PARTIALLY STABLE CARBAMIDES
Paragraphs for Grownups
by Mark Aster
She's drinking orange juice, from a big plastic cup. She has her head back, and she's drinking in long slow gulps, without coming up for air. She's wearing a loose demin shirt, my shirt in fact. The muscles in her neck move, pulse almost, with her swallowing.
I want to nibble on those ridges in her neck, kiss the smoothly rolling muscles, follow her throat down to where her chest vanishes under her shirt, my shirt, unbutton it and slide it back and down her shoulders.
But she has a cold. She says I shouldn't kiss her, or I'll get it too.
"Nothing tastes as good as orange juice when you have a cold."
"They're fucking, aren't they?" Pat whispered in my ear, her head still cradled against my chest. I touched her neck. "Do you want to be inside me?" I kissed her again. Her lips were soft and full and receptive, and my cock was awake and swelling in my pants. But Pat had torn slightly when the twins came, and I was afraid that even as sleepy and slow as I felt, I might hurt her.
Julie began to rock up and down over Jake's lap, his long wide cock sliding familiarly in and out between her strong young thighs. Her mouth opened and her eyes widened; the glowing square of the screen reflected perfectly in her deep quiet eyes. She moved slowly for a long time, her breath gradually becoming louder, Jake's body beginning to tense, his head rolling from side to side as her pussy caressed his cock. Pat put out her tongue and gently licked my lips.
In the quiet light,
Invisible, I go from room to room, planting my devices and caressing the smooth cheeks of the sleepers, the bathers, the woman coating her breasts with oil, the man standing before the mirror tensing in turn every taut golden muscle.
If I make a sound, they may hear me. If I stand too long in one place, someone may see my shadow. The child in the red silk robes is lying in the corridor, in my path, playing with a ball and two glass mice. Shall I step carefully over her, or stand here and wait for her to move?
From beyond the door to my right, soft sounds of ecstasy. The child turns and looks up, directly at my face. But she cannot have seen me. Her eyes are deep and wise.
The door opens.
She's lying on her stomach on the bed, sound asleep, naked, the sheet across her back, one leg hanging off the matress, the clock on the floor, the shades down against the relentless sun.
The cat is on the bed next to her, sniffing at the sheets. It reaches out with its rough pink tongue and begins to lick at the outside of her thigh.
The room is very hot. The fan is lying on the dresser, on its side, switched off.
I'll be home any minute.
Yeah, well at the beginning I just sat down one night and started to write down the first thing, the first intense sex fantasy, that sprang to mind.
That was "The younger of the Allen sisters..."?
Yeah, my very first adventure with Pat and Julie.
Then came "French Kiss"...
...and "Julie Bound".
Our first little taste of bondage and teasing. It was still all fiction at that point, of course. But, God, just the idea of fucking those sweet horny women...
And when did you discover that you'd actually made contact with a conspiracy of bisexual nymphomaniacs from another dimension?
In the silence of the lab, he takes off the white coat, takes off the shirt, the pants, the shorts, sits naked on the cold stool and touches the samples on the table, touches the cold spheres, the shiny chilly cylinders. He tastes his fingers; his tongue finds the sharp tang of metal. He holds one stiff copper rod in his hand, rubs it down between his thighs until it's warm, feels it pressing the hairs against his skin, rubs it against himself slowly slowly until he comes, the hot white flowing out of him and splashing on the ground, sliding off the untouched metal.
In the silence of the lab, she takes off the white coat, takes off the sweater, the bra, the skirt and panties, piles them on the desk, sits naked on the cold stool and touches the samples on the table. She rubs a hard copper rod across her chest, over her breasts and across her nipples until they stand stiff and she feels the melting inside herself. She takes two bright steel balls and opens herself, rubs them in the moist pink until they are warm and she is hot, slides them slowly one at a time into herself, feeling each one stretch her and fill her, knocking together inside her, and with the perfect metal held inside she touches herself, her head back and her hair pooling on the table, her fingers touching hot flesh and dipping in to stroke the smooth metal and her muscles tense around the hard knobs and she comes, legs apart and gasping in the quiet room.
