"Hold yourself open, now, girl." She rocked a little back and forth on her heels, demand-y, but reached both hands around and parted that p.u.s.s.y for me. I bent down, bent in, and took one good long lick, smearing my face on her and making her cry out like she was warming up. You know that kind of groan a girl makes when it starts to get sweet, and then the "Un-ooh-ah?" when you stop what was making them groan so good-I invented that s.h.i.t, so it didn't phase me. We were gonna get to where she needed to go. I yanked open the fasteners on the back of my tutu and pulled it off, then, slow, balanced myself and got steady on my platforms, just like Shar says in The Femme's Guide. I pushed my c.o.c.k into her, a little in, then out, then a little more, wetting it all up.

You see how we study what you're doing when you're working so hard over us? Then we do it better.

And oh, s.h.i.t, that b.i.t.c.h, she started screaming-but why was it m.u.f.fled? I slid all the way in and looked up, saw she had her face pressed into the leather. Oh no. I put one hand on her hip, and grabbed the knot of hair that the chopsticks held together, yanked her head up by it, and started to f.u.c.k her for real.

"Let it go, Zora-come on," and f.u.c.k if she didn't let loose, bucking back into me like she did this all the G.o.dd.a.m.n time. And we rode.

"Wait wait wait stop come out," Zora rambled after many minutes of this, just as I was dropping down into a zone. She bent around to look at me, face drenched, hair half undone, eyes rac.o.o.ned, and when I pulled out, she shoved off her skirt til it pooled at her feet, stepped out of it, and then she slid down off the horse and laid herself down on the cement.

Did you hear me? On the cement.

One of Zora's b.r.e.a.s.t.s had popped free from the top of the bustier and was pinched tight and flat. She spread her legs wide, all the way open, yes, heels still on, every bit as hot as I have ever wanted to look for a lover. So much longing dripped off her gaze that I felt entirely inadequate. I wanted to open the door, yank in the first butch I saw and set her to work so Z could get the f.u.c.king she so clearly deserved.

But I had made a promise, hadn't I? I knelt down on the concrete, knees already bruising, thanked some Kali-Ma/Kwan-Yin/Mother- f.u.c.king-Mary and every other femme-G.o.ddess for the foresight to have started doing Pilates again a few months previously, and slicked my c.o.c.k back into her.

Before she could fill my ears entirely with her screams, I said, "You help, Zora. Get your hands back to work. I know how much attention your c.l.i.t needs." Zora slid her hands across my shoulders, then pulled open my shirt and cupped my t.i.ts, easing them out of my bra so she could yank and pull at my nipples. I f.u.c.ked her harder, groaning, "Oh, s.h.i.t, Zora, please, your hands, get them down there-" So she moved one hand, the b.i.t.c.h, and ministering to her c.l.i.t as I slammed my hips into hers, all the while working slow feathery gentle strokes across my fat nipple.

Sure enough, her p.u.s.s.y's grip around Mz Big Red got tight and tighter the closer Zora came to coming. When she went over, she let go of my t.i.t, thank G.o.d, grabbing hard at my a.s.s, bruising me, yes, while she bucked and bucked and bucked.

I slowed when she quieted, heard screaming on the other side of the door and knew the contest had finally started. Zora panted under me, pulling me down to her face with her p.u.s.s.y-slick hands and kissed me again. "What do you want, Althea?" she asked, feeding me her fingers.

And that was how I got to ride home on Zora's hot strong fist and forearm, shouting to the high heavens along with everyone else in the place, though my heights had to do with much more than camp and bouffants. Girls have gotta do for each other sometimes, don't we now. s.h.i.t, that's what solidarity is all about.

"We have all been little pitchers with big ears, shooed out of the kitchen when the unspoken is being spoken, and we have probably all been tale-bearers, blurters at the dinner table, unwitting violators of adult rules of censorship. Perhaps this is what writers are: those who never kicked the habit. We remained tale-bearers. We learned to keep our eyes open, but not to keep our mouths shut."

