Diddle My Skittle

Saturday Night

I am at the end of my period, and it is the horniest cycle in recent memory.
I can’t keep my hands out of my lap.
I can’t stop rolling back and forth when I sit on my ball

I have a late-night IM with marcus
(he is not breaking up with me)

We are sweet and hot and missing each other
Quoting Eighties songs and cracking up.

I go into the bedroom after marcus and I sign off
I can’t see, but my hand knows where to reach for the
Rock Chick

I don’t turn on the vibe yet. I just rub the lovely little thing around my labia and clit, letting the underside press into my gspot.
Warming the purple silicone

My clit is swelling.

I press the magic button
Find my magic button

It’s not enough.

I roll over, leaving the Chick buzzing between my thighs, reaching into the toy box for my butt plug
It’s missing.
Fuck! Where the fuck is it?
I remember I packed it to see Jordan last week

I turn on the lights
Crawl over to the foot of my bed where the bag stands “Miso Pretty” with rope, scissors, lube, nipple clamps and butt plug lovingly packed

I shove my hand into the bag.
Pull the plug.
One pillow packet of lube
I can’t get it open fast enough

I lube the plug and my ass
Slide it in
Unnnh…

It is not a small butt plug
Face down, ass up in the middle of my bed.
Rock Chick buzzing
Left hand between it and my clit

I am full.
Moaning
Lights blazing
I should turn them off in case a child wanders in
I cum, then manage to stand on my knees and pull the light chain so the room is dark but the fan is blowing.

On my back, knees to my chest.
Both hands working
Fuck, this shit is the fucking shit.

It’s not enough.

I reach over to my nightstand and retrieve my silver mini vibe.
Turn it on and hold it against the base of the butt plug
Hell yes
Left hand working the Rock Chick against my outer lips and clit
Hitting my g spot.

So, so good. But still not enough.

I need to be fucked. Hard.
I lay the Chick aside
Orchid G to the rescue.
Plastic. Multi-speed. Long wand.
Lube on. Vibe in.

I start fucking myself with the G, working and twisting it up to my g spot until I’m going insane, my right hand still holding the minivibe against the plug in my ass.
I hear the sound of my juices as the G turns inside me.
Waves are crashing against my clit

Legs shaking
Back arching

Wetness
Those totally delicious sounds of wet thrusting
So fucking wet.

Fuck, I need more...

One more drop of lube on my clit. Minivibe and fingers furiously rubbing
God, yes.
Fingers move down to the shaft of the G
Pull out the vibe
My left hand rolls around the entrance to my pussy.
It is lubed

And I slide it into my cunt.
Up to my wrist.
I am fisting myself and it feels so fucking good.

My fist is inside, rocking up against my g spot, wrist twisting and juice flowing and clit exploding and holy jesus I’m cumming with my face into the pillow.

I am wailing

My voice a full, throaty vibrato with the force of my orgasm.



Ahem.

I lie there for a few minutes, coming down. I retrieve my hand, Jefferson’s words playing in my head as I uncork a rich flow of girl juice from my pussy. I reach down and remove the plug from my ass.

I gather all the toys and walk to the bathroom.

There is a translucent, nearly scarlet fluid on my left hand and wrist. It also drips down my thighs.
That is so hot

I wash the toys and myself.
Then we all tiptoe back to the bedroom to dry


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Semantics

For the past couple weeks, marcus hadn't been in touch with me as often as usual. We normally would speak two or three times a day, checking in and relating stories about clients or kids. He had switched to his summer parenting schedule and so had his boys more than during the school year. He was busy with them. We didn't speak to each other as often.

Then there was his infected hand right before his July 1st trip to New York. He was cranky and annoyed that his body would let a little scratch get so nasty. I called, checking in during the visit with Jefferson, getting the reports from both boys on his doctor's orders and the state of The Hand.

Mostly, I just wished that marcus could have stayed home that week, and taken care of himself. I had the feeling that the boy was more stressed than he was letting on, and had been spreading himself (so to speak) thin lately. I wanted cheerful, ebullient marcus to come back.

I didn't hear from either of them for much of the visit; understandably, they were busy with Todd and Meg and Lucy and the kids' impromptu visit...

But I worried a little. I'd had a really shitty day on Wednesday. I was annoyed that I couldn't reach Jefferson or marcus. I left messages for both and went to bed.

At 10:30 the phone rang. It was marcus. Jefferson had sleepover plans and marcus wasn't invited, so he was making a house call before going back to Jefferson's place to sleep.


