by Will Crimson
No. Not at all. She hadn’t slept well.
In the middle of the night she’d wakened, heart racing, shallow breathed, the kind that made her turn on her belly and lift her pussy. Just thinking the word ‒ pussy ‒ made the sheets burn her cheek.
She had borrowed her boyfriend’s book, maybe stolen it‒ erotica, sex, cruelty, kindness and always a woman’s penetration, her release, her revelation. She’d read at night and in the afternoon, hiding in the corner of her room.
Her fingers shook when she changed into her mini-skirt ‒ not jeans or leggings. She pulled on a loose sleeveless T-Shirt and sandals. Her heart thumped. She knew what her boyfriend wanted. Half down the stairs, she saw her mother and older brother shuffling between the kitchen and car.
—I’m stopping over at Taraaz’s, she said.
—You’re not, her mother answered.
—I won’t be late.
—You’re not going like that.
—It’s a Tot Shabbat.
—We don’t dress like that for the Shabbat.
—What do you see in him? asked her brother.
—Why? Is there something I’m supposed to see in him?
—He’s Muslim maybe?
—It’s not appropriate, her Mom interrupted.
—So what if he’s Muslim? He’s American. You’re American. He’s just—he’s just who he is.
—Daniel doesn’t need to see his sister dressed like that‒
—Daniel’s six, Mom!
—Don’t interrupt me.
—He’s Palestinian, added her brother.
—When your father sees-‒
—Dad’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt!
Jill’s brother picked up the last bowl of food.
—I bet your boyfriend’s old man likes you. Probably gets off seeing a pretty, little Jewish girl in the house. If it was the other way around? If it was me chasing his little girl, he’d fucking—
—That’s enough! warned their mother.
The hatchback had room for two, the back carrying food for the potluck. Jill stayed behind. Ten minutes later she didn’t answer the front door. A few minutes after that she walked into the evening. A flier slipped from the door jamb, fluttered to her feet ‒ a tent revival. They knew they were Jewish, but left the fliers anyway. She’d throw it out on the way. The pavement was still hot. She cut through the yard. Grass clippings caught between her toes.
She only had to walk four blocks, the first two past ranches with cracked and bleached driveways, the third on the berm of route 9, and the fourth down another road, across the Synagog’s parking lot and to an outdoor theater where there would be volleyball, baseball, horse shoes and a potluck.
Toward the end of the second block was Taraaz’s house. She knocked at the front door. Taraaz’s mother answered with her thick middle-eastern accent.
—Yes, yes! Come in! Taraaz is somewhere. Go look for him.
Taraaz’ father read the paper when she passed through the spice-filled kitchen. His eyes and skin were dark. He smiled at Jill, then enjoyed the girl’s ass as she slipped through the kitchen. He shook his head and smiled to himself. Jill opened Taraaz’s bedroom door slowly. She peeked. He wasn’t there. She slipped sideways through the door and closed it quietly. Her stomach felt weightless. She saw Taraaz’s father and mother in the back yard. They had gone outside. Taraaz’s father was standing, stretching next to the backyard pool, then turning a chair to face the sun. Taraaz’s mother was picking up pool toys. Jill bit her lip and went to Taraaz’s bed, then crossed the mattress on her hands and knees. She turned up the far corner and found the hidden books and magazines. Taraaz had already shown them to her, letting her slowly turn the pages ‒ pornography ‒ what men did to women, what women did for men. As she’d turned the pages, as his hand had slid down her spine and slowly, nervously, smoothly over her ass and between her thighs.
The flier she’d forgotten to throw away slipped out of her pocket, between her knees.
She nervously opened the magazines, fingers shivering, breath shaking. There they were ‒ the women, mouths open, penetrated, eyes upturned; and there were the men, fingers tightly holding the women, muscles hardened with a pleasure found somewhere inside the women.
She heard the door knob turn. She knew who it was.
Taraaz didn’t speak. Was it seeing her the way he’d always wanted to? Jill turned. He looked exhausted, like her ‒ a sleepless night – but beautiful, broad shouldered, muscular and slender-hipped. He was hard. She turned back to the magazine. She spread her knees and arched her spine.
