PALE STONE CATS
Paragraphs for Grownups
by Mark Aster
The throng of stone cats covers every surface of the workshop not otherwise occupied. Pushed-aside cats cluster in drifts beside books, tools, chunks of stone from which the cats are yet to be released.
One shape catches her eye; she picks it up without thinking, turns it in her hand. It is smooth like all the others, but it seems to be a human figure, sitting with its head bent, nude but of indeterminate sex, young but not a child, face hidden by its hair. She runs her thumb along the small limbs, the arch of the back.
"This is lovely," she says.
"So you do do things besides cats."
The artist frowns. "I do?"
On her knees, naked, she pushes her hands over and over into the buckets of melting crushed ice, and slaps the chilly slush against my sides, my chest, my neck. My bonds are dripping, my shirt is soaked through, my shorts (thin cotton, a tasteful pattern in beige) crusted with frost. I can barely contain the shivers.
Soon the bell will ring, the cats outside will howl in unison as only cats can howl, and she will rise and press her hungry body, her red-nippled breasts, her smooth feverish thighs, against me, and she will roll her eyes and moan, and her burning tongue will be in my mouth.
Now she looks up at me, ice in her hands, and opens her mouth wide. Her tongue is a red lion devoured in fire.
I cannot yet eat my banana
because someone might still call.
The girl on the sign is Nordic, red-cheeked, very blonde, very buxom. Her smile, red and only slightly faded, says that she enjoys sitting there on her heels forever in her shorts and halter, watching the semis go by.
Pat has slowed down onto the shoulder. "Here?" she asks.
Julie, slumped down on the passenger seat with her feet up on the dashboard (sweet pink-polished toenails asking to be sucked) stirs out of a half doze and looks at the sign.
"Oh, definitely here."
Her voice, light and sweet and liquid, drifts in at the window to where I'm lying here half-awake in the shrill morning light, and I stop breathing to hear it better.
What would I give to be the girlfriend she's talking to, down there on the sidewalk? What would I give to be her PDA, slipped unthinking into her pocket, nestled by that smooth unselfconscious hip?
She doesn't know how perfect she is. If I told her, if I told her I worship her voice, if I said "please, take off your clothes, let me bathe you, let me clean the sweat from your skin, your precious unique skin" she would smile, I hope she would smile, but she wouldn't understand.
Oh, say more things, radiant girl. The sound is my breakfast.
"God, isn't that sour?"
"It's not so bad. Once you get used to it." To get your attention, I would eat nails.
"I could never."
But you're sitting on the arm of my chair, I say to her in my head. You're wearing a shirt with stripes and buttons. You do that thing where a strand of hair falls over your eyes, and you loop it around your ear. You smell, oh you smell of paradise; I can tell even over this lemon in my hand.
Some day, might I touch you?
take the bit
in your teeth
Tony knew that you can't go around fucking professors, and in fact Professor Curtis was saying just about that same thing when it started happening. They had been together in her house for a couple of hours, because Professor Curtis was faculty advisor to the SG, and Tony was somehow Treasurer of the SG, and it had turned out to be more interesting than it sounded because outside of the classroom Professor Curtis was really kind of fun to be around, and in a short skirt she was really pretty hot, for a professor.
So when on the way to the door as he was leaving she had turned and accidentally knocked a stone cat off of a low shelf, and bent over from the waist to pick it up, Tony's hand sort of accidentally touched her skirt where it covered her rather hot ass, and might even have stayed there for a second longer than it should have, and when she straightened up again she looked very serious.
"Tony," she said, and her lipstick was shiny, "you're a very nice young man, but" and their faces were drifting closer together, "but you know there could never be anything," it didn't matter what she was saying, but he watched her mouth, because it was obvious what was going to happen, "anything between us." And then of course their mouths were pressed tightly together, her lips apart from the first touch, and her hands were on his shoulder and around the back of his head pulling him against her, and his palms were open on the back of her skirt, kneading her ass.
"Nothing physical between us," she said, her voice hissing, but she was untucking his shirt and her hands were under it stroking his stomach and his abs, so he kissed her again, his tongue deep in her mouth, and his hands worked her skirt up to her hips so he could stroke and squeeze the globes of her ass, which was indeed very hot.