"Hey, beautiful. How's your day? I got your message; what's happening?"

"Jack's teacher called me in for a conference because he is being disrespectful and not listening and I am lonely and I didn't hear from either one of you about the party and I feel like a terrible mother and what if he gets kicked out of preschool..."

"Wait, sweetheart...didn't Jack just move up into an older classroom?"

"Yes."

"So, isn't this to be expected? I mean, it's natural that he'll need to act out his frustrations a little bit, right?"

"I guess so. It's just so hard. And I feel so guilty. And then I just really needed to talk to another parent and no one was around except my mother. And the last couple weeks I haven't heard from you very much...and it just seems like...I just need to ask you, marcus, are you trying to distance yourself from me?"

"God, baby, no--absolutely not. I've been thinking about you so much, and especially being here, with Jefferson, I really miss you. I wish I was there with you, right now, instead of standing outside this building where I'm going to go do a job in five minutes. I really do...I love you, Maddie."

"I know. I love you, too."

Things had gotten complicated.

About a week later, I was visiting Jefferson. I stayed for nearly a week, during which we spoke with marcus very occasionally. Mostly we just left messages on his voicemail because, as it turned out, he was booking himself fairly solidly during that period.

A couple days after I returned, I got an Instant Message from marcus. Strange, I thought, since he really favors the telephone. We started out talking about his visit to Jefferson the next day, will he or won't he have sex with this person or that person, and so on. This was a fairly normal exchange.

Then the tone changed, and marcus and I went into the familiar area of 'how do we define our relationship,' and 'how do we sustain a relationship separated by so much geography?'

marcus broke up with me.

Jefferson checked in during the thick of it. I told him what was going on and he was bewildered and concerned but kindly excused himself so I could deal with our boyfriend and my impending status as a cast-off.

I misunderstood marcus's intentions, assuming he wanted nothing to do with me, that it would be too hard to continue any type of friendship, given the way he wants our relationship to be. I accused him of being mean and selfish and childish and I couldn't pick up and move east immediately to be with him and what am I supposed to say to the kids now when they ask about him?

"are you totally ending our relationship?" he asked me.
"i thought you were," i said.

No, he still wants to see me. He still wants to fuck me. And to his chagrin, he is still in love with me. marcus just wants to withdraw my 'girlfriend' status. And he doesn't want me to call him my 'boyfriend.'

"i realize this means you'll have to stop wearing the shirt," he joked.

My brow was furrowed, frowning. I wanted to laugh, to keep this light. The problem is that I felt conflicted. On the surface, I was angry with him and annoyed because he moved so quickly after our first meeting. Deeper down I thought that this was my own fault.

I wanted to meet marcus. I'm the one who put my hand over his as it rested on my shoulder. I could have told him I wasn't interested in seeing him again. But in the week following our first meeting in April there was a lot of stuff to process. I really needed to talk with both of them. Jefferson was on the other side of the world and out of direct contact. marcus was very available.

So I wondered, was my own selfishness to blame? Why was this happening now? What makes him so impatient to see me, and hurt that I'm not flying out to see him every few weeks when we've talked about that?

The biggest problem is geography. For all of us.

Have I thought about moving to be closer? Of course I have.

Then I wonder, if I moved, would things be easier? Or would the fact that we live that much closer just fuel the frustration of not being able to spend more time together?

The conversation lasted a long time. There were highs and lows, bitter and sweet. I love this person. He is sweet and kind and generous and impulsive and loads of fun. I didn't want to think about not being able to satisfy his needs for a girlfriend. Does that diminish my status? Would he still put work aside if I came for a visit?

I said goodnight, still confused.

That was July. We haven't seen each other since Memorial Day. We haven't stopped talking. He wants me to come to DC. I want to see him.

He calls me his ex-girlfriend. It makes me smile.

If marcus wants things to be more or less the same, what does it matter how we define it? I can't stop him from calling me his ex-girlfriend (though, if we accept his definition of girlfriend , i never was one to begin with), but I will still call him my boyfriend.

And if he's got a problem with that, he'll have to take it up with me in person.

Maybe while I'm tied up.

Gagged with the t-shirt.


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Fix You

I was reading Housewyfe Wendy today. It struck me that it’s been a while since I’ve switched voices from Madeline’s Sex Shoppe to The Real Life Bullshit of Madeline Glass. Just to remind readers that there’s a whole lotta stuff about me you DON’T know. And that I’m a real person. Fallible. Stressed-out, but with patience to spare.

Even that patience has been tested this week.

