The Taste of a Woman Page 14

  “Very well hero-woman. I saw that Toga Lady who kissed my lips. I’m kind of attracted to those succulent breasts of hers.”

  “Find her then, my lovely. I’ll just vegg here a bit.”

  Witchhead left. The room was quiet except for the tap, tap of the drops, larger and louder now. Amy thought about her shyness, then about her embarrassment when she was 11 and she already had breasts. How mean the girls were teasing her. Strange, she thought, I never realized that the boys didn’t tease me. Looking back, it seems they appreciated me. How long have I failed to realize that? The boys were my best friends and I didn’t even know.

  The wind picked up. The trees bent and swirled, rustling in the dark. Amy wondered if she would be changed by this experience. Probably not. She would be the same person tomorrow as she was yesterday.

  Amy felt her body start weaving slightly with the wind outside. A chill began along her side at the waist and rose to her spine and neck, causing her to take a deep breath.

  She sighed, let the chill rise higher. She felt the hair stand on end she felt pressure at her waist on either side, two thumbs massaging her hips. She startled. It wasn’t her imagination. There were two hands on her. She tried to turn but was held there. She turned her head and was met by a strong kiss from a masked man in a black hat. Zoro! Jesus, it was Zoro.

  She swooned but was held up. She leaned back into his arms as his mouth remained on hers, his hands slowly sliding around her belly, to the groove of her hipbones where they meet the abdomen, upward to the lower chest. She was breathing fast and deep. She could feel her breasts rising and falling quickly, arching into the rain chilled air. Would he go there? Would he touch her there? She felt herself wanting him to, wanting him to hurry up but not hurry up because the tension was so delicious.

  She was still held forward, her body facing away from him, her head turned into the prolonged kiss, her breasts now completely encompassed in his large hands, probing under the top of her bodice, fishing for the nipple, lifting from underneath to raise them out of their captivities. It was done. He had her naked on top, his hands all over.

  She was trapped. She felt his pelvis against her tight ass, pressing there. Instinctively she arched her back and pushed her buttock against him, raising her underside so that it touched his. He wedged himself there, shifting slightly side to side, pressing harder.

  Would he stop if she wanted him to?

  She could tell by the gentleness of hands over her body, the tentative pauses, the grasp and release, he would. Did she want him to stop? She could have turned away from his kiss, could have twisted out of his grasp, could have instructed him. Her first confession: she did not want him to stop. Her second: she had wanted him all night.

  One hand slid away from her breast down to the belly button where it probed her gently, down to her tight, high cut Bikini bottom. He pulled the crotch to one side. God. How wet she was. She could feel her wetness against his fingers as they slid forward and back over her lips, causing them to tingle and swell. One finger circled her entroitus, stimulating, probing, inserting slightly, flipping the G-spot forward and back.

  She was wild with passion. She could feel it surging inside her like a firestorm. She wanted to turn to face him but he wouldn’t let her. Instead, she felt something enter from between her legs. It paused at her opening, throbbing there, then pressed forward. She imagined she could feel every millimeter of penetration as he slowly pressed up inside her, her pelvis tilted backward to receive him, her breasts slathered in dollops of wetness his hands had brought there.

  He was deeper now, slowly so. How can he be so controlled? She wanted to let loose completely but he was not allowing it. The tension was unbearable.

  The rain was storming now. The noise form the windows was a roar. Were her Warping Powers at work, matching the elements with emotions?

  She groaned, and grunted, feeling herself expand to accommodate him. She rose to a peak of sensual extreme just as he thrusted her. Jesus! He buried himself. She could feel his pelvis against her butt now, parting her cheeks, reaching to get deeper into her. God. How deep would he go? How deep was she going to become in order to take him?

  He was moving faster now, in and out, his hands all over her body, her body willing captive to anything he wanted, his wanting so evident in the energy of his body tangled with hers.

  She bent over. He grabbed the side of her hips and punched in so hard she lurched forward onto the sofa in front of them. He trembled inside her, his body writhing and squirming, his breathing deep and rapid.

  They lay there. She felt herself contracting against him, the waves of delight rising through her pelvis to her spine where it caused her to lurch and whimper.

  He placed his hand on her face and kissed her cheek.

  She closed her eyes.

  She almost slept.

  He withdrew and was gone.

  Amy didn’t know how long she lay there. She roused briefly to the whirling sounds of the wind, the slapping sounds of rain against the house but slept again and dozed and dreamed of open meadows and sunlight and birdsong.

  Someone was at her shoulder in the meadow, tracing its curves with fingertips, fingertips.

  “You okay.”

  “Mmmm. Okay.”

  It was Juice shaking her shoulder gently now, finding her bra, helping her back together. Strapping it on, adjusting her within it, smoothing her hair.

  Amy sat up.

  Juice sat beside.

  They held hands a long time.

  Sunlight filtered onto the table by the window. Glassware tinkled. Conversation murmured. The feeling was different now that they were out of costume and drinking coffee at The Spring Source Coffee Shop. It was 10 a.m. and the girls had resurfaced, not willing to just go to sleep already, hours after the costumes were off, masks put aside. There was much to talk about. Or not.

