Bitten: Dark Erotic Stories (13 page)

Seymour was so happy he jumped up and down. “That will be $25.99,” Larry said. “I won’t charge you tax.”

“Uh oh,” I said. “My mother only gave me twenty dollars.”

“That’s okay,” he answered. “You can have the snake for twenty dollars. My father owns the store.”

“Thanks so much,” I told him. We looked at each other again. I felt my eyelashes curling.

He started to speak, stuttering, “Er, er, er …” His face turned red. Finally he got out the words. “Would you like to go out sometime?”

* * *

Larry and I dated all summer. It was like a dream. We talked about everything. He thought my poems were wonderful. He wanted to be a writer, too. His interest was science fiction. He wanted to write about intergalactic space travel and machines that can think. He said one day there will be such things. He liked the movies as much as I did, and he liked taking long walks in the marshes.

I showed him the spot I went to with Jerome Rothman. Larry and I found our own spot, farther out along Jamaica Bay, near a clump of ailanthus trees.

We did a lot of things. We undressed each other and kissed everywhere. He sucked my nipples and I sucked his. He showed me how to do this, how to nurse and nibble there. His nipples tasted like salty peanuts and I couldn’t get enough of them. He kissed between my legs, found my clitoris, and sucked it as he did my nipples. He pushed his tongue down inside me, flicking it in and out. He said he had the tongue of a snake.

I took his prick in my hand. That is what he taught me to call it. He said “prick” is not a dirty word and that the word “fuck” isn’t dirty either. He liked it when I said
fuck me, fuck me,
and that is what he did between my legs with his tongue while I rubbed my fingers up and down on his prick until we both came.

We wanted to do more. We wanted to go all the way. Larry said we’d have to plan it on a Sunday when the pet store was closed, and we’d have the whole afternoon. We decided on the next Sunday.

I called Aunt Zippy and told her I was going to give my maiden-head to Larry Petchnick in a few days. I told her he was my true love with blue green eyes. She said she knew and it was about time. “Will it hurt very much?” I asked.

“Maybe,” was her answer, “but sometimes pain is the gateway to the greatest pleasure. You will understand this more when you’re older.” Before I hung up she said, “Wear a blue ribbon in your hair and the day will be fair.”

I said, “Thank you, Aunt Zippy,” and hung up.

On Sunday, we walked to our special spot holding hands. Larry had the plaid blanket from his bed around his neck. I had a bright blue ribbon woven through the braid in my hair.

Larry had a Trojan in his jeans pocket so we would be safe—the same kind of condom my father kept in his bed-table drawer.

When we got to our spot, he put the blanket down. We undressed each other and then sat down.

I was scared. I knew that once I gave up my maidenhead, I would be grown up, a real woman. I couldn’t go back to being a girl again. I would be crossing a great divide with a question mark on the other side. I wondered if I should break the silence between us by telling Larry I loved him. Before I could get the words out, he grabbed my arms and we joined in a kiss. He started to fuck my mouth with his tongue and I took his prick in my hand. What a big, purple prick my Larry had, so swollen it filled my palm.

I guided it between my legs as he lay on top of me. He licked my neck, my shoulder. He put his hand over my breasts, stroking, caressing. He was slow and tender at first but then he got rough, pulling my nipples, pinching them. I liked this even more, feeling waves of wanting spread out into every part of my body. His prick was so hot and heavy against my skin I thought it would break through. Larry put his hands on my breasts so that my nipples rested between his wedding ring fingers and his fuck-you fingers. Slowly he squeezed the fingers together and lifted his hand, pulling the rest of the tittie up, up, up. My body turned inside out and I became a giant pulsing vacuum, wanting him. I was delirious. My head thrashed from side to side and I heard myself say,
fuck me, fuck me
. I didn’t want his tongue now. I had to have his prick.

“Yes, yes,” Larry said, as he rose and got the condom from his jeans pocket. He sat cross-legged as he tore it open and slid it on, sheathing his prick in white. He kissed me again, a soft little kiss, my last kiss as a virgin.

I was lying on my back. I spread my legs for him; opened them wide into a
V
. Larry positioned himself above me, leaning himself on his elbows to spare me his full weight. I knew it was supposed to hurt, but I was not prepared for the sharp slice of pain as my maidenhead ripped open.

“Am I hurting you too much?” he asked. I found myself taking long, deep breaths.

“It’s okay,” I told him. He took it slow and soon it didn’t hurt as much anymore. As he moved inside me, his pelvis rubbed against my mound; it was as if he was rubbing my clitoris, sending sweet thrills down. I got wetter and wetter, going with him, lifting my hips up, pulling him deeper in. He was so deep inside me, I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began. Then, it happened. The heat joining us grew and grew until we exploded and melted together. I felt the way a shooting star looks when it streaks across the sky.

I thought I would hear music, like in the romance novels my mother liked to read. I didn’t hear any music, not even a violin. Larry was still inside me, but his prick was getting smaller. He kissed my eyes, pulled out of me, and rolled over on his back. He pulled the Trojan off and put it in the sand. With his T-shirt he gently wiped between my legs.

“Is there a lot of blood?” I asked.

“Nah,” he answered, “hardly any.” But when he put the shirt back on, there was a long, red stripe across his chest. “See,” he told me, “I’m wearing your brand. Wanna go for pizza?”

“Sure,” I said.

When I got home the family had already finished dinner. My mother was clearing the table.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“No,” I told her. “I had pizza with Larry.”