I’m chalking much of it up to the full moon last weekend and the crazy energy it produced. Suffice it to say I feel like the whole world’s gotten knocked off-kilter. My period came early, my ex didn’t come at all, and other sundry unpleasantries.

Y’all know I’m not one to bury my feelings. So, yeah, a good bit of the last several weeks has been spent crying big, fat, salty tears.

It’s good to feel sad. It makes the happy feel that much better.

But sometimes I just need to be with the sadness.

It’s been coming since Katrina first struck. Actually, I think it’s been coming since Peter Jennings died. But that fucking hurricane was the final straw.

I don’t watch television as a general rule, unless it’s college football or basketball or the food network if I’m somewhere with cable. I even get my news exclusively online ever since Peter died. I can’t bring myself to watch. But then Katrina hit, and I wanted to bear witness.

Of course it was awful. Of course it was unbearable. Of course it was unbelievable that there was absolute destruction and corpses were floating in the flood waters or lying beside the roads in my country and no one seems to have a good plan for dealing with it.

I revisit that part of myself which remembers death and the stench of burning flesh.

I try to imagine the smell--an unfamiliar one—of decomposing bodies, human excrement and stagnancy which has settled over the Gulf Coast.

I can’t watch television any more.

I have a client who can’t shut it off. It is all she talks about, what the death count will reach, how many displaced persons, how much federal money being put to the task. I tell her to give to the Red Cross and to give the tv a break for a bit. Because negative, hopeless energy is not what we need to be sending the people who have lost their lives, homes, families.

But it’s easy to start feeling that way.

Then the nightmares start. The fitful sleep. The waking at 3 AM, crying, unable to return to bed.

I don’t want to have sex; I masturbate as an afterthought, like, ‘right, I’m still here. I can still do this.’ But my heart isn’t in it. It’s just an Emotional Release band-aid slapped over what’s bothering me.

So here’s the thing which makes me write:

I believe that any emotion or sensation is worth feeling to its fullest extent. I think that to deny ourselves that is to deny ourselves the very essence of humanity.

I wanted drug-free deliveries of my babies not because I wanted to spare their little nervous systems the effects of narcotic cocktails, but because I needed to know what labor pain felt like.

I have experienced the most exquisite pain imaginable.

I have experienced joy beyond compare.

Does it not make sense to also experience sorrow that transcends words?

Helplessness.

Sadness.

Hope.

Because out of the sadness comes hope.

I’ve had a rough several days. My ex cancelled his visit over the weekend, which was a huge disappointment to Miles and Jack. There’s more in addition to that, but nothing worth going into.

Yesterday, I was chatting with Jefferson. Then Viviane. Then Marcus. Putting life and problems and worries into perspective. I was upset and feeling scattered.

This will not do. I am a mother to two babies. They need me to be strong and calm and cool.

I can do that. As long as, during the time I am not with them, I can be sad and reflective.

I decided yesterday to take a bath before I had to pick them up from daycare. I put on Coldplay’s “X & Y.” I remember why I am so smitten with Chris Martin.

If you don’t have this album, shame on you. Go out and buy it now. Or go to apple.com and buy it from the iTunes store. Fuck, I don’t even care if you get it from your friend who got it from his cousin. Just get the cd.

Then you can do what I have been doing for the last two days straight: playing Track Four, Fix You, repeatedly.

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you.

Singing.
Crying.
Smiling through tears. Because in the end there must be hope.



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Crossing Jordan

We went to Mary and George's hotel.

Turns out that Jordan had talked with them and they’d like to play with us in private. Perfect, I thought. I'd had fun with the girls so far, but if I’m going to have sex tonight, I’d like a cock to be in the mix as well.

George has a nice, large-ish black cock.

George also has a feeble straight-boy brain.

Now, I ask you, if you were a man facing three very hot women whose sole purpose for being in this hotel room was to get you and each other off, would you turn on SportsCenter?

Oh, yes, he did.

Jordan and Mary were kissing. I got George naked and rolled a condom onto his cock with my mouth. I sucked him and then rode him, really not feeling much of anything, try as I might.

Could have had something to do with the fact that he was commenting on the evening's boxing results. I think. Maybe...

I moved over to Mary while Jordan took up with George.

Mary was on her period and would not be getting naked. More’s the pity, because I’d have really liked to have that body melting onto mine. As it was, she sucked my tits and fingered my clit and it was very nice, but we were both more interested in George and Jordan’s scene.

She was on her back, he was pumping into her.

“Give her that black cock, baby,” Mary's voice was raspy.

“Yeah, fuck this pussy,” Jordan moaned.