  “Are we recovered,” Juice asked.

  “Recovery suggests injury,” said Amy. “I’m not sure there was one.”

  They stirred their coffees and felt themselves morphing into the college girl hologram, shimmering like a mirrored pond transitioning in the breeze.

  “Are you changed?”

  “Yes and no,” said Amy. “I feel just as shy as before. But maybe with this other part of me... which now is more like a Siamese Twin than a diminutive spirit inside me, the dwarf it was before.”

  Juice looked out the window at cars passing. Three teen-agers walked by, giggling, jumping around, animated by their tittering conversation.

  “We’re changing, I think,” said Juice, “ a little. But maybe just shifting into another part of ourselves.”

  Amy stroked her coffee cup, watched the steam rise filled with the fragrance we associate with life starting new each morning.

  She looked at Juice. “One thing for sure,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I’m keeping my mask.”

  Small Town

  This old town is caving in

  Too many preachers

  And preacher’s kids

  What you are is what you do

  And the Gospels are a-watchin’ you.

  Cecily leaned her guitar against the doorfacing of her trailer and reached down for her toke. She flipped the ash and took a drag and held it. Writing a new song was a bitch. Dangerous. How to tell the truth. How to avoid getting thumped by everybody who heard the truth as you saw it.

  She was thinking about Granger, the preacher’s kid, how she let him kiss her out behind the Boy Scout hut when they were kids. It’s the PK’s you have to watch out for. Always up to something. Then all that stuff when they were older. Never did love her, she thought. Just wanted to explore her body, use it like classroom for teen-age curiosities then cast it aside. Now he’s off to college down at Tuscaloosa State a
nd left without apology. Jerk. Too bad for him. Too bad he forgot she was a country singer song-writer. Too bad she can get him back any time she wants and he won’t even know the difference.

  She picked up her guitar again.

  You can’t know what you got

  Until it’s gettin’

  Hold a you.

  To late then to change the flavor,

  Sourgrass in my mouth.

  “Must be creating again.”

  A voice off to the side broke in to her concentration. That would be Burt, the drummer in her band, a little older than she, maybe by 6, 7 years, married once. Wife ran off with the body shop guy saying she didn’t like his drummin’ anyway and at least the new guy stayed home once and a while. Worst part. She took the little boy with her.

  Burt was a complex guy. Sad sometimes. Some of his ideas made it into her songs. She hadn’t quite thanked him yet.

  “Go away,” she said.

  “Whazamatter? Can’t concentrate with handsome around.”

  Burt was always flirting. She couldn’t tell if he meant it or it was just part of the universal repertoire of a drummer in a country band. In any case, she let it slide, thinking it might not be wise to mix it up with a member of her own band.

  “You are exactly of no use to me right now. I’m in the middle.”

  “Well, you’re the one,” he said, then stole her toke and slinked away.

  She put her mind back to the roots of her song. Wouldn’t Granger be surprised if this became a huge hit? She imagined him hearing it for the first time. Would he recognize himself? Would he love it? Would she?

  The First Methodist was two miles away from the trailer park. It was in the nicer part of town a long way away from the river and those who lived there. It was summer. They were 18, just graduated from High School with nothing to do but walk around town on hot days, trying to stir up a little breeze.

  He was at the town square, blue jeans and tee shirt, a flop of blond hair across his face, Lucky Strikes rolled up in his sleeve. Being a preacher’s kid didn’t slow him down none. Sped him up, maybe. He had cigarettes. He had guns. She remembered his kiss.

  She was coming out of Isom’s Ice Cream Delights and almost ran into him.

  “Didn’t see you comin’,” he said.

  “I’m invisible,” she said.

  He looked her over, girlish face, wild ringlets, small mouth with a slight overbite, freckles, fresh young breasts pressing against her blouse, perfect legs below short, really short cutoffs. Sandals.

  “Not invisible,” he said. “I see ya.”

  She laughed. “I can tell.”

  He leaned against the side of the building, just under the shade of the awning. Lit a cigarette. Offered. She refused.

  “I was about to get some target practice,” he said.

  “Whatsamatter. Can’t hit the side of a barn?”

  He looked at her cockeyed. “I’m good. Real good. I’ll show ya.”

  The church was three blocks away. Parsonage next door.

  She followed him, watching him walk from behind, his jeans sliding down over the crest of his hips as they shuffled side to side, his shoulders rocking, spine twisting. He didn’t speak, just moved forward like he had planned this since Christmas.

  “Come on in. Nobody’s home,” he said.

  She thought to ask but decided not. The preacher and his wife were always away at church functions, or visiting someone in the hospital. Funny how so much religion flying around this preacher’s kid seemed to have no effect whatsoever. Granger was always the sassy one in class, always the first to buy illegal firecrackers around Christmas and blow up somebody’s mailbox. He smoked. He collected guns, deer rifles with names like Winchester, Browning, Thirty-Aught-Six.

  He was leading her upstairs. The house was darker than the brilliant summer sun stomping down outside it, cooler too, as if there might be a pile of iceblocks hidden away in the basement. He took her hand.