She took a good, long look at me. “All right,” she said, but her expression changed. I couldn’t read her.

That night I was too tired to watch
The Ed Sullivan Show
with my family. I climbed into bed and fell asleep right away. When I woke up the first rays of faint morning light were rising in the dark sky outside my window. I wanted to see the sky turn orange. I got up and stood in front of the window. When I looked down into our backyard I saw my mother kneeling barefoot in her nightgown, digging a hole next to the tomato plants. She took the purple pouch on the purple ribbon off over her neck and dropped it in. I watched her bury it, carefully tapping the earth down with both hands.

HISTORICAL INACCURACIES

Julia Talbot

“W
OW, THAT’S SOME WEAPON,
”
I said, nodding at her cleavage. The bodice of her fake Renaissance gown pushed her tits up and up, until they overflowed, and between them sat a little knife, its sheath tucked down her front.

“It’s a letter opener,” she said, lifting it out, the flash of brass ruining the illusion. “The only real daggers I have are back at my place, and they’re shoes.”

“I like them either way.”

The beauty patch on her cheek was fake, too. Her breasts weren’t. I found that out lying on her couch; it was one of those reproduction velvet fainting lounges. She lay back with her arms over her head and pointed those breasts at me, the tops firm with large pink nipples, the undersides full and just this side of too heavy.

“I like reenactment,” she said, spreading her legs, showing me neatly trimmed blonde pubic hair.

“So what is this?” I asked her, thinking of her Italianate gown and my hose and doublet. “Paolo and Francesca?”

“No,” she replied. “This is fucking.”

“I like fucking, too.”

I cupped her breasts in my hands and lifted them, testing the weight. Her nipples tasted like salt and heat and maybe a little like the cotton chemise she’d worn under the gown. I loved the way she let her sounds out, hot and loud, lusty like the Renaissance wench she’d resembled when I met her.

My cock rubbed the inside of her thigh, and she laughed, reaching down to feel me, rubbing my dick like there was no tomorrow. “You don’t need that codpiece, do you?” she asked, her thumb scraping the slit at the end of my cock.

“I like it anyway,” I said. “These hose don’t offer much protection.”

She felt ripe and wet as I slid inside her, her skin damp with sweat as we tussled. She was right about the fucking. Nothing like historical deja vu came from pushing into her over and over, my cock harder than her silly brass letter opener. When I came inside her, it was wholly new, and all about her.

I got to see those shoes a week later when she brought them to my place for some supper and striptease. Far more formidable than any false dagger, they raised her above me like some sort of goddess on a pedestal. Aphrodite in heels, a Greek myth for the modern age. They suited her far better than the cheap synthetic velvet of our last meeting, I told her, kneeling in front of her to worship properly.

“I left my half-shell at my condo,” she replied, pushing me back toward my own bed with the ball of one vinyl-clad foot. The spiked heel left an imprint on my nude chest. “Besides,” she added, “Greek and Roman really isn’t my period.”

“That’s all right,” I said, licking my lips as I took her ankle in my hand, her bare thigh rising above it like a feast of flesh. “Some weapons are timeless.”

The rest of the words we might have shared flew out of my head as I rubbed my cheek against her boot. The vinyl felt cool and slick, but soon warmed from the heat of my skin. I could hardly bear to wait to rub other things against them, but when I made as if to rise, she pushed me back down.

“Is that all I get?” she demanded. “I want some licking, buddy.”

God. I started at the base of the heel, working up along the back of the shaft of the boot, and I couldn’t help but think of how phallic those words were. It wasn’t like sucking cock; I had done that and liked it—but this was bigger, more.

She turned to straddle my head with her boots, one on either side, and bent to lick at my dick. Whichever way I turned I found red heaven, and when I looked up, her cunt glistened for me, sweet and wet. My mouth watered even as my hips pumped up desperately, my balls drawing up as she sucked me like a pro.

In the end, I gave her what she wanted. I licked. I started with the boot on my right side, craning my neck around to attach my mouth to the boot, moaning at the alien taste. Then I worked my way up and around, lifting head and shoulders off the bed to take one swipe at her pussy before turning my attention to the other shoe.

She groaned for me, her hips wiggling, her juices staining the insides of her thighs. She sucked me harder, her lips sealing around me air proof and watertight, making my belly hard as a board and my thighs like rock.

When I couldn’t take any more of the boot worship, I grabbed her hips and yanked her down so I could slide my tongue inside her, the flavor so intense my eyes rolled in my head. We managed to rock and lick and suck a whole minute before she cried out around my cock, her body shaking above me like she was Venus rocking on a wave.

When I came, my ears rang and all I saw was static, everything graying out around the edges. Nothing I’d ever tried in historical reen-actment ever felt like that.

Her stiletto stabbed right into my heart. Or at least my crotch.

“I love the boots,” I said, stroking one with my sweaty palm, feeling my skin drag against it.

She laughed, rolling off me and kicking her heels high in the air. “Yeah?” she asked. “Cool. Wait until you see what I can do with swords.”

My poor spent cock gave a twitch. “What’s that a reenactment of?” I asked, thinking of lady pirates. “Anne Bonny?”

“No,” she replied. “I don’t really have the boots for that one. You’ll like the strap-on, though.”

That had me laughing out loud, a flush of pure lust rushing through me. I had a feeling I would like anything she threw at me, no matter how historically inaccurate it was.