I was holding one of her legs and sucking a tit.

“Flip her over, George,” I said.

He pulled out and Jordan rolled onto her elbows and knees. In a second he was banging her again.

By this time Mary and I were sitting back, watching them. Jordan looked up at me. I recognized something in her eyes. My right hand was twitching. I clenched my fist and extended my fingers, sitting myself up to my knees. I rested my hand on her ass, grasping and releasing flesh.

I smacked her. First lightly, then leading up to loud whacks as he fucked her from behind. It was the first time she'd been spanked.

Eventually they stopped. George dressed and announced that he was going to another room down the hall where some of the other party guests had ended up. Mary said she would stay with us.

As he dressed and talked with her, Jordan and I were naked on the bed, kissing. My hands traced her collarbone, breasts, belly, ass.

There was a knock on the door. George opened it a crack, talking to the partygoer outside, who peeking in, asked if she could come in and play with the 'girls from the party.'

“Oh, Hell No…” Jordan said.

“Sorry, private party,” I called out, my fingers traveling down to her pussy.

“Are you okay, Jordan?” I asked.

“Mmm-hmmm, damn, baby,” she whispered.

Groans of disappointment from the hallway. Too fucking bad, I thought. Stand around in your clothes watching someone else have sex. Done that. Not doing it again.

George left as I moved down between Jordan's legs. She and I had talked about our orgasmic differences; she was jealous of my ease in cumming, because it takes her a long time. I had prepared myself for this journey.

Mary settled onto the other bed, watching us as I licked up one side of Jordan’s shaved labia, feeling her flesh on my lips. It was soft and dense, like a horse’s muzzle; like velvet, warm and wet and inviting.

I took my time, enjoying her scent and swirling my tongue around the vicinity of her clit. Wetting her lips with mine, I traced a path downward. I pulled my head back, looking at the slickness and arousal I had just created. This mocha-pink pussy was so wet and smelled like girl and her chest was rising up back arched and I traced her nipples with my fingers they were so hard and dark and I lightly moved my hands together down her torso to her cunt.

I parted her outer lips and was now pulling up on her hood, my tongue searching for that hard, engorged ball.

Jordan was sighing as I adjusted my angle. Where was her fucking clit? I started to feel a bit self-conscious, inexperienced. How can this be? I know human anatomy, for god’s sake. I know where the goddamned clitoris is located…

With a flat tongue I pressed upward, looking to her face for a sign—anything—that I was hitting paydirt. Then…

She gasps sharply. Her thigh tenses. My tongue is pressing firmly up toward her pubis. I do some more fanning around and I feel it.

My girl’s clit is tiny, much smaller than mine (which is, I don't know, about the size of a pencil eraser?). It is so elusive, my new little friend. I start to wonder how many people have actually taken the time to search it out, to discover what makes it happy. I settle in, once again feeling secure in my knowledge of girly parts.

I press my tongue up, circling and stroking over her clit. She pulls my head and raised her hips up to meet my mouth. She needs more pressure. I can do that if I use a pointed tongue, but when I try that I keep losing contact with her clit.

I instinctively move my face up her slit and press my chin into that space, rocking slightly.

Paydirt.

Jordan is moaning. She is so wet. Her pussy is contracting. I slip two fingers in, circling her opening, feeling her cunt surrounding me, sucking me in.

I curve my fingers up, feeling for the rough spot that I hope will send her over the edge. I start to massage her g spot. I put my thumb on her clit, swollen and as large as it is going to get. She gasps, hums, says

“o my god, baby, that’s so gooood.”

Fuck, I wish I had a cock. I am so hot for this girl.

I had forgotten about our audience. Mary is lying on the other bed, saying,

“Goddamn, bitches. I’m so jealous.”

We have been alone on the bed for about thirty minutes. Her body is ripe for cumming. All the good feelings are flowing, her pussy is juiced, her back arching and writhing with pleasure.

I put my left hand above her pubis, pressing down toward the fingers inside her pussy. She gets louder, moaning, so close…

Sshhhh, relax, baby. Just relax and let go.

I increase the pressure and speed, building to a pace that would have me hitting the ceiling. She is riding it, her hips thrusting up,

“Yeah, god, that’s IT”

She is going to cum. I can’t wait to see this.

The door swings open.

George walks in, complaining loudly about something in the room down the hall.

And just like that, the ever-elusive orgasm scuttled back under its rock. Gone. Spoiled in a second.

George tells Mary he wants her to come with him. She looks at us and asks, “Are you two about done, anyway?”