  In his room, leaning against the wall, was his collection of guns. They looked ominous and masculine standing there all lined up like that. She looked around the room: unmade bed, Notre Dame Football pendant, poster of James Dean. Whoa! What was that next to the poster?

  Granger was sorting through his guns for the choice he wanted. A pellet gun. Something for in-town shooting. Cecily walked up to the collection of colors and shapes on the wall. At the bottom was a June calendar. Up top was a picture of a woman, probably 25 years old, lying beside a swimming pool, her Bikini bathing suit spread over the large beach towel she was lying on. She was next to her bathing suit. No clothes on.

  “How do you, the preacher’s son, get to have a Playboy Calendar?”

  “’Cause I want it.”

  “Didn’t your mother say no.”

  “She did.”

  “You did it anyway.”

  “She took it down and threw it away. Twice. I just went to Kretchy’s News Stand and bought another one.”

  “And put it back up?”

  “And put it back up.”

  “She let you do it?”

  “She didn’t have a choice.”

  Cecily found herself curiously transfixed. She looked at the beautiful face, the curly blond hair streaming down, the sunglasses, the tilt of her shoulders, the round succulent breasts fully exposed. How did this good-looking woman feel showing herself like that? Cecily believed that she herself, looking at her, could feel the emotions streaming from this playmate: a sense of pride, maybe, a sense of generosity giving herself this way, maybe even a thrill creeping up her spine as she imagined thousands, maybe millions of men staring at her through her picture frame. Did she see their faces peering into her centerfold? Did she feel their arousal as they imagined themselves touching her, playing with her...

  “I see you find Miss June fetching.”

  Cecily blushed but couldn’t turn away.

  Granger saw her heating up. He reached up and with one finger stroked the hair of the model. “She likes it,” he said. “I’m pretty sure she’s purring about now.”

  He looked at Cecily and saw a little moisture collecting at the corner of her mouth.

  “Try it yourself,” he said. He took her hand, pointed one finger and made her stroke the model’s hair. Cecily took in a short breath. He directed her hand over and over along the margin of her hair, then lightly touching her lips, her cheek, down the curve of her neck.

  She drew her hand away,

  “Chicken,” he said.

  “Am not.”

  “Then show your courage, girl.”

  Determined not to be a wuss in front of Granger she lifted her finger to the model once more, without Granger this time, raising it to her shoulder, down her upper arm then... then, hesitating a moment, across to her breast.

  “You like that, I see.”

  Cecily said nothing but did not withdraw her hand nor stop the circular motion she was making around first one breast then the other.

  He watched her for a moment, feeling a rise in his loins. The wetness at the corner of her mouth became a drop which she licked away. “Real ones feel better,” he said and took her other hand and placed it on her own breast and held it there, massaging her through her hand.

  When she didn’t faint or turn away, his hand left hers for the other breast, holding it, rubbing it. At first she clamped her arm tight against him as if to resist but soon she relaxed. He slipped under her bra.

  Her head fell to his shoulder. He pulled her to him. She collapsed and he moved her to the bed. Mixed with what felt like arousal was now something quite different. It was fear. She was afraid, yet knew she wanted nothing more but what was to come.

  His hands were all over her, under her bra down between her breasts, lifting her blouse to expose her
tummy, riding the arc of her thighs where they joined with the heat of the body. She was losing herself and glad to be doing it.

  “Have you seen a hard on? He said.

  She didn’t answer.

  He took her hand and placed it between his legs. She gasped but didn’t turn loose, feeling his hardness under his jeans.

  He reached down and unbuttoned himself, thrusting her hand in the gap in his boxers, wrapping her fingers around him.

  He returned to his task undressing her, slowly, her grip on his dick firmly in place. He removed her blouse. He watched her breasts rise over the lip of her bra as she in breathed deeply. He lifted her shoulder and reached around to unclasp her. He fumbled. Neither minded the extra time it took.

  He got it! He slipped the brastraps down her shoulders and lifted it from her. She was far better than the Playmate on his wall, he thought. Not only was she real flesh and blood she was perfect, small, pointy breasts, nipples the pink of the young girl, small, rosey and inviting.

  He licked one. It erected, immediately. She giggled, then put a serious look on her face. “Well, try the other one. It’s lonely.”

  He plunged the other breast deep in his mouth. She arched against him, reaching her hand to the outside of her breast and pushing it deeper into his sucking. Her head went light and woozy, the room seemed hazy. She was still holing on to him.

  He pulled her shorts and panties down. A sense of freedom washed over her as she turned and twisted her naked body in the bed, long past the restrictions of clothing, of the town folk and their laws of behavior, of religion. His hand went between her legs, rubbing her. She felt her pelvis automatically push and flare under his advances.

  “Okay,’ he said. “Now you get to undress me.”

  He stood on his knees on the bed, and with her hand still on his rigid cock, she pulled his tee over his head, shoved his beltline down to his knees then using his unit as a handle threw him on the bed, finishing the job of pulling off his pants.

  Now she had him, she thought. Or did he have her?