by Sadie J. Mayfair
(09/26/07)

When she awoke, the fast absence of the dream she'd been having left a void in her still-soggy mind, similar in its indiscriminate craving to the void she felt in her body. Both made April angry. She knew she'd spend the day trying to forget them.

It was Saturday with weather worn bare by the season, and she had a premonition: Shell would be ensconced in the library between two rows of animal health bibles in preparation for a test all afternoon, and normally she could have joined him. Normally, she didn't entertain vaporous dreams that threatened to boss her around for the remainder of the day.

Jumping jacks, scrambled eggs, orange juice, unloading the dishwasher, bounding up the stairs Olympically, untying and retying her shoes did not begin to quench her.

She went shopping with Mischa to Goodwill, where April kept banging the small, summer-blue cart into the juts of clothing racks. While Mischa crouched in front of linens, yawning, trying to find a deal on curtains for the dorm, April's hand flickered through skirts far too short for her runner's legs. She shoved them aside and went to hog attention near Mischa so she would hurry.

On the way to her, April worked her way through the canal created by rows of men's dress pants and jeans. To her right, a rack of eased-soft leather belts that smelled like an almost-new car on a tepid day.

After a spell of waiting and Mischa picking nothing, they ate lunch at a bagel shop, sitting at a table two feet from the door. Each time it opened, an unseasonable chill prickled the fruit-soft skin on the back of April's neck and the sliver exposed between her shirt and the waist of her jeans. She sipped on peach tea, nibbled the circumference of her bagel to keep the chicken salad and glaze of sweet relish from slipping over the lip.

Right now, Shell would be sawing the metal eraser-grip of his ground-down pencil across the lower bend of his mouth, scowling through his oval glasses, occasionally preaching the text quietly to himself without knowing he did it, warming the metal grip with the milky blush of his breath.

She balled her waxy sandwich wrapper as she stood up.

Made it into the school-colored bathroom, into the middle stall, before she tore her zipper open. Her left hand grabbed the purse- and jacket-hanger on the door to steady her, while her right hand plunged into the spot that had violently pestered her all day. At first, she felt like an overripe balloon being untied and allowed that slow, slight whisper of relief. Then, she was making the problem worse. The nerves in her cunt flashed hot, she heard the girlish grunt of it latching onto and kissing her fingers, felt the shine from her spreading into the creases of her hand.

She had to stop. People could walk in and detect this illicit tangle she was having with herself. She didn't have the time nor restraint to make that want in her pelvis culminate with the right, hard stroke of her fingers in some generous fusion that would make her pour. And it had to be that now.

She walked out, her jeans rough on her clit. And, despite a shaky hand washing, she caught waves of the after-scent of herself.

At home, she ran up the stairs, her feet pouncing on each step, her right hand spurting its thick perfume in sweaty stripes through the air. She called him as she selected pieces of her outfit for the night, flung them toward her bed and watched them ripple before they landed in a defeated heap.

When he answered, when she heard the slight, informative trill of his professor voice -- the question, the kiddish hope punching up every vowel -- she had to sit down.

"You still gonna be able to go out tonight?" she asked.

"Of course. What would you like to do?"

"Umm." She was spontaneously shy, felt like she was in tenth grade again with breasts too small to warrant a bra except for the damned advent of her nipples.

"We could catch a movie or something."

She felt a moist blur at the line of her mouth. She normally wasn't the shy one -- he was. She was the one speaking to a crowd, giggling through a ridiculous story, rounding herself into acrobatic stunts to cheer the party.

In this arena, though, if he took off his glasses and reached over her to set them on the bamboo-colored nightstand, she'd get a mauve stain on her cheeks and her neck and would bashfully reach out, waiting for him...

When he finally arrived, she saw him from the landing at the top of the stairs, his eyes tipped upwards, his hair combed out of the way in the lengthy claw of his fingers, his belt buckled hinting to the left side of his zipper. He tended to make this horrified gimmick of a face if his zipper got stuck, maybe even when it wasn't really stuck, to make her laugh.

His eyes moved in the otherwise still portrait of him as she came down the stairs.