The woman I told you about, that I keep seeing in the cafeteria? That I don't have the nerve to talk to? With the reddish-brown hair, the blue eyes, the smooth pale skin with freckles across her nose? The woman that sat at the same table as me at the seminar in March, and I didn't hear a word they were saying because I didn't want to stare at her shoulders and her sweater and the way her hips curved in her jeans, and how she slipped her shoes off and crossed her ankles under her thighs on the chair?
and she's pregnant?
... and my God she's so beautiful!
I'll take one of those, and one of those.
Mmmm, and one of those, and maybe a couple of those.
The big ones.
And one of those silken flowing things, with the abstruse semantics.
Oh, and some sex toys, please.
For the long golden afternoons.
I love you.
For the first few minutes of the drive, they sit an inch or two apart in the back seat, just holding hands. But they move closer together after the tolls, and by the entrance ramp to the Interstate they're locked in each other's arms, mouths pressed hungrily together, hands groping, breathing heavy.
Her knees begin to part at exit six. By exit twelve her skirt is bunched up around her waist, and his fingers are stroking her thighs and pushing at the edges of her panty. He kisses her eyes, and she moans, and presses against him, and whispers "oh, oh, oh!".
In the driver's seat, Cindy rolls her eyes and grins over at Theo as the sounds from the back escalate toward orgasm. He smiles back at her and puts his hand on her leg, just above the knee. When she takes her foot off the gas for the curve at exit sixteen, he can feel the muscles move under her skin.
Teresa is sitting in the clean hospital lounge, waiting for Rick to come out of Sammy's room. Waiting for Belle to stop talking.
Sammy ran his truck into an overpass yesterday, and has a broken rib, lacerations, and a possible concussion. Under the bandages, his skin is torn; inside his skin, things are wrenched or bruised. Belle is acting cheerful, really bubbly, about the whole thing.
"Are you and Rick doing well, dear?"
Belle, Teresa thinks, is not really a friendly person. Teresa squints and imagines her scowling, eyes angry, hands on her hips. Much more natural.
Ooh, the music is so loud!
I'm lying on the floor. She's tossed her sweater to the ground, and it's lying across my shoulder and my neck. I could move, or I could move it, but it's easier just to lie here.
She and Sammy are fucking again on the bed. She's still wearing her bra and her skirt, straddling him and bending down toward him while they do it, rubbing the cotton cups of her bra against his face and making her gasping noises, her mewing noises, her "fuck me harder Sammy you bastard" noises, and he's rubbing his hands up and down her legs and sometimes squeezing her tits.
Now she's holding his face and throwing her head back. I think she's coming.
Her sweater smells like smoke.
Sit up straight!
Sit up -- oh, God -- up STRAIGHT!
Sit -- AH!
Just like that!
Oh, straight! Straight, straight, straight!
Sit up straight!
Sit up -- oh, God -- up STRAIGHT!
Sit -- AH!
Just like that!
Oh, straight! Straight, straight, straight!
We spent that long autumn and winter in the house by the shore. Most days, she wore corduroy pants, a cotton camisole, a man's dress shirt over that, and a heavy wool sweater on top. She left the shirt unbuttoned and untucked, and the tails came out from under the sweater and flapped around the tops of her legs.
She showered twice a day, morning and evening.
Even now, all these years later, when I see the tails of a dress shirt flapping I think of the clean soapy taste of her skin.
I've only every made love to one woman, to one person, and I expect to be with her for the rest of my life.
Still, I do sometimes wonder how other women taste, you know? What they say in bed. How their lips feel. What it's like to, well to fuck them silly! I look at the women in the grocery, and in the health club, and sometimes I look at their breasts and wonder what it would be like to rest my head on their chests, or to suck their nipples. To spread their legs apart and fit my hips in between. I can get hard just waiting in line at the deli, that way.
Lately I've been thinking about men, too. Just out of curiosity. I guess I'm secure enough in my identity that it doesn't bother me to think about touching another man's penis, or having a man's mouth around my cock. The idea of kissing a man's lips doesn't really appeal to me. I do like smooth skin over male muscle, though, and some male bottoms are appealing. Not the hairy ones, though.
I can't really imagine, I guess, what it'd be like to make love to a man.