Then she was on her knees with her eyes wide open, undoing his pants and pulling out his prick, which was young and wide and very hard, and closing her lips around it and sucking smoothly, lips tight, gentler and slower than Justine did it, the tip deep into the back of her throat and looking down at her head moving he wondered how many men she'd done this to. Then he pulled it out of her mouth and got down next to her and for a second, a long second he was there next to her, and she was looking into his eyes with her mouth open, wet and softly panting. She looked like she was waiting for him to say something or do something, but he just sat with his wet cock cooling, and then she moaned and closed her eyes and tipped over onto her back pulling her panties off, and he moved over her and they fucked hard and hot there on the floor. She screamed softly and clutched at his ass when she came, and that made him come in long hot streams down in her cunt.
And while they were wiping themselves and tucking themselves back in and standing up, she didn't say anything or really look him in the eyes again, and at the door he said, "So long," and she said "yeah".
He didn't see Professor Curtis that week, but at the end of the week when he was supposed to go to her house again for more SG business he said to himself "what the hell" and he went. At the door, she was in loose slacks and a flannel shirt, and she said "Tony, I'm glad you came," and he started to walk to the livingroom where he could see she'd laid out the folders and the budgets, but she was going down the side hallway, and he followed her, and in her bedroom she stripped off her pants and her shirt and she was naked underneath, and his prick was hard. She sat down on the messy unmade bed and opened her thighs.
So he lay on her naked spread-legged body, and he squeezed her tits and kissed her lips and fucked her again, fucked her for much longer this time, her thighs scissoring around his waist and the mouth of her cunt a tight ring up and down his prick. She came, and again that made him come, and he yelled and relaxed and fell onto her warm fragrant body and let himself fall asleep.
He woke up maybe an hour later with her hand warm and gentle on his prick, making him hard, and when she saw his eyes open she kissed his cheeks and his nipples, and he pushed her head down between his legs and pushed himself in between her lips. Before the feeling could get too much he took her under the arms and tossed her onto her back and put his tongue in her mouth and slid his prick for the third time into her slick professorial cunt, and before she started moaning and gasping she muttered something. Tweaking her nipples between his fingers and penetrating her with long steady strokes, he decided that she'd said "I must be out of my goddamned mind."
Which, in the circumstances, was about the sexiest fucking thing he'd ever heard in his life.
"[I]t is also true that in modern times the term "pornography" connotes mediocrity, commercialism, and certain strict rules of narration. Obscenity must be mated with banality because every kind of aesthetic enjoyment has to be entirely replaced by simple sexual stimuation which demands the traditional word for direct action upon the patient... Thus, in pornographic novels, action has to be limited to the copulation of clichés."
"I think we both need a little more space."
"What do you mean?"
"I just think we need to have a little distance between us. A little breathing room. It will do us good."
"So," she said, nodding, "I've engaged Tiffany here to sleep in the bed between us."
"Tiffany. You have to admit she's healthy. Her eyes, as you can see, are limpid pools. Her breasts are round as ripe melons, and her thighs smooth as alabaster. Her mouth is a dark flower, blooming in the night."
"It will be good for us. Really!"
"Oh all right. But only if she's naked."
A hot sticky day, waiting in line at the ATM, and a drop of sweat rolled down my back under my T-shirt. It left behind a sudden and really annoying itch, in one of those few really unreachable places. I twisted and hopped a bit trying to reach it anyway. No luck.
The nearest sharp building-corner was too far away from the line for me to inconspicuously sidle over to. What age is it where we stop being able to say to each other "wouldya save my spot for a minute?".
The woman behind me caught my eye. "Bad itch?"
"Heh, yeah. It's this heat."
"Here, let me."
Let me? Let her? Let her what? She nudged me on the shoulder so I was facing straight away from her, and her hands dove smooth as you please under my shirt. No timid little point-scratch.
Her nails were short and sharp, and she dragged them in three strokes down my back, down either side of my spine, over the shoulder blades. I could feel them scraping off the sweat. Up again, contact, down again.
The itchy place was obliterated instantly, but her hands, her fingers, kept moving; long painful luxurious scratches.
How could she do it? God, don't stop...
I'm dozing on my back on the bed when she comes in. I lift my head to look at her, and she smiles at me and starts taking off her clothes.
She pulls the sweater off over her head slowly, maybe lingering on purpose in the warm dark wooly place, to rest her eyes and breathe herself. The skirt comes off more quickly, the socks, the bra, the panties.
Naked, she walks over to the bed and lowers herself onto me, her legs on either side of me, her hips hovering over my stomach. I put my hands on the smooth slopes of her buttocks. Shimmying her shoulders, she hits me gently in the eyes with her nipples.
You must like cats.
I like carving them.
Are these soapstone?
Soapstone, limestone, alabaster...
Undimmed by human tears!