Jordan is very polite. She says yes.

I kiss her.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper, “you were so close.”

“I was. Maddie, you are good…goddammit!”

We get dressed. It is 3:30 AM. My phone is ringing. Louis XIV’s "Finding Out True Love is Blind." Marcus’s ring.

I pick up, tell him we’re just leaving the hotel and that I’ll call him back in 5 minutes.

Jordan drives me back to my car, parked outside the bar where we met. We already had plans for the following Tuesday to meet for lunch to get to know one another. We laugh that we are doing this backwards.

We decide to keep the lunch date anyway.

Driving home I dial Marcus’s number. No answer. He must be asleep, it’s 5 AM in DC. I get his voicemail.

“Hey sweetheart. It’s Maddie. Holy Shit, Marcus, this was a crazy evening. Thanks for your advice about the party-- it sucked, by the way. But I had a great time with Jordan. Call me when you are awake and I’ll tell you all about it. Right now, I’m driving in my car inhaling the scent of girl on my face. For some strange reason, that makes me think of you.”

I arrive home, undress at the door and see my Bloglines icon flashing. Jefferson has put up a new post. I sit down naked on my giant ball to read. I finish it, smiling, and send him an email.

And then, walking to the shower I think,

“Madeline, could your life be any better right now?”

I smile as I peel a tiny silver heart off my hipbone.



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Orgy and Less

Jordan and I had been IMming for about two weeks, ever since I’d returned from New York. Finally, tonight, we were meeting.

Earlier in the day we’d discovered that we both knew about the local swingers party (Remember, the one that Discreet Rob told me about), which was being held tonight. Jordan had been in contact with a couple who were party regulars interested in playing together.


Jordan: What are you doing tonight?

Madeline: Not a thing that I know of…you?

Jordan: Well, I heard there’s this freaky party in town.

Madeline: Is it a …swingers party??

Jordan: Yes! Damn, how’d you know?

Madeline: Stick with me, kid. I know everything. Are you going to go?

Jordan: I’d like to, but I'd rather go with a date. I want to check out the scene, and we wouldn’t even have to participate, you and I. Can you get away?

Madeline: Let me see what I can do.


I got my mother to keep the boys.

We decided to meet for drinks at my favorite place.

I walked in the back door. Jordan was sitting at a small table near the front. I said hello to my friend Eric, the bartender. He was already pouring my bourbon: double, rocks. I thanked him and walked across to the table.

She was even hotter than her photos. Black, with long straight hair, impeccably applied makeup and gorgeous—I mean, really fucking gorgeous tits.

“Jordan?”

“Madeline, hi!”

I already knew she was smart and cool from our IMs. I set my drink on the table and put my handbag in the chair opposite her. I took her hand.

“What are you drinking?”

“Grey Goose and tonic.”

A girl with good taste. I knew I liked her.

I left my bourbon at the table and ordered her drink. Eric took special care with the twist.

We talked, continuing our online conversation from that afternoon, about school, kids, this town. I told her about talking with Jefferson and Marcus in preparation for the party. About how they thought it was the perfect attitude; to go without expectations. That way, if something fun happens, all the better. And if not, then nothing lost.

After two drinks apiece, she suggested we get going.

“Do you mind driving?” I asked.

“Not at all; I’m parked right out front.”

We made our way to her unassuming European sedan.

Check mark number two. This girl has such good taste. I thought of kissing her, but refrained.

Jordan's stereo played excellent music as I guided us toward the party, in a relatively new neighborhood on the outskirts of town, the words of Discreet Rob swirling in my head:

As a bi female you will be so popular; you have no idea.

“You two together?” the huge guy working the door asks.

“Yeah.”

“Go on in..”

The place is packed with people- fifty was my guess. We made our way to the backyard where there was a hot tub and people sitting around talking. On the way through the living room I noted a big screen TV with porn playing and a bunch of people sitting and watching.

I saw a guy walking around in a terry bathrobe.

"Does he think that makes him look cool?" I think to myself, "Is he operating under some false assumption that a striped Wal Mart bathrobe lends a Hefner air to his country ass?"

What the fuck?

As we walk through the house to the backyard, I can feel the eyes of people on us: Jordan the maquillaged sophisticate in her black pants, low cut top and bolero jacket, and Madeline the lip glossed natural girl in her short denim skirt, green tank and jeweled flip flops. We are so hot. In completely different ways.

Jordan sees the couple she’s been chatting with: George and Mary. The girls and I walk to the kitchen to get something to drink.