Is the lady of the house in? Is she hungry for love? Is she in the shower?
If she is in the shower, I could go quickly up the stairs, not bothering anyone, and I could go into the bathroom and close the door, and naked I could get into the shower with her, under the warm water beside her pale fleshy body, and while I imagine she would be somewhat startled at first, I would reassure her, tell her that she is not at all fat, that her breasts are still wonderfully round, that her nipples are as succulent as ever, that her neck is firm and elegant, that standing there over her with my palms on her breasts and my body pressing against her, my mouth open on hers, that life is still ready to open out before her, to spread her thighs and whisper to her of Heaven, to finally tell her the secret she almost heard that August so long ago, before the marriage, the children, the little lines at the corners of the eyes. On the floor of the shower, engulfed in bliss, she moans under my hands, and I love her helplessly.
His head on Benjamin's broad muscle-soft chest, Alex cries. It is warm under the sheet, warm with the comfortable scent of their bodies.
"I only wanted to be kind," Alex says, pressing his damp pale cheek against the smooth brown skin.
"I know, Baby, I know." Benjamin's big hand gently strokes his hair. How ordinary, he thinks; how ordinary and how very beautiful.
He knew it was a mistake as soon as he finished the sentence. Her eyes opened wider, and she turned on the barstool, swivelling her incredible body around to face him.
She was amazing, even better than his first impression. Her eyes were sharp and challenging, her hair like a cloud of copper, the bare upper slopes of her breasts tan and firm and smooth in the push-up bra. Her skirt was very short, and her legs spread slightly apart; he didn't dare look down at her thighs.
"That's got to be the dumbest pickup line I've ever heard," she said, her voice like honey. She sucked at her full lower lip for a moment, holding him immobile with her eyes and the smell of her perfume. Then she smiled. "You want to go into the back room and fuck?"
They are standing, Teresa and Mary, side by side in the kitchen. Not meeting each other's eyes. Not talking.
Teresa is holding a napkin in one hand, down by her side, forgotten. Mary is still holding the letter, although neither of them are looking at it anymore, and Mary's hand, very slowly, is closing around it. It may be starting, just slightly, to crumple.
Mary's eyes are wet. Teresa shakes her head slightly, side to side; she is smiling, a tiny unreadable smile that could mean anyting.
In the bedroom, Rick is asleep on the bed, face-down, in his underwear. He is snoring gently.
The sky is grey and the wind is still. The letter carrier goes from house to house, from lobby to lobby, her bag over her shoulder, her hair in a bun, humming to herself and thinking of nothing.
The man with the grey fedora has turned out to be something of a disappointment. All he really wants to talk about is sports, and he has no deep insights to offer even there. He assumed she would undress herself. He paid decent homage to her breasts, her belly, her thighs, but now that he is on top of her, his thick penis buried in her, he is showing little reverence and no imagination. He thrusts mechanically, his eyes closed and his face turned away, and her attempts to vary the tempo of their fucking along more interesting lines, with gentle circles of her hips, have been ignored.
She smiles to herself and relaxes, enjoying in a vague and sleepy way the feel of his bottom under her hands and the rhythmic thrust of his flesh between her legs. She hopes he'll come before she starts to chafe, and she tries again to remember the syntax for the referrer tag in PHP3.
Midori stands at her easel, in a green silk top that gracefully outlines her torso and loose flannel shorts that reach almost to her knees. She is sketching Julie, who lies naked on the divan across the room with her eyes closed.
Julie's skin, a pale pink to Midori's warm golden-brown, is lightly goose-bumped from the cool air. Her chest, her small round breasts, move evenly up and down. She may be asleep. You can picture Midori kneeling by her and kissing her, picture Midori's lips moving over Julie's naked body slowly and lovingly, but that's not what's happening. Midori's just sketching lightly in charcoal, a stroke at a time, letting her eyes rest on the calm pink body across the room, taking her time.
After awhile, Midori puts down her pencil and walks to the divan. She reaches down and touches Julie's chin with one long fingernail. The girl's eyes open after a moment, and she looks up at the artist and smiles.
I go over to Jake's place, to see if he's up for like a game of handball or something, and he's sitting up on his bed, butt-naked, with his back against the wall and his knees up in front of him, holding a pad of paper on one leg and looking down at his cock, which is poking up at about half-staff between his legs.
