I reached a hand down between my legs, curious to see what he felt like. I missed the feeling of encountering the hairy globular testicle sacks, but I ran a finger around my stretched opening. This was no illusion; some one, something, was inside me, fucking me with a steady rhythm. I moved my hand, unsure of where to place it. There were no buttocks to grasp, no back to run my hand along, no balls to tease. I settled for grasping the mattress on either side of me, and let him fuck me.
He was steady and relentless, moving in a slow-building tempo. The sensation was initially unnerving; to have such one-dimensional sex was strange. The only sense was that of limited touch; there wasn't the weight of a body resting on mine nor the musky smell of male sweat in the air; the only scent was my own sharp arousal. There weren't the grunts and groans and creaks of lovemaking and there wasn't the visual stimulus of seeing a body lost in pleasure. No, it was more like masturbating with a vibrator except that I didn't have to do the work.
My analytical comparison shattered into a million fragments as his thrusts, firm and measured brought me sweetly to a climax. Through the blurring consciousness of orgasm, I was amazed. I never come from penetration alone. Sam's movements were faster, sliding easily in my wetness. His thrusts disintegrated into the jagged, fractured spurts of a man on the brink, then as I tightened around him, I felt the unmistakable feeling of wet, spreading warmth inside. I relaxed. He relaxed. I could feel him softening inside me and the slide of his spend, viscous and thick, trickled down onto the bed. Curiously I put a finger down to catch the liquid, but like the phallus it was an illusion.
"Sam." I spoke his name out loud. "You can come back any time."
His head was between my legs again, but I felt wrapped in the cocoon of his satisfaction.
I stayed in that apartment for seven years. Sam stayed with me for all that time. Even when I had a nearly-serious, nearly-permanent relationship with Richard, I always made sure I was home alone at least one night every week for Sam. Eventually Richard left me, but Sam stayed.
The eviction notice came as a shock. I knew that the run-down neighborhood was becoming trendy as real estate prices in Denver soared, but I hadn't expected anything to change that quickly. They were pulling down the old apartments and building modern condominiums. Luxury buildings, ridiculous prices.
That night, after Sam's loving had made me weak from more than sex, I told him. "Come with me," I said. "I don't know where I'm going yet, but please, come too."
There was no answer; there never was on the few occasions that I had addressed him directly, but I thought I detected a palpable sadness in the air. I knew then that Sam would never leave this space.
I live on the other side of Broadway now, in a sleek modern condominium that echoes with emptiness and loneliness, especially on the hot dry Denver nights that remind me most of Sam. His apartment has long gone, but I have studied the block that has risen in its place. Apartment 3C. That is his space. I never knew the exact boundaries of his realm, but apartment 3C contains the space that used to be the bedroom. In the five years since its construction, that apartment has come on the market six times.
I have the deposit now; the next time that apartment 3C is offered for sale, I will be ready.
I hope that Sam remembers me.
Chapter 9 — Clit Lit
After a lousy first year at college, I was forced to try to upgrade my marks over the summer. The thought of being confined to a stuffy classroom and a dusty library when I could be frolicking outside in the sun appealed to me about as much as a vaginal exam by Dr. Freeze. But I signed up for three courses, nonetheless. And of those, ‘Radical Writers of the 1930’s’, turned out to be twice as hot as the summer itself.
There were eleven of us in the class. We were given a reading list that included authors such as Henry Miller, Anais Nin, and Erskine Caldwell. The books were all available at the campus bookstore and online, but being cheap by circumstances rather than choice, I headed to the library instead. And just as I reached for ‘Women Involved’, by little-known author ‘InX’, another hand jumped up and snagged the book off the top shelf ahead of me.
“First come, first served!” Annabelle yelped.
I turned and looked at the girl. The short brunette with the voluptuous figure was one of my new classmates. A brilliant white smile split her pretty face, her brown eyes gleaming. “Okay,” I said. “You beat me to it. Now I’ll have to buy the darned book. Maybe not eat for awhile.”
I slumped my shoulders in a pathetic posture and started to lethargically drift away.
Annabelle caught my arm. “Hey, why don’t we share it? Like, both read it — to each other.”
It wasn’t the exact reaction I was going for, but book beggars can’t be eschewers. “Okay,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders.
Annabelle grinned and squeezed my arm. The girl was dressed in a dark top and white shorts, her shapely, olive-skinned arms and legs showing to full, shining advantage. Her large breasts pushed out the sleeveless top, her bouncy booty stretching the stitching on her shorts. Her dark hair cascaded in shimmering waves down her back.
I was wearing a thin yellow summer dress and leather sandals, my honey-blonde hair braided back in a ponytail, my slender, sunbrowned limbs popping goosebumps due to the AC flooding the library. Except where Annabelle’s hand gripped my bare arm — that patch of lucky skin was quite warm.
She knew a secluded spot in the library where we would have some privacy for our reading. It was up on the fourth floor, a couple of carrels tucked away behind a wall partition on an elevated mezzanine. We sat down next to each other and Annabelle started reading out loud.
She didn’t start at the beginning of the book, though. She started at the first explicit lesbian encounter in the book, reading the erotic passages in a hushed, husky voice, staring me in the widened green eyes. The girl was obviously very familiar with what to me was an unfamiliar work, intimate with the sections of the book that dwelt with and on female-female love and lust.
Her voice grew even thicker, sexier, as she read more of the sensuous lines. Her eyes hooded, looking into mine, searching mine, her lush lips glistening with the moisture of sensual spoken word. My face flushed crimson under my tan, my body heating up way past the point where any air-conditioning could cool it down. The girl gave great oration. She knew it, giving me the amazing oral, giving herself a hand — up her top and onto her bare breasts beneath.
“Mmm!” she murmured, the book fluttering in her right hand as her left moved around under her top, over her tits. “Doesn’t she just do something to you?”
By ‘she’, I think Annabelle meant the author. But ‘they’ were both doing something to me, the written words and the visual cues. I swallowed, hard, watching Annabelle’s hidden hand explore her large breasts, cupping, squeezing, caressing, fingers bulging silky material outward as they scaled a nipple and pinched and rolled. “Tit, er, it sure does,” I gulped.
Annabelle’s breathing got more ragged, the impassioned words more breathless. I licked my cracked lips with a wooden tongue and felt sweat bead my forehead and palms, moisture my pussy. My right leg was crossed over my left, and I kind of rubbed the pair together, generating some friction where it’s felt most.
I always knew reading could be exciting (from my own private bathroom and bedroom x-rated browsing), but I’d never known how much better it could be with two people. Until now. The intellectual stimulation was intense.
Annabelle reached the end of the chapter, then opened a new chapter — for me. “Here, Kathy, read this,” she husked, handing me the book. “Please, read to me!” She opened her legs up wide and plunged her right hand down into her shorts, onto her pussy.