The door slowly, quietly closed.
Silence. Jill turned another page, choking on her own nervousness. A montage of agony and pleasure slipped across the pages. The pit of her belly burned and her nipples were like pin pricks ‒ they grazed the hanging fabric of her t-shirt. And then? Finally. His footsetps. He approached. She couldn’t rremember what she looked at. His fingers touched her hips, then lifted her mini-skirt. Then a finger’s tip gently glided downward, strafing the inward skin of her thigh and the weeping cut between her thighs. That same finger’s tip moved aside the cotton panties, like a white curtain, and her breath turned to wheezes, she couldn’t stop shaking, she held the sheets under her so tightly her fingers turned white.
Then she felt it. Him. The smooth round, blossom end of his cock touching, parting her lips on its way inside her, opening her, entering her.
He shook too. She felt it in his hands, the one under and cupping her abdomen, the other pressing at her spine, shaping her ot his desire. She heard the trembling in his breath and in his feet, widening, scuffing the dusty wood floor, bracing. She couldn’t be quiet. She cried out, half shock, as her lips gave and abruptly closed around the head of his cock. Just that much! He didn’t move. She panted. For the first time in her life, a man’s cock inside her, just the tip and‒
So slowly ‒ pushing. His warmth was inside her belly. He was too big; but filling her ‒
He stopped again. She exhaled. How far would he go? How far could he? He pushed deeper, gently. She widened her knees, them moved one hand to the wall beside the bed. The Christian flier tumbled forward, flipped by her knee, a one page glossy of rapturous worshipers, heads thrown up, eyes gazing skyward, hands raised in exultation.
Underneath the flier were the glossy pages of Taraaz’s Playboy, a Hustler, Penthouse, and High Society. Beneath one rapture, that of the worshipers, was another. The brows of men furrowed, fingers clasped at a woman’s waist. Women, mouths open, eyes upward with surrender. The worshipers, on their knees, hands raised. The women, on their knees, mouths open, awaiting the a man’s benediction. The figures, the faces, all of them blurred as Taraaz’s cock nervously, ever more quickly, moved back and forth inside her.
—Oh God, she said without resentment, without contempt, without disgust ‒ God, never so beautifully ‒ God, filled with her own orgasm and his ‒ God, pulsing inside her, the rapture, the exaltation, the revelation. God.
Her fists clench the sheets.
She moans, exhaling once more, head down, hair trailing in the glossies. Neither moves. Neither speaks, both reluctant to relinquish something so new. She feels him like an anchor in her womb. She could stay like this, just like this, all day, but Taraaz’s father is calling, a quick bark from the backyard.
He withdraws, a feathery smoothness, and reluctantly.
She doesn’t turn. He kisses her upturned ass. He gently slides her panties, the white curtain, back over her penetration. He lowers the hem of her mini-skirt. He turns. She doesn’t. She hears him. She hears the door quietly open and then close.
She hears a drop, a spatter between her knees, her orgasm and his smearing the flier, the rapturous worshipers, and runs the ink of the flier into the pages of High Society, blurring the images of one with the other. Another drop and another clear-white bead forming under her soaked panties. She shoves the magazines back under Taraaz’s bed, and the flier with them.
She backs off the bed, stands and straightens her T-shirt and mini-skirt.
She quietly opens the bedroom door and round the hallway corner into the kitchen. She bites her lip. Tarraz is there, and his father. She wants to kiss him. She’s blushing. She wants him to hold her.
—Stay for dinner! says Taraaz’s father.
—Thanks, my brother’s having a Tot Shabat.
—Then you come back afterward and we save you desert. Yes?
Taraaz’s father turns his back to Jill and Taraaz, washing his glasses in the kitchen sink. Jill half skips, half leaps forward, her lips meeting Taraaz’s. The kiss, quickly, eyes open, her hands on his shoulders. She bites his lip. She wants so much more.
—Don’t fill up, says Taraaz’s father, his large back still turned. Save room for desert.
Jill gazes into Taraaz’s eyes. She lets him go and furtively smiles. I’m already full, she almost wants to say, but all she feels is his absence.