"What're you doing?" I say. I notice there's a hand-mirror lying on the bed next to him.
"I'm drawing my cock," he says, and sure enough he's got a charcoal pencil in the other hand, and on the paper there's this drawing of his cock. It's a pretty good drawing.
"Why are you drawing your cock?"
"I dunno, I just thought it'd be cool to draw my cock."
"Is it getting bigger?" I ask, because it looks like it's getting bigger.
"Yeah, well," he says, and he turns back to the paper and his cock.
I sit down on the bed below where he's sitting, and watch him draw for a minute. His cock is all the way up now. Jake's cock is big, very big and thick, with prominent veins under the thin outer skin. I reach out and sort of stroke the side of it with my fingers.
"You're forward as hell today!" he says, this not being the kind of thing I'd usually do.
"Yeah, well," I say. I cup his rod in my palm and close my fingers around it. It's stiff and hot.
Jake draws a sharp breath. "Unh," he says, "that's perfect. Just hold it there," and he tears off the piece of paper and starts another drawing, this time of his cock with my hand around it.
I squeeze the shaft with my fingers, and move my hand a little up and down on it. He grunts and keeps drawing. In my hand, his cock is hot and alive, hard and pulsing, like a tree branch under a hot towel. Or like a cock.
When we are both naked, she walks to me and puts her arms around my neck. Her body, warm and fecund, presses against me. She kisses my mouth and licks my lips; I take her breasts in my hands and squeeze and roll the nipples between my fingers. My stiff cock presses against her belly, and she moans.
She lowers herself backward onto the bed, spreading her thighs. She takes my staff in her hand and rubs the length of it between her legs, over her moist slit. Then she presses it into herself. I lean forward, and my penis slowly slides into her; the tightness of her cunt caresses every throbbing inch.
For the first few strokes, she pushes up with her hips, staring into my eyes, grabbing at the sheets with her hands. Then her body tenses, and she lies motionless, taut, her torso arched, her head thrown back, her fingers gripping my upper arms. The only sound she makes is a strangled gurling deep in her throat that becomes more urgent as I pump in and out of her.
Fucking her is utterly delicious.
Her fingers grip my arms tighter, her mouth opens even wider, and she gasps. I raise my body up to stroke her clit harder with the top of my cock, and orgasm begins to rock her. Her breasts heave and her head thrashes helplessly; I bury my cock as far as it will go, and hold myself there on top of her as she writhes. The sweet muscles of her cunt pull at my swollen hardness, and I come deep inside her in a rush of pleasure and release. Her body tenses and relaxes, and her arms pull at me.
I fall on top of her, my cock softening between her legs, and I kiss her mouth, holding her face in my hands. She screams and bucks, but my body is heavy on hers; I slide my tongue into her mouth and run it along her teeth. Spent, she relaxes utterly, her thighs wide, her arms around me, her mouth under mine.
I raise my head and look down at her. Her eyes are closed, her face calm. I put out my tongue and lick the tip of her nose. She smiles and presses her hips up against mine. We are content.
This big black-eyed woman was dancing naked in the crowd at the Sausage Factory. She'd taken off her jeans and her shirt early on, and worked up a sweat stomping and writhing to the music. She was drinking beer. Eventually she shook herself out of her bra and her panties and stood there with her feet apart for balance, moving her head and her arms and her torso, her breasts swinging to the beat, her mouth open. I didn't know her, she didn't really seem to be with anyone. I didn't go over to her and take her breasts in my hands, suck on the big dark nipples, run my tongue over her panting mouth.
I saw her again last night, in tight jeans and a sweatshirt, sitting waiting for a table in Dennigan's, with two little kids and an older man. Her little sisters? Her nieces? Her back was to me. I stood there looking at her bottom, her thighs, the curves of her heavy body and remembering her bare flesh under the lights, until my table was ready.
Rick came home that night with a bandage on his left shoulder. He'd been in a fight at the Oyster, he told her when she asked, and Sammy, the son of old Dick the harrier, had stuck him with his knife.