- Margaret Atwood Norman Armstrong Bio Norman Armstrong has degrees in writing fields from three California universities but had to put aside his real love to earn a living. He is now a retired civil servant living in Germany, with long forays in San Francisco. He is currently working on an anthology of stories-Do Tell-about U.S Military personnel, of which "G.o.d's Country" is an excerpt.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? It was a subject I had some familiarity with, and after a career of writing third-person nonfiction government doc.u.ments where I had to remain completely anonymous and impersonal as a writer, I wanted to inject some personality into my writing. s.e.x seemed an ideal subject in which to do so.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? I love the ERC! It's full of smart, insightful ladies who are my only audience-and we all write for an audience, no matter what we say. They find things in my writings-especially humor-that I didn't realize were there. I arrange my visits to SF to get my creative batteries recharged with the ERC.

Do you write under your own name? Writing under my own name-certainly not! Having a nom de plume is a long-standing literary tradition-from the Earl of Oxford and "William Shakespeare," to Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin and "George Sand," to John Preston and "Mike McCray" and "Preston MacAdam." I wanted my name to reflect the same clean-cut American attributes I gave to my characters, hence the name of two well-known American heroes-Neil Armstrong and "Jack Armstrong, All-American Boy."

What's the inside scoop on your story? Originally I was going to write a story about a young soldier on leave in SF who winds up shooting a p.o.r.n movie, like many p.o.r.n movies that advertise their partic.i.p.ants as being fresh off the military base. But first I needed to have a story for the p.o.r.n movie to be about, and when I wrote the antecedent story, the older sergeant wound up becoming the dominant character, possibly because I knew the perfect actor to play him when "G.o.d's Country" is made into a p.o.r.n movie: Allen Silver of HotOlderMale.com. Thanks for the inspiration, Allen!

G.o.d's Country (Excerpt) Norman Armstrong He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock, that shelters a dry thirsty land ...

Old Hymn The CO sent out three patrols that morning-one South, one West, and one North. Our orders were simple: recon the area within a 24-hour riding range for a suitable location to set up an Army post here in this new Arizona Territory, which now belonged to the United States of America rather than the Mexicans. Look for water, elevation, protection from the G.o.d-awful sun-and Indians. And report back by the next evening, 1800 hours.

We all left the camp before sunrise to avoid the heat as much as possible; I was a.s.signed to go North with Private Petersen, which was good; we'd seen some purple hills to the Northwest-if they weren't mirages in the heat. Hills meant water-maybe-and maybe somewhere cooler. As for Private Petersen, he was one of our youngest, and newest, troops (he'd joined the unit just before we took off out of Texas)-although his thick blond beard and moustache made him look older. He was also one of our sharpest recon men; he could tell things just from looking at rocks-and Arizona had a lot of rocks. On the downside, he didn't talk much. But I could have drawn a worse partner for the patrol-a lot worse.

Petersen and I rode along at a pretty leisurely pace, generally going North, not saying much, just looking, listening, getting the lay of the land. When I looked at my pocket-watch, it was about nine; we'd been riding for three hours, the landscape hadn't changed much, the hills didn't seem to be getting any nearer-and that Arizona sun was already getting pretty hot. Plus, I had on a set of those f.u.c.kin' wool long johns the U.S. government issued to all its soldiers, regardless of the climate; I was itching everywhere under my equally-regulation wool uniform. "These long johns are h.e.l.l, aren't they?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let's stop and take a p.i.s.s." "Yes, sir."

We pulled the horses up by one of the big cactuses that offered the only shade available, dismounted, unb.u.t.toned, and p.i.s.sed, facing away from each other. There wasn't much privacy in the Army, but you at least didn't have to p.i.s.s in front of your partner.

"Sergeant?" "Yes, Petersen?"

"Do you hear something? Like water running?" "No ... can't say that I do."

"I do-off to the West ... and the ground is sloping a little here ... like it might be leading down to a gully or something ... there might be water there."

"Well, let's find out, Private." We mounted up and turned West-the sun to our backs-and followed the slope of the ground. The slope gradually became more obvious. A wall of sheer rock started rising up on our right, and then the gully turned to the right-and we were in the shade of that wall-and then I heard the sound of running water as well-Petersen was right! The slope got rapidly steeper, so we dismounted and let the horses lead, knowing they would follow the smell of the water; the gully gradually opened up into a full gorge with cliffs of rust-colored rock rising up on both sides of it-and in the distance in front of and below us-if it wasn't a mirage-was the shimmer of a body of water at the base of the cliff that was now sheltering us. We descended the steep side of the gully slowly for maybe half an hour, until we reached the relatively level floor of the gorge. And within a few minutes we found a little stream-very little; we could wade across it.

