His penis felt like a true extension of himself; not just something he was wildly thrusting, hoping to hit something good, but a deliberate appendage he controlled as easily and naturally as his hand. He pushed inside of me, gently and persistently, knocking my cervix as surely as he’d ring a doorbell, and I gasped. It felt good but hurt, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to push back or whimper.
“Am I hurting you?”
“Yeah, but…don’t worry about it. Just keep going.”
“Why shouldn’t I worry about hurting you?”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
So I did both. I flexed around him, and he gasped back. We had found our back-and-forth rhythm and were gaining speed when he stopped suddenly and pulled me up with him so we were sitting face-to-face. He hadn’t even withdrawn from me; he raised me as easily as a rag doll and I let him. I wanted him to flop me around like an ancient Raggedy Ann doll.
I kissed him long and deep, fucking his mouth with my tongue, trying to get it as deep inside him as he was inside of me. His cock jumped inside me.
“I’m not moving until you come again,” he said.
“Is this a challenge or a threat? A bet or a promise?”
“All of it, all of it,” he said and kissed me with those wide, rough lips. I ran my nails up his sides, circled his nipples, lingeringly pinched one and then the other. He bit his lip.
“You are making this very, very difficult.”
“What are we betting, exactly?”
“It’s a bet we both win,” he said and began slowly rubbing my clit, up and down, a deliberate stroke that I could feel lift my clit so it hovered, tip in the air, until he released it and started again. Up and down, with him jumping deep inside me, so deep I imagined him nudging my ovaries and rearranging my guts. I flexed around his cock, hard, dancingly, over and over and over again until I came so hard I couldn’t see for a few seconds. His beautiful dotted shoulders had red fingernail-shaped crescents beginning to swell among those clouds, tiny suns to remember me by.
He put his arms behind me and gently laid me back down on the bed. There was no longer a need for speed or gentleness, no doorbell ringing or questionable knocking; just sheer, brutal fucking. His clouds and flowers would be destroyed, but that’s why artists do touch-ups, right? Sweat dripped down his cheeks and neck and onto my chest; I licked his chin. His eyes were open; he stared into me and past me, and it scared me a little, how almost angry and sad he seemed. Sometimes people cry when they come; it’s happened to me. Never to a guy I was with, though.
He kissed me, sloppy and wet and panting, moaning into my mouth, still staring at me and into me and past me, still scaring me. He thrust a few last times and I felt his cock thrum with orgasm. He fell onto my chest and kissed my shoulder, and I felt something wet drip down from my shoulder to my chest and lie between my breasts.
I couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears.
PICTURES OF LILLY
Chrissie Bentley
It is said that a stereotype is only truly offensive (and stereo-typical) if it is true. In that case, my memories of a certain Adults Only theater, in a medium-sized East Coast city in the mid-1970s are very offensive indeed.
Even from the outside, the building stood out like a dirty nail on a manicured hand, an off-white pile that was erected in the ’30s as the latest in contemporary architecture, and had neither been painted nor refurbished since then. Once it had indeed been a proud and beautiful theater, but the mainstream movies had long stopped playing there.
Instead, a proprietor who looked as seedy as his establishment specialized in what the low-key marquee insisted were Continental and Scandinavian features, all of which apparently starred the same blowsily made-up cartoon blonde, scantily clad and long since defaced beneath precisely the kind of graffiti you’d expect to find in such a place—ink-scrawled cocks and balls that assailed her from every direction, ribald commentaries that blossomed in speech bubbles, and enough jets of Magic Markered semen to float a battleship.
The place never closed. Early morning, on the way to class; late into the evening, on the way home from a friend’s house and at any hour in between, one of two or three bored-looking youths would be seated in the ticket booth; and, occasionally, you’d see an actual customer shuffling in or out of the main door, and he’d be as clichéd as the establishment itself. He really would look furtive, he really would be wearing a raincoat, and nine times out of ten, he really would be wearing a flat cap, which he’d pull down over his eyes the moment he saw someone else on the street outside.
But there was one aspect of the experience that was not a stereotype; that was, in fact, so bizarre that even those of us who were aware of it were scarcely able to voice it out loud, for fear that the very act of open discussion might end the magic there and then. Every Thursday afternoon (but only Thursday afternoons), sometime before we turned out of class, the emergency exit at the back of the building would be mysteriously unbolted and would remain that way all evening.