by Diana Cage
(05/08/02)
Digging through the stack of magazines by my girlfriend's bed, mostly Details and Sports Illustrated, with some Vanity Fairs and a few motorcycle magazines, I find a copy of Hustler. Two years old, the cover a little bent, but the girls look the same as if they were printed today; glistening with oil, or maybe sweat. Their breasts jut straight out, varnished and hard like holiday hams. Their cunts have tiny tufts of pubic hair that point the way to the carnation pink insides, tinted in Photoshop by an art assistant who probably pinkens hundreds of pussies a month.
There'd be no reason for Anne to hide it from me. She knows I love porn, the skankier the better. I'm sure it was just coincidentally shoved towards the bottom of the pile. But I've never seen a magazine like this one in her house. She never buys the stuff, not even Playboy. She claims to hate straight porn. Can't stomach all that cock, or the long-nailed skinny girls, she says. When I talk about images that get me hot -- girls tied up, submissive, debased, begging for it -- she reminds me that she has feminist sensibilities and the look she gives me makes me embarrassed by my traitorous libido.
I wonder if she jerks off while looking at these pictures. Suddenly I realize that in the year we've been together, I've never once seen her jerk off. I've prodded myself with every toy she owns as well as a few juicy-looking kitchen implements. Pranced around her studio apartment naked save for a butt plug in my ass and clamps on my nipples. All for her enjoyment. But she has never once reciprocated. I'm a voyeur, she says.
How does she do it? Does she use a vibrator? Does she even take off her pants? I picture her thick fingers parting her bush, finding her hard clit. The fingers at the end of her well-muscled arms. The same fingers that feel so good in my cunt. The fingers that she uses to tease my pussy open before her fist -- jammed against my cervix -- reduces me to a panting, mewing, begging hole. Those fingers.
Small hard circles, she tells me when I touch her. As if I would try anything else. I love it when she tenses up, her clit a hard knot beneath my tongue, her fist clutching a handful of my hair, shoving my face into her wetness until I can't breathe. She holds me there and I had better hope I took a big breath before she started to go off -- because there will be no more air until she finishes.
The thought of her looking at these pictures, jeans pushed down, fingers dipping into wet, salty pink, making circles, furtively putting in a digit or two and then banging herself silly, oh god, it makes me wet. I clench my thighs together and concentrate on the heat in my crotch as I turn the pages. I wonder which spread does it for her the most? I bet it's the voluptuous black chick with the retro hairdo getting the all-anal action. Yeah, that's the one all right. The model's pretty face gives a mixed message. Is she saying "Fuck me harder" or "Get that thing out of my ass"? Your choice.
The image is too much, and my throbbing clit demands attention. I push my skirt up, Hustler girls forgotten; in my mind Anne is on her back. Her jeans and jockey shorts are bunched around her boots. Her tanned skin is clammy, she's breathing hard. Her work shirt is open and she's wearing clamps on her small hard nipples. Her crew-cut hair is damp with sweat. She's jamming two fingers into her cunt and rubbing her clit at the same time. Her face is red, and all her muscles are tensed. She swears under her breath fuckfuckfuckfuck as her fingers push her closer to orgasm. She groans and it sounds like a growl.
Oh baby, let yourself go, I think. Let it come. I push my panties to the side and softly touch my own pussy. I'm slick with excitement. My fingers move quickly and lightly over my lips, spreading the wetness. My clit is a hard button, a marble. I roll it between my fingers. The excitement climbs up my cunt into my breasts and arms and hands. I'm on fire. Everything -- pussy, ass, clit, fingers -- united into one ball of tight heat.
I lean back into the pillows and go to town on my aching clit. My fantasy Anne is breathing hard. She's moaning loudly. I flip her over. She's on her knees taking it like a faggot from some unseen top. She's yelling her head off, bucking against a hard cock, demanding it harder, faster, more. In real life, Anne comes quietly. She grunts softly and jerks her body off the bed. I'm the screamer. Sometimes she fucks me so hard that I'm hoarse the next day.
My orgasm is quick and salty, like fast food. I come with a mixture of pleasure and guilt. Panties back in place, skirt down, the blush on my chest and neck begins to fade. Does Anne know what I just did to her? Should I mention that I found her secret stash? I humbly close the magazine and stick it back into the middle of the pile, right where it was before, nestled snugly between Johnny Depp and Michael Jordan.