"It's gotta come from that pool we saw as we were coming down. But I still hear water running-and this little trickle isn't making that noise."

"Yes, sir."

We let the horses drink, then knelt at the stream and drank ourselves; the water was sweet and cold. When we got up, Private Petersen held his hands together for just a minute, bowed his head and mumbled something. The boy was religious!?! Like I said, he didn't say much, so I didn't know much.

We mounted the horses again and rode upstream, maybe a mile, and then we came to the pool-no mirage!-and saw the water spurting out of the side of the cliff and falling into the pool, the sound we-or more correctly, Private Petersen-had heard back on top of the b.u.t.te when we had stopped. Suddenly I felt old-even if I had just turned 40 a few months before; Petersen had out-scouted me, no sense denying it! He'd heard the water and I hadn't!

But I put the philosophizing aside for the moment. Cool, clear water and all of it I could possibly drink-or bathe in. Bathe! Yeah! We walked the horses out on the flat rock shelf to the edge of the pool and let them drink again. Then we got down on our knees and drank a little more ourselves. Private Petersen went through the same little spiel when we got up-a quick clasping of hands, bowing of head and a mumble, and it was over.

"Let's find something here for the horses to feed on, and then we're going to get out of these itchy uniforms and take a nice long dip in this water." I didn't wait for a response, just grabbed my horse by the bridle and led him to the south end of the pool where the rock shelf gave way to earth and some small trees and green plants. I put a hobble on his front legs so he could graze but not run away; Private Petersen did the same.

"Now, Private, let's take care of ourselves." I walked back to the rock shelf-to a little rise, sort of, in the middle that you could see from all around-lay down my rifle, threw down my cap, sat down, pulled off my boots and socks, my tunic, then stood up and dropped my pants and stripped out of those h.e.l.lish long johns-I was not going to put those back on today-and tossed them on top of the rest of my gear. I was naked! For the first time in weeks I was fully and freely naked! It felt great! I stood and stretched-up to my tiptoes, then held my hands up to the sky like I was some Holy Roller back in Virginia, gave a good healthy yell and started down toward the water. Only then did I become aware that Private Petersen, rather than stripping down with me, was just standing there, still in full uniform, looking at me with a strange expression on his face.

"What are you waiting for, Private? Drop those duds and let's cool off "But, sir ..."

"You can drop the military courtesy for the time being, Petersen; it's not required when the personnel involved are barea.s.s-and you are going to get yourself barea.s.s and enjoy this water, aren't you?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but ..." Petersen was nervous; he was turning red behind his beard and moustache, and I could see sweat on his face, even though we were in the shade of the cliff; he was trying to look me in the eye, but his eyes kept slipping down ... to about the level of my d.i.c.k, which was celebrating its own liberation from those itchy long johns by getting itself ready to stand up and salute-I could feel the heat, the growing heaviness between my legs; I didn't have to look down to see what was happening.

"What's the matter, Petersen? Haven't you ever seen a grown man naked before?"

"Uh ... yes, sir."

"Well then, what's the problem?" " I ... I ..."

"Are you embarra.s.sed? About what? You've got the same equipment I do, don't you-two b.a.l.l.s and a hunk of meat hanging between your legs. It's nothing to be embarra.s.sed about."

I don't run around showing my "hunk of meat" off ... but ... there's a time and a place ... and this seemed to be both. I spread my legs a little and threw open my arms so Private Petersen could take a good look at me. I didn't look too bad for being 40. Body still in good shape: broad chest-although most of my chest hair had turned silver, matching what I had on my head and face-and I still had a good firm stomach and waist; most of the trousers the Army issued me hung on me pretty loose while the tunics were sort of tight. And my legs were nice and muscular from holding a horse between them all the time-I mean, a real horse, although what I had between my legs had been compared a few times in my life to a horse, but that was mostly by wh.o.r.es, and wh.o.r.es are part of an ancient and honorable profession, but that didn't mean you should take as gospel everything they told you either-before or after you paid them. Partner knew he was on display, even if it wasn't for the usual reason he got shown off-there wasn't a woman in hundreds of miles-and kept right on growing to attention ... with even more enthusiasm. I still didn't look down; I knew what he looked like when he got happy-about eight inches, and good thick inches. I just kept looking at Private Petersen; I was showing him my body-and my hard-on went with it. I was sure he'd seen one of those before, too, at least his own. But he was acting sort of like a virgin ... I wondered ... but the s.e.x life of my soldiers was none of my business ...

