Shifting my hold on my legs, I rested my chin on my knees. After my party jitters and the panic attack and the . . . whatever my extreme reaction to watching Pinky perform fellatio on her knees was about, I was exhausted. But as the silence settled in the wake of Papa’s departure, I found myself starting to rethink my life decisions up to this moment.
I was alone in the darkness, in a very private place being used by others for very private things, adjacent to a party filled with who knew how many drunken boys now. I was under no illusions that the dry bar rule meant nobody had brought their own alcohol; there were probably at least two or three tapped kegs somewhere and lots of open bottles. Anything could be in the red cups everyone was carrying.
And I wasn’t David anymore, six-foot-two with nothing to fear physically. Rex was David, Papa was David, I was just a not quite five-foot-nothing wisp of a girl, and being so small sucked and . . . And nothing, this isn’t the Eighteenth Century. A girl found alone wasn’t considered fair game, not here, not even by drunk high school students. For me to be at risk here, really, I’d have to be drunk myself, too drunk to stop some equally drunk boy who thought I’d given consent. So get a grip.
But what if I was found by some big boy really too drunk or stoned to hear a “No!” My tired, stressed-out brain promptly populated the dark silence with big stoned wandering horndogs, and I grabbed my phone. I’d been stupid, before; I could have texted Carl. It would take at least twenty minutes for him to come back and pick me up, plenty of time for me to have calmed down.
I texted him now.
He texted back:
Sighing, I put the phone away. And went back to jumping at shadows. God, this is stupid. Knowing that didn’t help and I froze as one set of footsteps approached and then faded down what must have been another path. I found myself listening intently, as if I could differentiate steps and know which was Papa’s.
There? No, that was a pair of them—I couldn’t imagine Papa bringing anyone with him if he wasn’t sure I was ready to face the public yet. And they stopped with muffled giggles; maybe finding their own nook? More footsteps—sounding heavy. I swallowed, tightening my grip on my legs. Idiot, idiot, idiot. The self-talk didn’t help and I listened harder, looking for any assurance, and then relaxed. It was him. I didn’t know how I knew but I did.
A few seconds later he came around the hedge, bottles in his hands, and I unwound into a puddle. “You can call me Hemingway,” I blurted. “I forgot to say that,” I finished lamely at his look.
He handed me one of the bottles. “Feeling better?”
I nodded, opening it and taking a sip. “I texted my dad, though. He’s coming to get me. It’s not—it’s not about Pinky and Lizard. It’s—” Well, fuck. He just sat there, expression open and concerned, and I sighed. “The reason I came back here in the first place is something freaked me out. I almost drowned. Recently. And now it looks like I’m aquaphobic.” I watched him make the connection in his head.
“The pool games.”
“Uh-huh. I didn’t know until now. Please don’t spread it around but seeing them dunking each other sent me into a panic attack. I had to get out of there.”
He shook his head, chuckling. “Just to run into Pinky and Lizard getting their wild on. But you’re okay? Can I take you to your dad?”
I smiled what felt like my first natural smile of the night. “Please and thank you.”
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And he did.
**********************************
Lying in bed after saying goodnight to May (she’d been waiting up and I’d been able to put on a smile for them, even made them laugh with my whole bartending story and new nickname), I stared at the ceiling. I needed to masturbate, God knew how hot watching Pinky and Lizard had gotten me, which was just bizarre since just remembering the sight and my reaction tightened a knot of panic in my chest. My pussy pulsed but my hands didn’t move.
Can’t sleep, can’t move, can’t . . . Closing my eyes I saw Lizard’s hard dick in front of my face, waiting for me to lick it, and my eyes flew open. God. I wanted to puke. I’d never wanted to puke without being sick before.
The minutes ticked by until I got out of bed and grabbed A Pillow Book. I’d ignored it for most of the month but now I decided I needed to . . . demystify?. . . what I’d seen in the garden. Or at least put it into some kind of context in my head. Turning to the chapter of calligraphied sex-positions, I found the stylized figures of a man and woman doing just what I’d seen. On the facing page was what I hadn’t seen, too late to catch Lizard licking Pinky to climax with his tongue. I hoped she’d enjoyed it; the woman in the illustration certainly seemed to though lying on the ground like that would be uncomfortable. After staring at the juxtaposed images of erotic pleasure for a while, I turned to the poetry chapter and read.
Sometimes
If the dance is long,
My body grows so tight that
When my release comes it shatters me completely.
Conquered utterly,
Reduced by my surrender
To shivering tears,
I am delightfully ravished and wholly mastered.
Craving escape, I am held fast as he ignores my tears
To master me once more,
And as I weep and tighten again
I think that I shall die.
I . . . didn’t like that one. At all. While coming crying looked like it was at least a sometime-thing for me (And how was a partner going to take that when it happened? Was it normal?), there was something in there. Reduced by my surrender. And wholly mastered, and her tears ignored in the last verse, the man leaving her with no control over her fate.
Like Lizard’s hands in Pinky’s hair. It felt wrong, rapey, and only tightened the knot in my chest.
Turning the pages, I read another one.
Eagerly,
Like a doe in her season I present my rump,
A tasty peach for his delight.
Pale pink fruit revealing flower and bud,
A bounty offered for his feast.
Oh, how I love to be devoured,
joyful offering to sateless appetite!
I read it again, my breath catching. Was this the scene I hadn’t seen? Had Pinky done that? Not spreading herself open on the ground but turning and offering herself to be eaten?
Imagining Lizard kneeling behind her as, panties down and short summer dress up around her waist, she opened herself up for his tongue, my nipples tightened into high hard points under my nightshirt. Pushing the blankets down I peeled the restricting top off and read the poem again, my fingers pinching and squeezing. A tasty peach for his delight.
Not thinking, I put the book aside and pulled my sleep shorts off, dropping them on my nightshirt. Rolling onto my stomach and going up on my knees with my face in my pillow I raised my rump—A bounty offered for his feast. Fingers still pinching, I ran my free hand up the inside of my leg, up and down, finally bringing it back to dip my fingers in my damp arousal and run them over my outer lips like a tongue as my pussy tightened.
Oh, how I love to be devoured.
It felt like I had a heart beating between my legs as I wet my fingers again and ran them up and down my hot labia, finally letting them slide into my opening crease to find my inner lips and clit hood. One finger teased my opening then dove in for short and shallow thrusts, rimming my entrance. I squirmed, settling my knees wider, my fingers on my proud nipple pinching, pinching. God.
My breath came faster, my body tightening, and I didn’t want it to end but couldn’t bear to stop. My pussy clenched as its pulsing became flutterings and I imaged Papa’s big hands gripping my thighs as his tongue moved faster, sweeping and dipping and—joyful offering to sateless appetite!—I came, and came, and came, shuddering, fingers moving without slowing, pushing harder even as ecstasy turned to hurting a little, sweeping, dipping, moving, until I was tightening again and coming again, crying this time, sobbing into my pillow.
It was being unable to fill my lungs that broke my motion and I collapsed onto my sheets, my body wracked with fading tremors. The pillow smelled of lavender, something that May had shown me how to spritz on my pillowcases and sheets, part of her secret project to feminize my tastes. At this rate, the scent might become an erotic trigger and the thought made me laugh breathlessly.
And . . . now that first poem made more sense. Eager surrender, delightfully ravished. Wanting and wanting and wanting, even when it felt too much.
Finally moving, I grabbed a warmed wipe (the wipe warmer had arrived long ago, a luxury thing with a sealed top to keep the little towelettes moist), cleaning myself before pulling my top and bottoms back on, barely managing to pull the blankets up before dropping into sleep.