now. She looked, for the first time, slightly self-conscious. He was sitting on the bed, also naked. His hair was blond, and cut very short. As she came close to him he reached out his hands, held her waist, pulled her close to him. His face was level with her navel. He licked it, then lowered his head to her crotch, pushed his tongue between her long labia, lapped and licked.
She began to breathe faster.
While he tongued her clitoris, he pushed a finger into her vagina. It was already wet, and the finger slid in easily.
He slid his other hand down her back to the curve of her ass, and let it remain there.
“So, do you always know what people are thinking?”
He pulled his head back, her juices on his mouth. “It’s a bit stupid. I mean, I don’t really want to talk about it. You’ll think I’m weird.”
She reached down, tipped his chin up, kissed him. She bit his lip, not too hard, pulled at it with her teeth.
“You are weird. But I like it when you talk. And I want to know what’s wrong, Mister Mind-Reader.”
She sat next to him on the bed. “You have terrific breasts,” he told her. “Really lovely.”
She made a moue. “They’re not as good as they used to be. And don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not changing the subject.” He lay back on the bed. “I can’t really read minds. But I sort of can. When I’m in bed with someone. I know what makes them tick.”
She climbed on top of him, sat on his stomach. “You’re kidding.”
“No.”
He fingered her clitoris gently. She squirmed. “Nice.” She moved back six inches. Now she was sitting on his penis, pushed flat between them. She moved on it.
“I know … I usually … do you know how hard it is to concentrate with you doing that?”
“Talk,” she said. “Talk to me.”
“Put it in you.”
She reached down one hand, held his penis. She lifted herself up slightly, squatted down on his penis, feeding the head inside her. He arched his back, pushed up into her. She closed her eyes, then opened them and stared at him. “Well?”
“It’s just that when I’m fucking, or even in the time before fucking, well … I know things. Things I honestly don’t know — or can’t know. Things I don’t want to know even. Abuse. Abortions. Madness. Incest. Whether they’re secret sadists or stealing from their bosses.”
“For example?”
He was all the way in her now, thrusting slowly in and out. Her hands were resting on his shoulders. She leaned down, kissed him on the lips.