After a minute or so of watching me standing there barea.s.s, showing my stuff, the expression on Petersen's face changed ... took on some determination ... like when a soldier gets a mission a.s.signment ... he turned away from me and practically marched up the incline to where I'd thrown my gear. He lay down his rifle, sat down, pulled off his boots and socks, set the boots neatly side by side, stood up again, took off his cap, put it down carefully next to his boots, then pulled off his tunic, folded it, placed it carefully over his rifle, pulled off his trousers, folded them, put them neatly on top of his tunic, unb.u.t.toned his long johns ... and then modestly turned his back toward me as he pulled them off his shoulders, down over his a.s.s-G.o.d d.a.m.n!-and then bent over-I d.a.m.ned G.o.d again-and pulled them off over his ankles. He picked them up, folded them neatly and put them on top of his trousers, then leaned over again-this time I thanked G.o.d rather than d.a.m.ning him-picked up his hat and put it on top of his neat pile of clothing, like he was preparing for inspection. Then he turned around and faced me, his hands modestly over his crotch.

To be real blunt about it, he was beautiful. The curly golden hair on his head and his face-it descended down his broad chest, his slim white body, his long shapely legs, in an unbroken wave of golden fur; he radiated light-like the clouds in one of the spectacular sunrises we'd been seeing every morning. This time I praised G.o.d rather than just thanking Him; underneath that scratchy Army uniform was the Glory of the Lord-or close enough. I stood staring for a long moment; he looked back at me ... uncomfortable ... but determined ... a man on a mission-although I wasn't sure what the mission was.

Finally I remembered to breathe. I started to say something, but my throat was dry, despite the water I'd just drunk. I cleared it and tried again. "You ... you can't stand there all day with your hands over your d.i.c.k, Petersen. You might as well let me see it and get it over with."

"Yes, sir." He moved his hands away and put them behind him-parade rest; a natural position for a soldier. Talk about the Glory of the Lord! My eyes were beholding it! Private Petersen's d.i.c.k was pink ... and long ... nine inches? ... and hard ... very hard. It sprang up from between his legs like it had some place to go, something to do, in a hurry, and then settled down to about 90 degrees to survey the territory around it-like a good Army scout.

"Well ... you look good and healthy." "Yes, sir."

"Bet you've made a lot of women happy with that."

"No, sir. That'd be a-whorin', and that's an abomination. The Bible says so."

Abomination ... there was a word I hadn't heard for a while. "Well, at least one or two special ones; a shame not to share a gift like what the Good Lord has blessed you with; remember the parable of the talents." I can talk religion when I have to.

"No, sir ... I haven't." "Not one?"

"No, sir." His voice got very soft, and his face lost some of its determination, and he looked young and ... I felt a twinge somewhere in my chest ... maybe in the area of my heart. "Not one."

What a waste-what a f.u.c.kin' waste-literally.

"Then I bet you've left a string of broken hearts behind you." "Just one, sir." Again, the voice was very soft. "Mine."

"You do not have to be good."

- Mary Oliver

(from "Wild Geese")

Eugenia Mills Bio Even more than crafting the story itself, Eugenia Mills particularly enjoys the field research. A chef and creator in a variety of areas of design and writing, she's also proud mother to a young adult daughter. Currently, she divides her time between Canada and Mexico.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? How does it differ from non-erotic writing? The erotic stories I write are all semi-autobiographical. So, first I make a good story, then I put it into words. This is certainly much easier to write than fiction, as the only imagination involved was what took place in the field, as it were! The main struggle with erotic writing, I find, is coming up with descriptive language that is hot, just dirty enough, and flows naturally.

How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? Discovering the ERC was a revelation. It was a delight to share my writing with others who don't struggle with the negative reactions and judgements that others may find themselves having to get past before being able to discuss the quality of the writing itself.

Do you write under your own name? Why or why not? Do you have any concerns about publishing erotic work? Much as I'd like to write under my own name, the internet allows no room for privacy so I thought it best not to.

What's the inside scoop on your story? Names have been changed to protect the privacy of the partic.i.p.ants. Otherwise, it's 99% true.