It was no big deal, he said; he and Sammy had made up after, and had a beer. She helped him off with his shirt. He winced a little when she undid the dressing and cleaned the wound, just a deep scratch really, with soap and hot water. They didn't have anything in the apartment to bind it up right again, but he didn't want her to go out. She put on the biggest Band-Aid they had.
He was rough with her in bed, tender-rough, rough the way he was when he wanted her to fight back, and they rolled and tussled together on the bed and kissed and scratched and beat at each other until he pinned her down and had her, had her deep and hot and for a long time. Afterward, he fell onto her and was asleep.
In the morning, she woke with his arm heavy across her chest. She lay looking at the stream of blood from under the Band-Aid, looking at it for some time before she realized what it was. The cut had come open in their lovemaking, or during the night, and thick red drops were oozing, one at a time at long intervals, out from under the sticky pad and down Rick's shoulder.
She pressed her face lightly against his arm and let the blood trickle across her nose and down over her lips. She closed her eyes and listened to his breathing.
Start 'er up, Frank.
Think it'll work this time?
Only one way to find out.
The dice passed to Mrs. Chalman. She took a deep drink of whiskey and rolled. Eleven. For a long moment she considered the pages in her hand, pursing her lush red lips outward and breathing the smoky air. Then she put all but one of the pages down, face up, in front of her.
"Shapiro," she said, "Arthur Shapiro."
There was a stirring in the audience, and a pale young man stood up and walked hesitantly to the dias. He mounted the stairs, tall and thin in his trunks and loose t-shirt, and stood before the big table, biting his lips. Mrs. Chalman took another swig of whiskey and nodded.
The youth walked around the table and took his seat on the ground, in the orange-marked hexagon behind the matron's chair, with the others. He shivered, the look on his face indrawn and calculating.
He expresses himself so slowly that she is in pain, in an ecstatic sort of pain that could for all of her continue all afternoon; as long as she keeps her eyes closed, and just humms and smiles to indicate attention, agreement, he is content.
The sound of his voice, she decides, is like something sour and sweet, something sharp but soft, something that penetrates her mind like a stealthy cloud.
In April, they will be married.
She's sitting in the car, at a traffic light. Her hair is dark and thick. She hasn't washed it today.
The car smells like coffee. It needs a new muffler.
She looks out the window, waiting for the light. She's wearing a blue knit sweater over a pale yellow cotton shirt, and dark blue slacks. Her earrings are thin gold hoops.
There's a song stuck in her head, and she whispers it to herself as she waits for the light.
Hello, hello, hello, hello
I've bought staples here before.
No, really, I mean it. I've been in this place before, doing this same thing.
In Madrid. You've never been to Madrid before.
I know. It must have been like in a previous life or something.
It feels good to be outside again, this late at night, standing next to the stream, in the dark. I probably shouldn't have drunk so much. Or I should have eaten more.
I wonder what they're doing back there.
They are standing there, the two of them, waiting for something. Waiting for me to make a move, waiting for the cock to crow. Perhaps waiting for one of the others to return, to return with an answer, a message from the Front Office. I know that if I am quiet, if I wait patiently in silence, they will either become bored and move on to the next doorway, or they will fall asleep, there in the doorway, slumped against the jambs. If they fall asleep, I will be able to creep softly up on them again, and take the candy from their pockets.
Don't want no other lover
Baby, it's just you I'm
I love the snow! Snow and ice and sleet and the big bunny slippers and the fire in the fireplace and after dark all the crisp little sounds and my blue mittens and that boy named Joe with the big ears sticking out shovelling his driveway and old Dale in his suspenders and wool pants and his hat walking up the street just to see what's going on, and snow falling off the roof, and eating icicles.
You love the snow, you don't have to drive in it, do you?
Some people love driving in it, too, I know they do.
Oh, come kiss me on the nose, you kitten.
Roland turned the small furry stone over and over in his hand, thinking. They had come up this morning from the camp under the little box-canyon, and found the house deserted, as they had expected, but in the center of the livingroom floor was this odd thing, this small red furry stone, and a blue button.
Marie's buttons had been blue. Hadn't they?
Walking past the marina, he saw another one. Then another. They were all over the place!
He wondered what to do.
What to do?
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