Mary is gorgeous. Black, with ringlets framing her face and an ass to die for. She has on a one-shoulder top and three tiny silver hearts adhered to the exposed skin on the right side of her chest. She gives us the tour of the house.

In the Master Bedroom there is a woman sucking a man’s dick. She is kneeling in front of him as he leans back against a dresser.

“She’s going for a record tonight,” some guy says, “trying to see how many guys she can blow.”

I am so not impressed.

I know I sound like a snob, but these were some seriously rural folks. The blowjob queen had long peroxide blonde hair. Permed. With Eighties bangs. You know what the fuck I'm talking about. The girl could have been sucking the chrome off a trailer hitch, and all I'd have noticed was the goddamned hair.

The only exception I'd make for a girl with Eighties hair is Tawny Kitaen, and even then she has to be in that white pirate shirt and heels doing the splits on the hood of David Coverdale's car.

I stick tight to Jordan. I don't think we'll be playing with others tonight. We exchange looks, rolling our eyes and laughing.

We head back outside. There is a guy wearing a vibrating glove, asking if Jordan or I would like him to touch our breasts with it. No, thanks…

I have to pee. George offers to show me the way.

While waiting for the bathroom door to open, George looks me up and down. He’s cute. He starts telling me the story of their party life.

They’ve been coming to the parties for a few months, never participating, but always watching and coming back for more. The last time, though, on their 30 minute drive home they’d been pulled over by a state trooper. Mary had been driving (and drinking, I’d wager) and declared that from now on, they’d get a hotel room when they came to the parties.

He’d like to get together privately some time.

Back on the patio, things were slow. I kept wondering when people were going to start getting naked. Jordan is talking with Mary and George. I’m kneeling behind another woman, rubbing her shoulders while talking to her very annoying husband.

The first problem of this party is exactly that: most of the guests are couples. From what I could ascertain, they come to watch porn and sit semi-naked in the hot tub. Single women are allowed, and girl-girl action is encouraged. There are no single men. No boy-boy action. I know, sounds promising, huh?

Then Jordan leans back and says, “Madeline, there is a group of girls going into one of the bedrooms…let’s go watch.”

Well, praise the lord and pass the ammunition.

We walk back to the large bedroom and push inside.

There are two skinny white girls, topless, trying to entice others to join them. One of them looks to Jordan, standing in front of me.

“Come on, beautiful, let’s play…”

Jordan is demure, “No, thanks. Maybe next time…”

She looks at me, "You look like fun...I'd like to play with you!"

"Yeah, sorry, we're not playing tonight."

The entreaties continue around the room for several minutes. Finally, the two girls head for the bed. There are about eight other people in the room. So far nobody is naked. I can’t stand this.

I lean into Jordan’s ear and say, “These folks really need some help. Fuck this, I’m getting naked.”

I kick off my flip flops, drop my skirt and pull my tank top over my head. Jordan is surprised at my speed and willingness to throw down. I really hadn’t planned on getting involved, but come on! This was the strangest sex party I’d ever heard of.

“Come on, baby, “I say, “it’s just you and me here.”

I take Jordan by the hand and lead her to the bed, joining the other two girls, making out. Jordan leaves her clothes on. We are kissing, her soft moans intensifying as she reaches a hand to my pussy. I open my eyes. Mary is there, also fully clothed. She has a nipple in her mouth and is sucking like a baby. Jordan takes the other breast to her mouth, her fingers still massaging my clit. I look over to the girl lying next to me across the queen sized bed. I cum, sighing, my hands on Jordan's and Mary's necks.

They are kissing above my body, their fingers tweaking my nipples, moaning and smiling. My cunt is wet and the bedspread is cool under my ass. Jordan comes back to kiss me. She is generating so much heat. I help her off with her jacket. We are soon at it again, and my eyes are closed against the lamplight.

I feel a vibrating hand on my right breast, and then down my belly to my clit.

“Aw, fuck, who’s using that fucking glooooovvve…”

The girls laugh. I join them.

Then, there is a hand inside me. I mean, really inside me, pressing up toward my g-spot, whereas up until now, there was only minimal penetration. This new variation was intense and hard, and ohmygodiamcumminglikeafuckingflood. It takes my breath away.

I hear murmurs of “holy fuck…she’s a gusher…goddamn…”

I open my eyes.

There are easily 20 people standing around the bed watching. Not one person is naked. Nobody’s fucking; no one’s even jerking off. They are all standing there, plastic drink cups in their hands, looking down on the five girls on the bed.