It Just Takes Practice Eugenia Mills There wasn't anything particularly hot about her-she was pretty average looking, in fact. Medium height, average body, short brown hair-kind of cute, I guess, but not the type I'd normally go for. There was just something about the way she strode onto the elevator and confronted all the bored faces staring back at her. She grinned, like she was in on a joke that no one else had heard, and there was this kinda s.e.xy c.o.c.kiness about her att.i.tude. Obviously it did something for me-my hard-on tented up the crotch of my pants. Luckily I was carrying my laptop bag.

I had been running late and had forgotten to put panties on. I rarely wear dresses but my boss had specifically requested that I "present myself formally" for the meeting, so I was making my best attempt at femme. It was warm enough for late October to not wear pantyhose, but I'd debated it for a minute anyway: I'd bought them specifically, thinking they were probably required to satisfy the "formal" criteria. Truth is though, I would have been yanking at them awkwardly all day long, so instead I'd checked my calves for stubble, then shoved my feet into my shoes and ran out of the house. In my haste and indecision, I forgot to put panties on. Now, after sitting for two uncomfortable hours in a sticky, vinyl-upholstered chair in the client's boardroom, I can feel that the warmth has separated my p.u.s.s.y hairs into damp, curling tendrils. I was just thinking about this sensation as I stepped onto the elevator, when a guy in back caught my eye. I met his gaze firmly-hoping to telepathically let him in on my little secret-then, like everyone else, I turned to face the elevator doors.

As I followed her out into the street, I wasn't exactly sure what I planned to do. She was much older than me-was I taking a stupid risk? But as I walked behind her watching the silky fabric slide against her hips and a.s.s with no sign of a panty line, all I could think was that I wanted to get under that dress.

I can tell I am being watched. I throw my shoulders back; my hips sway a little more enticingly for the benefit of my audience. I admit it-I'm a bit of an exhibitionist. I am pretty sure who it is, and cast a quick glance back to confirm. Yes, it's the guy from the elevator, and he is close behind ... now what? He seems pretty young ... I can't quite say how young from that brief moment when I first spotted him, but best to keep walking.

She has pa.s.sed the building where I work as concierge. Now what? Do I keep following her? I hesitate and pull my cell phone out of my pocket. s.h.i.t-it's 1:40. I have gone overtime on my lunch break. I glance down the street and see her turn the corner. I guess that's it. As I get closer to the revolving doors, I can see my boss standing in the lobby. Better get back to work.

I'm about to turn the corner to where my car is parked. With another quick look over my shoulder, I see him turn into the doorway of a building. I pause, then double back.

She's standing outside the window. I check my boss' status-he's chatting up a hot condo resident he's been obsessing about lately. He'll be distracted for a while. I wave and beckon her in, and she responds with a hint of that same grin I'd noticed earlier. My c.o.c.k immediately reacts. She approaches the reception desk where I sit with my hard-on now straining at the seams of my pants. I'd love for her to know how hard she's made me, but instead of being so blatant, I write my name and phone number on a card, and slide it across the counter to her. I have to see you, I say. OK, she replies, and leaves without another word.

Peter 455-6737. It's a little after 8pm and my daughter is in bed asleep. I have dialed the first 6 digits. Of course he wants to f.u.c.k me and I am not only curious, but also increasingly desperate as a single mom with a small child at home. I press the last digit: 7. He answers almost immediately. My thumb is ready on the "end call" b.u.t.ton, but the tingle between my legs says keep going.

"I want to taste you." That is exactly what I want, so I tell her right away. I don't feel like messing around with chitchat. I want her to know what I want and why I want it. My girlfriend thinks oral s.e.x is disgusting. I can f.u.c.k her all I want, missionary style, but I am her first and she is shy. That's what she says, anyway. I try to explain all this to this strange woman. I am nervous and excited and it all comes out in one long sentence. I tell her that I need to know if there is something I can do to make my girlfriend love it. She tells me her name is Maggie.

Perhaps giving him my real name wasn't the best idea, this guy who claims he only wants to test his skills and pleasure me with his tongue and fingers. Nothing for himself! He says his girlfriend doesn't want it; he needs to know if it's because he's doing something wrong. I'd have to a.n.a.lyze that, I say. When are you available? He tells me his work schedule-he can get here by 10:15 almost any weeknight. Come Wednesday, I say, simply because it is the one night my daughter spends at her father's-and I give him my address. I will wait for you on the second floor deck, I tell him. I hear his nervous exhale through the receiver as he replies, OK, Wednesday. And we say goodbye.