... marble, sodium carbamide --
Sodium carbamide? Really? Isn't that --
No, I just wanted to see if I had your attention.
Oh, you have my attention, all right.
What does it mean when your tongue does that?
At the end of the long dirt road, a mile from Route 8, in the dusty yard between the house and the sheds, Donna Sue Larkin is sitting on the back of one of Uncle Mick's trucks, on a pile of tarps and pads that's been lying there forever.
She's wearing cut-off jeans and a man's cotton shirt with the tails tied up above her stomach. Squinting against the sun, which is high and bright and hot, she's running her hands over her legs, humming "Happy Birthday".
When she finishes with her legs, raising each one up into the air and looking it over, running her fingers across her calves and thighs, considering a long shallow scratch on her left shin, she moves her hands up to her chest, looking down and pressing her breasts together in the shirt. Then she unties the tails, unbuttons the buttons, and lets it fall open. Her chest is paler than her legs or her stomach.
She puts her hands under her breasts and pushes them up and together, squeezes them gently, twists the nipples, very pink and now slightly stiff, between her thumbs and forefingers. She kicks her heels a few times against the tarps, and the metal of the truck makes a hollow metallic sound.
Donna Sue smiles and leans back, closing her eyes and letting the sun rage red through her eyelids, smoothing her palms over her breasts and squirming her bottom around on the pads to get more comfortable.
"Happy birthday, dear Donna Sue," she sings, "Happy birthday to me!"
It says here you won the Longest Tongue contest at the Almira Country Fair last year. Is that true?
Yes it is, ma'am.
Well, son, I have just one thing to ask you.
What's that, ma'am?
Do you eat pussy?
lick nipples belly button muscle sweat
The room smelled clean, disinfectant-clean. I took off my skirt and put it on the chair by the bed, next to my purse. I took off my T-shirt and my bra and sat down on the bed with my legs slightly apart. My body, in the mirror, looked too pale, I thought, too obvious. I put the T-shirt back on, slipped the bra under my skirt on the chair. Perfect.
A minute later he turned the key in the lock and came in. He looked at me, just the way I knew he'd look at me, and the butterflies started up seriously in my stomach. He went into the bathroom, without saying anything, and I heard him peeing. I leaned back on the bed, smiled at myself in the mirror and pushed my chest out. It's a good chest.
He came over to the bed quickly, his eyes hungry, and put his hands on me. I pressed against him. It felt good. His hands were very warm, and I could feel his fingers on my ribs.
I can see his prick in his pants. It looks big and hard. Do I want this?
I think I want this.
She was sitting on the bed when I came into the room. She'd taken off her skirt, and her round white thighs were slightly parted. Her pink panties matched her t-shirt; I could see the shapes of her large breasts under the cloth, her nipples pressing against the fabric. Before, on the dock, she'd been wearing a bra. She must have taken that off, too.
She smiled when I came in. I went into the bathroom. My cock got hard and hot as I pissed, thinking about her ass on the sheets. I had to stuff it back into my pants to zip up.
When I came back to the bedroom she was leaning back on her arms, her blonde hair hanging behind her and her chest pushed forward. I walked to the bed and stood over her, my legs between her knees. She smiled up at me. I reached down and put my hands over her tits, and kneaded them through the cloth. They were firm and round. She arched against my palms, pushing her flesh into my fingers.
Sit up now, open my pants back up, and run my cock over your face. I want to feel your lips around me. I want to fuck you.
The woman at table six, two eggs over easy and a side of bacon, is rubbing something between her fingers while she reads the Times. She puts it down beside her plate to open a packet of sugar, and Cindy (passing by on her way to the kitchen) sees that it's a little statue of a cat, light brown and shiny.
A few minutes later, at ease behind the counter, Cindy is watching the woman, watching her fingers rubbing the cat's back and its paws, watching as she brings her hand up to her face and rubs the cat's head against her lips, idly, still reading the paper, as though the statue were a tube of lipstick. The woman's lips are moderately full, pleasantly rounded.
When the woman slips the statue partly into her mouth, sucking it like a lollipop, just the end of the tail still between her fingers, her lips puckered around it, Cindy makes herself look away.
"It's nice to see them getting along so well."
"Yeah. Do you think they ever..."
"Well, I mean, they're adults, they live in..."
"It was just a thought."
"What's so terrible?"
Alex is thinking about Benjamin, about Benjamin leaning naked against the damp wall of the bathroom after his shower, about how Benjamin's skin feels under Alex's cheek. Skin, muscle, the roughness of a nipple under his tongue, gentle touches, arousal, release.