The hand inside me pulls out and I see the attached arm receding ABOVE MY HEAD. The arm is cloaked in a terry bathrobe sleeve.

What the fuck?!

A voice next to my left ear, “You are so fucking incredible. What’s your name?”

I whisper. The name I gave myself on the party’s website. I am spent. And a little weirded out by this scene.

A voice comes from the doorway, “Everybody needs to leave! The police are on their way!”

Apparently, there had been a fight (this is so fucking typical; fucking rednecks), someone had threatened to come back with a gun and a concerned neighbor had called the police.

Jordan puts her jacket back on and tosses me my panties as I scramble into my clothes and we get the fuck out of there.

We’re not finished.


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Knots

I stand, realizing that we could have stayed on that couch all day being close and sad and in love, and announce that I am going to pack up my things so that I’m not rushed later.

I pack my suitcase, taking things off hangers and out of the drawer he’d cleared for me in the bedroom. Jefferson had washed a few of my well-worn items yesterday. I retrieve them, neatly folded, from the chair. When I’m anxious I work quickly. In ten minutes I am totally packed.

We shower. I tear up once or twice, but thank god it’s not noticeable. I’m holding onto him and the walls, still trying to maintain my balance. Partly it’s the sex, but mostly it’s my body’s unwillingness to accept what my mind knows: We have three hours left together.

First things first, Jefferson says; we need to feed Madeline. He’s right. I’m hungry, but feeling sick at the same time. Like, how much food could I keep down with my stomach this tied in knots?

We go to the diner up the street. I order grilled cheese. Despite the heat, Jefferson orders bean soup and a Rueben. This is where we ate our last meal together back in April. We know the drill: I pass him my coleslaw, he gives me his pickle.

Check.

I’m feeling better, stronger at least, after eating. We have a few errands to run.

I buy some presents for Miles and Jack, little trinkets like super bouncing balls and those little plastic soldiers with the parachutes that float down when you throw them in the air. They’ll last about ten minutes when I get them home.

On the way back to the apartment we stop at the shipping store to buy bubble wrap.

We found a painting last night while walking home from the concert in Central Park. Jefferson stopped at a pile of things set out against the front stoop of a building. One of the items on top was a framed oil painting. It wasn’t particularly good—rather like something Marc Chagall might have painted at age 8— but the subject matter meant that I couldn’t let it float away the next morning on the garbage barge.

Jefferson assures me that I can take it home once he’s wrapped it properly to withstand the flight.

On the walk home, Viviane calls my cell. We have a nice chat, during which I get a little lump in my throat. She asks me to text her when I arrive safely home. I tell her goodbye and thank her for everything. I close my phone, smile wanly at Jefferson, and we walk the rest of the way in silence, our fingers laced.

At the apartment, I finish packing my laptop and change into my traveling clothes.

When I am walking through airports I like to pretend that I’m somebody famous, so that people who see me think, “Should I know that person? She sure looks as if I should...” I am appropriately confident and nonchalant, my bag and sunglasses exuding stylish importance. I know it's silly, but it helps with the tedium of travel, and I get to laugh at my private jokes.

Jefferson has grabbed some cardboard from the recycling room, sandwiched the painting in the middle and is now wrapping it in plastic bubbles and packing tape. He goes off in search of some string, saying he’d feel much better about its safety if the painting were securely tied. He comes back to the living room with a spool of thread.

“That? Oh, honey, I don’t think that is going to work very well…”

“Well, it’s all I could find, so let’s give it a shot.”

The thread fails miserably. I am so anxious about leaving and still shaking and pale. He’s commented on that more than once. I start to think I may actually be getting sick.

Suddenly, in my haze and anxiety, I start laughing uncontrollably. Jefferson looks at me, confused and, I think, a little concerned.

“Baby, what are we thinking?? You’ve got ROPE! Jefferson, you’ve got LOTS of rope!”

We are both laughing. My eyes are leaking.

He goes to the bedroom and comes back with a very long piece-- about three yards. I help him wrap it around the painting, crossing it in a perfect +.

It is tight. Secure.


And there, on our knees, on my anniversary day, while wrapping a painting of a marriage, Jefferson offers me the ends of the ropes saying,

“Madeline, would you care to tie the knot?”



Nous sourions.

Je l'embrasse.

FIN



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Fuckstruck

It is 7 AM. I really need to pee, but Jefferson’s father-in-law is sleeping in the next room. At least, that’s where he was when we went to bed last night, and I’m not about to go traipsing through the house nearly naked to find out otherwise.