I can't concentrate. It's Wednesday and all I can think about is what she might taste like, feel like. I have a perpetual hard-on. At 9:30 I break into a sweat, suddenly wondering if I am crazy. I could be putting myself at risk of total humiliation. Now it's 10pm and I am on my bike. It seems to know where I want to go. My mind has turned to mush and I'm glad the route is straightforward. Adrenaline surges through me, and I pedal furiously, racing through amber lights and near-misses as a door opens from a parked car. I'm barely fazed, as my body buzzes with feverish antic.i.p.ation.

He should be here soon. I am confident he will come; for some crazy reason I trust the vibe I got from him. My tenants are home downstairs; I've placed the phone next to me with their number on speed dial. I love an adventure, but you never know, right? I am wearing a skirt, no panties, of course, and have folded up a large thick blanket to cushion his knees. Trying to ignore the anxious flutterings in my belly, I sit back and sip my gla.s.s of wine.

I lock my bike to the fence in front of her house. She had said to go in the front door and upstairs to the second floor. Why stop now? The door is unlocked, just as she'd said it would be. I can practically taste her and hope for a full, dark bush concealing a salty sea-clam. I can't wait to bury my nose in it and dip my tongue in deep. I take the stairs two at a time, run my fingers back through my hair, feeling the dampness of a light sweat. Fortunately, the evening is cool.

Neither of us speaks. He immediately kneels at my feet, his breath coming quick on my thighs as he lifts my skirt. I suspect he took the stairs running. He slides his hands gingerly up my inner thighs and murmurs, So soft. I hope he doesn't mind a full bush-Brazilians and landing strips are just not my thing, but I do keep myself trimmed. At the gym, I notice more and more women with their mounds bare as the day they were born-this strange girl-child aesthetic seems to have become the ideal, but to me, it's pervy in all the wrong ways. Plus, it must be torture when it begins to grow in ... but these thoughts are distracting me from the moment. He hasn't wasted one precious second getting down to business-the end of his nose nuzzles my c.l.i.t and his tongue is all over my opening, lapping like a kitten at a bowl of milk. I slide down in my chair to open myself to him more and he responds with longer licks, his tongue flat, soaking me. He teases my a.s.shole with the tip of his tongue; my c.u.n.t is opening, throbbing.

I wish I could see better, but the fabric of her skirt is blocking out the dim light from the lanterns on her deck. She smells amazing-clean, but not perfume-y-with a sweet saltiness like the Raspberry Point oysters I stole from the c.o.c.ktail party I worked at last summer. That briny taste of the sea and the slippery-soft texture of the flesh stayed with me. Her bush is just as I'd hoped and the soft springy hairs add to the delicious sensations as they tickle my lips and cheeks. I think I must possess some kind of superpower to have detected this perfect p.u.s.s.y on a perfect stranger who would end up so willing. I spread her lips apart with both hands and dive in deep. She moans quietly.

He's not doing a thing wrong. This, in fact, is the best d.a.m.n licking I've had by man or beast. He has my c.l.i.t between his lips and is tugging and sucking, like he's blowing a tiny little c.o.c.k. It's having a similar effect; I feel the heat of blood rushing to the tiny area, swelling my c.l.i.t like a mini hard-on. Between his saliva and my juices, a pool of wetness has gathered in the crack of my a.s.s, soaking the fabric of my skirt where my tailbone presses into the seat-cushion of the chair. Should I warn him when I am about to gush? No. If he doesn't know how to respond with appreciation, it's time he learned. How many times have I had to handle a load of bitter come suddenly filling my mouth? Then I realize I can't even picture what he looks like, so I reach down and weave my fingers through his hair in the hopes that the feel of it will help me recall his face.

She has her fingers in my hair, pulling my face into her. I love her insistence, and the way she is grinding into me. She seems to be really into it, and her juices are soaking my chin as I work her c.l.i.t hard with my teeth and lips. Never tried this technique before, but it seems to be working well.