Then, he placed a hand on her plaid hip, patted there a few times before he could say, "This is...um, mmm. Nice. It's nice." He looked up then from addressing the slender peak of her hip, into her dolled eyes, just as she had anticipated. Had he sailed through the compliment and guided her out the door, her fever would have plummeted.

Not an hour later, in the car, in the passenger's seat, buckled in properly and concealing his mad, thirsty fingers the same way she had in the theater, she realized she had no idea what they had attempted to watch. He shifted the car into gear and helmed it with his left hand. With both of her hands, she tempted him. She loosened his belt and unzipped his pants barely enough to get what she was after; and then, she touched him through the taut, cotton peak of his briefs. She knew by now that he didn't have a hair trigger, that she could carouse this nether patch all she wanted, so she primed him, her fingers tickling along his shaft and twirling in the widow's peak where the blood-packed tip of his dick began.

He didn't live far from the theater.

Slinging pebbles into the evergreen grass, he parked on the side of the house. His house was empty -- sounds bouncing off ceramic tile, a lemon light protruding from the corner of an otherwise evening-gray den. He guided her through it, around the corner, down the short hallway, into the bathroom with its vast, celebrity mirror.

She saw herself. She saw him behind her, his hands peeking around her hips as he lifted her skirt and slid her silkies down her thighs. Saw him jerk the last of his zipper. That unmistakable, wanting scowl on his face that sometimes made her giggle nervously -- but not tonight -- that seemed to assert, "I'm serious. Don't play with me."

He started to fold his glasses into their preordained thirds, set them on the sink counter beside her. She usually got wetter when she saw that motion, but tonight, she said, "Leave 'em on."

He stopped before they touched the Formica. "You don't care?"

"Uh-uh. I like 'em."

He slid them back on, blinked as his eyes refocused on the mirror, on the sight of her bent over in front of him. He said, "I like them, too."

He flipped her skirt-tail up, then sort of stumbled. She hoped he was feeling as dizzy as she, getting to see her as he took her.

The sound was: "Uhn!" and it pushed up and out of her. Her head drooped for a moment, then her eyes affixed to the mirror again. He plunged in her. Both of them grabbed for a handhold on the counter. He planted himself and pounded inside her, as deep as he could, wanting her to envelope every bit of him, wanting her, wanting her walls and her depth and her--

Her foot slammed on the floor, and she said, "That's it, baby."

She watched his face change shading. She had waited as patiently as she could for this, and she was going to drain him. She reached behind her and pinched the summery flesh of his hip in her hand, felt him plead with her body, felt the craving in the flinch of his hips.

His hand spasmed on her right breast, slunk back helplessly.

"You want to see 'em?"

His nod was buoyant.

She raked down the neck of her shirt and both sheer, lacy cups of her bra until her small, ripened plums jiggled above those constraints. She watched them jump -- happy -- as he fucked her.

She angled herself more upright and thus angled his cock toward the flint in her that he sparked. She rubbed that salivating spot inside her up and down and up on the bloom of his dick, ground on him. She watched the awe-struck downcast of his eyes as she reaped everything she wanted from him, gave herself what she deserved for not scuffing a bruise on her clit today, gave him an eyeful.

He asked, "Do you know...how sexy you are?"

She grinned at him. "Yeah."

She took him until everything in her slammed to a halt. Her cunt latched onto him, hard, demanding one more thrust; then she spilled in a pool, forward, onto the countertop. Her eyes bobbed up to watch him finish, head down, then all the way back.

He had waited. Nice guy.

They slumped to the criss-cross pattern of the vinyl. Their shoulders rocked with every exhale. They idled down. They breathed in this re-imagined potion of air, mixed with sweat and the musk of their cum.

After a few hours, days, something, she said, "I looove you."

He said, "I, I, uh, I..." Laughed. He'd told her he loved her a million and three times, had once floated it up to her when he was tipsy at a party and she was walking up the staircase, and she had mimed snatching the words out of the indoor sky, and they had been ostracized momentarily as sapped-out, quasi-married drips. Hadn't cared. Now, he said, "I worship you."

He wrapped his arm around her, and they both closed their eyes, drifted lazily in their self-created whirlpool, satisfied and spent.

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