I put it out of my mind and jerk off instead. Jefferson is still asleep, but my rocking and soft moaning have roused him slightly. And his cock more than slightly. I put my palm on it, almost protectively and stroke it gently for a while. I am not about to force myself on him knowing his feelings about sex with relatives in the next room (though that didn’t stop us last night).

I roll over and he spoons me, kissing my shoulder and neck, resting his head on mine. I feel his cock hard on my ass. I squeeze my pussy, feel the pulsing of my clit and grind myself back against his thigh.

He reaches down and puts the heel of his hand on my pubic bone. As his finger touches the top of my pubic hair, he gasps and his cock responds with a twitch. I part my legs. He fingers my clit and I replace his hand with my own. Now two of his fingers are fucking me and I am rubbing off another orgasm. I have a series of smaller ones. I think this is the closest I’m going to get to having sex this morning, since the father-in-law is around.

“I need to pee.”

“I will get up and see if our guest is still around. If he is, your peeing will signify the end of the ‘being in bed’ part of the day and we’ll do our ‘out and about’ part of the day. But if he is gone, we can continue the ‘staying in bed’ part. I’ll be right back.”

He threw off the striped sheet and kissed me. We lay there, kissing, until I say, bladder about to burst, “Seems we’ve gotten a little distracted from our purpose, darling.”

Jefferson jumps up and puts on pants and a t shirt. After a few minutes he’s back, walking through the bedroom doorway, arms raised,

“We’re Alone!”

I leap out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, holding onto walls for support. I pee, brush my teeth, wash my face and hands and return to the bedroom.

“Better?” Jefferson is naked again.

“Much,” I say as I lie down beside him. He is touching my face, tucking my hair back behind my ear. It falls forward. He tucks it back.

“It’s just going to keep doing that, you know,” I smile.

“Then I get to keep doing this… Your eyes are so lovely, baby—the way they take on the color of the walls…”

The kettle is whistling and he jumps up. He’s making coffee. When he returns I am lying on my back, arms out to my sides.

I feel like I’m floating in the ocean-- a tiny speck in an endless sea. It could carry me away, swallow me, pull me into its depths and I would let it. I am so calm.

He lies across my body, kissing me and touching my breasts. He takes the right one in his mouth, sucking it.

“Harder,” I say, “please.”

He does, and bites my nipple. He has moved my legs apart and is laying between them, his cock hard and pressed against my thigh. His lips and teeth and tongue are attached to my breast and start moving in circles around my areola, marking me.

His left hand is cupping my breast from below, while his right holds the top and his forearm rests across my chest. The biting is so intense, and I am so high. I grab his forearm and pull it onto my throat, choking myself just a little. If his cock were inside me right now it would be perfect.

Did he read my mind, or did I say that? I don’t know. We often joke about sharing a brain, so it could have been either.

He takes a condom from the drawer, throws the foil on the floor, and slides his dick into me. He alternates between low and slow, concentrating strokes against my g spot, to deep plunges that take my breath away. My calves are on his shoulders and I rub his face and head with my feet.

We are staring at each other, intently. I close my eyes and turn my head away occasionally, lost in myself. When I come back, he is still watching me.

I straighten my legs and pull them over to the side so he can fuck me sideways. I love watching our bodies merge like that. When he separates my legs back town to the mattress and straightens them I can barely move. And I am so slippery and wet from all the cumming and sweating.

“Baby, shall we take a coffee break?”
“Let’s.”

He pulls out, wipes the wet hair from my forehead, and rolls off. I stand, and Jefferson says, “Madeline, I’m just warning you- what you see in the mirror will not be a pretty sight.”

“Honey, I’m not even going to look.”

My hair is dripping, my body drenched in sweat and my cum. We walk naked to the kitchen, where Jefferson pours the coffee that’s been steeping in the French press for the last 40 minutes.

In the living room I realize that I don’t want to sit naked and wet on the couch. I go to fetch a towel and my white beach tunic. We sit on the couch, Jefferson reading the paper and me drinking my coffee.

He looks up and takes my hand. “Baby, you’re shaking.”

“I know. I’m fucked-up. And I’m sad.”

He pulls me to his shoulder. I look across the room at the painting we’d brought home last night, blinking back tears.

Wedding days are hard. Today would have been my eighth anniversary. I’m happy to be spending it here with someone I care about.

“Madeline, I’ve had the best time. I’m so glad you could be here.”

“Jefferson, thank you.”

“For what, sweetheart?”

“For making space for me.”

“Of course, silly girl,” he pets my hair and kisses my forehead, “’tweren’t nuthin’.”



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