Seriously, isn't he going to want to get off My mind fl to the weirdness of this situation. How in h.e.l.l did I end up with such ... service? Again I remind myself to lie back and just enjoy, wondering why it is so hard for me to be selfish. I turn to my usual technique for dealing with the distraction of my thoughts: I take a slow, deep breath into my core, in the hope of shifting my energy from my mind back down to my c.u.n.t where it belongs. I pant lightly, making my diaphragm and pelvis pulse with each inhale/exhale. His tongue is now full-on inside me; this guy seems eager to bring it home. Despite those moments of wandering thoughts, my body knows what's good, and responds with hot, hungry desire. I want to be f.u.c.ked so badly-if he'd just give it to me with his fingers, four, or ... mmm ... oh G.o.d ... his fists! Are his hands big? I don't remember. I just want to be filled. f.u.c.k me! I am screaming in my head.

Should I use my fingers inside her? Now that we are in the middle of things I am not sure where the boundaries are. I want to feel all the warmth and wet, but I'd have to take my mouth away and I just want to taste her more. She is humping my face now, her hips off the chair, back arching. I want to get inside, so the h.e.l.l with it, I just will. Let her slap me if she wants to. I don't want to be disrespectful, but I want so bad to make her come. Her c.u.n.t is wide open; one finger seems lost in there so I go for it with all four. She moans loudly and is f.u.c.king my hand, opening more, then contracting around my fingers, tight and hot. I am so hard, so excited, I'd give anything to f.u.c.k her, but this is what I asked for and I am getting it good.

I didn't have to tell him what I wanted, and I glance down to see him seemingly mesmerized by what he's got going on. I am pumping at his fingers with my greedy c.u.n.t and when he leans down to drag his tongue over my c.l.i.t I go right over the edge. An explosion of color behind my eyes: a psychedelic swirl of vivid reds, orange, purple ... I am so close. He gets it and keeps pushing me, licking and sucking while his fingers fill me and I am humping back at him, hard. His thumb is in my a.s.shole now and I push myself up on my hands so I can get more thrust. He comes back at me voraciously, knowing not to let up. My whole body is vibrating and hot, my c.l.i.t is pulsating, burning. A sound starts to roll through my diaphragm like thunder-I hear it in my head like it is in the distance. I ... am ... going ... to ....

Holy s.h.i.t-her c.u.n.t opens so wide that there is a void around my fingers and for a moment I think I could fit my entire hand inside her. Then, just as suddenly, every single muscle squeezes back down, tight. Before I can think about whether I should pull out, I discover I have no choice. She is coming with a force I've only seen acted out in p.o.r.n. Like a geyser, hot liquid streams from her c.u.n.t, soaking my face, my chest. And all this is accompanied by a sound that comes not from her throat, but deeper down in her belly, like the pa.s.sionate roar of an animal in heat. I am literally floored.

Catching my breath. He is sitting at my feet. Peter. No indication of shock or disgust-bonus points for that. He is caressing my calves, and, after a few minutes says: Should I go? I don't know what would happen if he were to stay so I tell him yes. You did nothing wrong. Nothing at all, I tell him. I hope he can see that I am smiling I am exhausted, even the act of turning my lips up at the corners seems to take more energy than I have left.

Is it ok to want more? Practice, I mean. Truth is, I really love my girlfriend. All I want is to make her happy. Is there anything wrong with that? I look down at Maggie, her skirt is still pulled up, and her p.u.b.es are all damp and matted down. She seems spent, a little dazed, and I have a pretty good feeling she is satisfied, considering the puddle on the floor. I want to ask when I can do her again, but instead I ask her if I should go. When she tells me I did a good job, it spills out: When can I do it again?

Come back any time, I smile. You definitely need more practice.

Joy West Bio Joy West speaks s.e.x, sensuality, and fluent feline. She writes about salt and thirst, Frida Kahlo's braids, and the scamper of an armadillo. Her work appeared in Labyrinth, eyelevel and Art Matters; she has been a featured reader at The Last Word and the Painted Bride reading series in Philadelphia.

Mini-Interview How did you start writing about s.e.x? I write about s.e.x so that I remember I want to f.u.c.k. While writing, I find longing and fill my wounds with ink. My libido, my drive for skin and intimacy, is often on a long leash-she wanders off and winds herself around trees. I try to walk forward but she yanks; I hear her yapping behind me, sometimes growling for attention. I wish I could untether myself from this desire beast but she is mine and I am her: lone wolf, Shepherd, and lap dog. Writing helps me face the teeth and s...o...b..r of my little b.i.t.c.h, Libido.

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