Across the car, sitting with her children pressed safely against her sides, Mrs. Feldman finds herself looking at the young man's hair, thinking how soft and fine it looks in the harsh light.
He walks past the elevators and into the hall, and she's standing there, just coming out the ladies' room. He smiles briefly and looks away, but she's still looking at him.
"What's the matter?" she says.
"You looked away." She's still standing there, in the doorway, with the door open. He tries not to look over her shoulder.
"Yes, you did." She smiles. "Come here."
He walks over to her and she takes his arm and before he realizes what's happening he's there in the ladies' room. He tries to shake off her grip on his arm, without using actual force.
"It's OK," she says, and she lets go of him, but now of course he can't leave. She leans against the counter. "There's no one else in here."
He swallows and looks around. The place is strange, nothing like the men's room. It's pastel, with little shelves holding unfamiliar devices, jade salt-and-pepper shakers, baskets, pale stone cats. The air smells strangely sweet; he thinks of tampons. Then he looks at her again, and her eyes are compelling. He steps across the tile floor to her, and her arms are around his neck and they are kissing; her lips open and she invites his tongue into her mouth. He feels her legs spread apart.
My God, he thinks. She wants to make love. Right here in the ladies' room!
We're not very adventurous tonight; Isabelle is on her back, brown and naked in the evening sun, with her legs spread and her head on a pillow and her mouth open. I'm at ease beside her, also naked, less brown, moving the medium-sized vibrator slowly around the mouth of her vagina, stroking it across her clit, sometimes leaning down to suck on her nipple or kiss her stomach, but mostly just lying here with my head supported by my other hand, admiring her as she moans.
For the first five years of her majority, the first eight months of our relationship, Isabelle thought she was frigid. No, not frigid: non-orgasmic. She liked sex, liked foreplay, got very excited by touching and kissing and licking, but never got to any final place. Then one day I came home unexpectedly in the morning, when I knew she'd be home, with a brand-new vibrator and a pair of soft handcuffs, and after twenty-five minutes (during which she alternately begged me to stop and absolutely demanded I continue) she came, in a sudden and apparently world-shattering orgasm, after which she slept for six hours and woke up exhausted.
I can't claim I somehow knew that was going to happen. I just saw the cuffs in a shop window and became instantly obsessed with applying them to her wrists, and applying myself to her body. The vibrator was almost an afterthought.
So now we have it down to a science. She can come every two or three days. She works out at the club four times a week, and her body is incredibly lovely, as I lie here easing the toy in and out between her thighs.
The sounds she makes are amazing; in any other woman, I think to myself, they would mean that orgasm was a few seconds off. But Isabelle...
Her moans and the bucking of her body, the feel of her flesh under my lips, are of course arousing me; my penis is hard between my legs and beginning to ache, though the rest of me is relaxed. In a few minutes, when I can stand it no longer, I will swing up over her and enter her, slide into the hot and by now fully-lubricated place between her legs, and seal my mouth against hers, and we will fuck as long as I can hold out.
If we've timed it just right, and we seldom do, she will have her long-awaited full-bore shattering orgasm about the time I have my smaller and more ordinary one, and we will collapse together into sleep. Otherwise I will lie between her legs and finish her off (what is the appeal of these strange ambiguous terms? "finish her off") with my tongue and my fingers and the vibrator.
But not quite yet. First I will admire her body more, her body that she has given over to me, to lose herself in whatever place she's in now, where she groans and gasps and bounces her ass up and down on the sheets as I do her with the little vibe. I kiss her long and hard on the mouth, my hand still moving between her legs, and then I reach over to the bedside table and take up a big spoonful of the half-melted icecream, and let it drop down onto the peak of one breast.
She screams, extra-loud, from the cold, and shakes her head wildly from side to side. I move the vibrator faster; my penis twitches. The cold dollop slides down her breast (down her tit) and just before it slips off onto the bed I swoop down and catch it in my mouth, sealing my lips against her skin and swallowing it down. Then I lick my way backwards up the trail to the sticky top of the mound, and take her nipple in my mouth and suck on it hard, pressing the vibrator firmly against her clit for just long enough.
Her screams are lovely.
Rick gave her one on her birthday, a smooth cool pale-grey kitten sitting as cats sit, looking slightly to its right. She took it out of the box and patted its head. Not what she'd expected.
"Thanks," she said, not wanting to sound surprised at how much she liked it.
"Well, you know, you like cats, and you can't, we can't..."
No pets allowed in the apartments.
Cradling it in her hands, looking for a good place for it to live.
"Thanks, I love it."
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