I woke up with a start; I had to pee. Had it been hours or minutes? The streetlight poured in through Stan’s bamboo blinds. I could see a blue clock in the corner that Ambrose had donated to our new branch organizer’s furnishings. 3 a.m. It’d been twelve hours since we were in the parking lot.
Stan’s apartment was two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. One bedroom was the production room, with the mimeo, ditto machines, and paper supply. I crept into the bathroom next to it, the tile floor cold under my feet. Stan’s shirt barely covered my ass; everything in the bathroom was icy. I thought about my warm waterbed back at my dad’s house, and my fluffy cat Pooki making her nest in the middle of my quilts.
Stan appeared at the doorway.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to wake you up,” I whispered, from the toilet.
“I’m not asleep,” he said, “You say ‘sorry’ too much. I’ve been awake the whole time.”
“Why?” I said, not whispering anymore. I grabbed one of his white duck hand-towels and wiped my face, getting a glimpse in the medicine cabinet mirror.
He stepped behind me and looked into my reflection. He must have been over six feet tall. Blue eyes, drooping lids. He braced his arms on the sink’s edge, so I was caught in the middle between the fixture and his chest. If I moved one inch I’d be in his arms.
He spoke to me in the looking glass. “You’re driving me crazy, you know that, don’t you.”
He said it, he didn’t ask. But I still shook my head. I couldn’t breathe.
“Yes, you are, the way you walk around this place, the way you smell…”
I could smell myself too; I could smell him, like gunpowder and Mr. Daniel’s—but I couldn’t speak. My legs shook a little, my knees still stinging from where the flesh had been scraped off in the parking lot. Stan felt me shiver too. He put his long hands on my shoulders and turned me around to face him so my bottom was pressed against the sink.
“You know what you’re doing to me?” he repeated. He got down on his knees in one motion, parted the shirttail of the chamois I was wearing, and pressed his face right into my pussy. I grabbed the sink to stop from falling over. He steadied my thighs with his hands. His fingers were like soft sandpaper. My cunt was on his mouth, like a ball sunk into a mitt.
I’d had guys eat me out before. It’d always been an event, an antic. The Olympics of Teenage Fumbling. I wondered if they liked it or if they were just going through the motions.
But Stan wasn’t like that. He was crazy; it was like he had to get inside me—he had to get his entire head in me. He was going to cannibalize me from the cunt out, put his cock in my pot and stir it until I screamed. The only way to relieve his ache was to stake me right through my cunt and take us both right down the rabbit hole. I could feel myself getting bigger and smaller every second.
“He’s a great fuck…” Wasn’t that Temma’s advertisement when Stan first arrived in town? Who was she talking about? Not this man. Not where he was driving me now. This was the roller coaster no child had ever lived through. I gasped from holding my breath for so long.
Baby. Fuck me.
I couldn’t speak, but he heard me. His tongue was stroking my clit and it was all I could hang on to. My legs were shaking bad and I doubled over like Raggedy Ann. Stan stood all the way up and lifted me one more time—this man was never going to let my feet touch the floor again.
I hopped onto his waist, hugging my legs and arms around him. He sank me onto his hard prick, like the last piece of a puzzle. My head dropped back. He squeezed my ass to lift me just an inch off his cock, and I whimpered. Don’t make me wait.
He was going to make me.
“I’m going to make sweet belly love to your pussy ’til you come for me,” he said, carrying me across the floor to his bed. His sheets were blue jersey; an Economist lay half-read on the floor. I bit into his shoulder, and he drove himself into me to the hilt.
Who was this man; what was this fucking? Robin, Temma—none of them looked desperate when they said his name. Their bellies didn’t tremble like mine.
Baby. Susie. Come on my cock. He called my name over and over.
I’d come for him; I arched my back as if to break it. My cunt begged him. He said, “You’re taking me down,” like my pussy had the ammunition, but how did I ever make him turn me into his fuck doll, his mewling cat, his baby?
The head of his cock came out and teased me one more time. I cracked before he could even bury me for a final stroke. I pulled all his weight onto me, and he shuddered while I milked his cock. The tables turn, don’t they. Kittens become cats. I felt ageless—he was my boy, a very big boy falling apart in my arms.
♦◊♦
“Are you okay?” I guessed that was his big question.
Yeah, I was. I cried harder letting him pull out of me than when I’d hidden under his basketball sweats in the Valiant. Daylight was breaking. He got up to get me another whiskey and a ginger ale. I asked him if I could roll a joint, and he tossed me a Baggie from under some Emma Goldman autobiographies on the floor.
“What are you reading her for?” I asked, licking the Zigzag.
“I’ve been reading Emma since I was a draft dodger.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. How’d you do it?”
“I wore a dress.”
“Like Phil Ochs?” I threw the sheets off. “Or like a Teamster girlfriend singing the ‘Draft Dodger Rag’?”
“How can you be old enough to know that song?” he said.
“I’m not.”
I started it, and he caught up to me on the second line:
“Yes, I’m only eighteen, I got a ruptured spleen…”
“And I always carry a purse.”
I reached out for him with my scabbed-up hand. “I’m not eighteen, but I know a lot of things,” I said. “You underestimated me—well—I guess I thought you were an asshole, too.”
“Yeah, you got that right,” Stan said, and took a drag on the Thai stick. “How old are you?” He exhaled. “No, don’t tell me.”
I wouldn’t. I couldn’t stand to lie apart from him. I was an infant; I wanted him to cradle me and never let my toes touch the ground.
“How can I leave next week and go off to Detroit without you?—shit!” I said. I straddled his lap and blew a smoke ring. His blue eyes landed right in the center of my target. His cock grew hard again underneath me.
Everyone, everyone but Stan and a couple others, was heading to rural Michigan for “cadre training.” This was the first moment I hadn’t craved to go away. I never wanted another day to break.
“You’re going to be fine,” he said. “You gotta go,” he said, taking the doobie from me. “There’s not a man alive who’s not an asshole—that’s all you need to know—but you’re gonna be okay.” His hard-on started to soften.
Why’d he have to go and say that? Fuck, Stan. Didn’t he get it? I would tell him I loved him right then, but I knew that wasn’t cool.
Instead, I moved his hand between my legs again, and the wetness shut him up. Feel how I feel. I leaned down to take his mouth in mine and make all the nonsense stop.
[ 1 | 2 ]
—Photo possible248/Flickr
OMG I love this story. It’s got so much, it’s heavy with lust and general, gritty awesomeness. I want to eat it. Great work
Outstanding story! Cheers
Hah. The “open copy of the [i]Economist[/i]” spoiled the mood.