- Raziel’s return to Erotic Writer is, in part, inspiring my own. My experiment with Patreon isn’t the way I want to continue. So, I’ll go on experimenting and part of that will be posting my stories at Erotic Writer like I used to. I may, over time, remove stories that make it into e-book format—and hope to have those available for purchase before the summer’s out.
The evening ended with wine and conversation. We stayed at a friend’s house. The subjects moved from interior decorating, tech stocks, the abject stupidities of common man—climate change denial and creationism—and into the third bottle, the topic of
grapes, wineries, drunkenness and sex. Inevitably, as alcohol always does, we become less guarded in matters nearest and dearest to us.
“How long have we been friends,” I asked.
“Twenty years,” answered Ben.
“Fuckin’ twenty years,” I meaninglessly echoed.
“So, fuck it, man,” said Ben, “are you and Karen gonna’ adopt?”
I leaned back in the chair and gazed at the spinning ceiling. “We’ve tried and tried and tried—“
“I hear you, brother.”
“Don’t ever have to buy birth control pills, condoms, and you don’t never need nipped—” said my wife drearily.
Ben’s wife took a deep breath, her eyes glistening. Ben gripped her knee and patted it. We’re gonna adopt. We’re gonna’ start lookin’.”
And then I drunkenly laughed: “Or hell, Ben, maybe you should just fuck my wife.”
Ben guffawed and shot back a gulp of wine. “That’s just wrong, Ted.”
But for an instant I wondered if it was. It was me who was impotent, and it was Ben’s wife who was infertile. But I was drunk.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lyra, Ben’s wife, and in a black mood, “Ben’s a big boy. You sure you want your wife to get a taste of that? She might not want to come back. And what do you want with a mulatto child? So you can be in? You take you’re—“
“C’mon honey,” interrupted Ben.
“Shit no.Ya’ll, get yourself your white baby. You’re married and so are we. That shit isn’t even funny.”
“Now c’mon,” Ben leaned forward, shaking his head. “I seen Dave’s prick. He does the white race proud.”
Lyra wiped her eyes and shooed Ben away with the back of a hand. “Tell me more,” she snorted sarcasticaaly. She leaned toward Karen. “Honey, if size was all that mattered, I’d be havin’ babies once a week. You wanna’ mess with that voodoo, then you—” She set her jaw. “Oh, I don’t feel good.” She came to the edge of her sear and embraced my wife. My wife shot me a look and not a good one. “Nothin’ I said counts, okay? I just had too much and I’m tired.” Her eyes were tearing again.
She got and my wife did too.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Karen said, and half stumbled round the corner of the couch.
Ben exhaled and sat back in the recliner, large hands loosely over the arms. His laugh began with that slow rumble that was as familiar to me as my childhood. “Man,” he said and dragged it out. “That was cold.”
“I—” I leaned back on the couch and closed my eyes. “The room’s spinning.”
“That’s your conscience.”
“I’m not an asshole. Really.”
“Nah, she’s just taken this shit pretty hard. You know? You gotta’ understand it from a woman’s perspective. For all their feminism and fuck-my-biology ambition, they still got that little part of them, that little but voice tellin’ them they aren’t beautiful if they can’t make that baby. They’ve got no purpose.”
“And I just told your wife that her husband should fuck a white girl.”
“I always wanted kids, Ted.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Okay, maybe not bad.” I blindly reached for my bear. “Karen does.”
“So you gonna’ try adoption?”
“You know, maybe I am an asshole. I want my kids mine.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a problem.”
“I’ll get over it.”
“You know, the minute that kid is born, the one you’re gonna’ adopt, he’s your kid, Ted. He might not know it, and you might not, but he’s you’re kid. The love isn’t any different. He’s your son and you’re his Dad. It’s not biology that makes you a parent.”
“That voice is in me too, Ben; tellin’ me I’m not a man. You take it for granted, but when I found out I couldn’t get Karen pregnant, let alone any woman, I felt like I’d failed her, like I’d lied to her. I wasn’t who she thought I was. You get that empty pit in your stomach and just know she’s not lookin’ at you the way she used to. You aren’t a man. You’re something else. You feel like an island trapped in the middle of nowhere. You’re never gonna’ get off it—no part of you. You’re a fucking dead-end. That’s it. That’s how I feel. I’m a fucking dead-end, Ben.”
“There’s a kid out there waitin’ for you, and you and he are gonna’ get off the island.”
“Does it make you want to fuck other women?”
“You think your wife wants to fuck other men?—that’s what you’re asking?”
“Sure,” said Ben, “yeah.”
“And even if we could have a child tomorrow, that wouldn’t change Ted. You know me. No bullshit. If it’s in Karen to be unfaithful, it’s not gonna’ be because of you. Take these NBA stars. Kyrie Irving. He could any woman he wants, right? But they don’t want any woman, they want every woman. Doesn’t matter how beautiful the wife or the girlfriend is, how perfect. It’s all about a fresh piece of ass.”
I laughed, then moaned. “My head hurts.”
“Kyrie Irving? Seriously? Any woman? You mean Kyrie no-black-girls-allowed Irving?”
“Ah now, c’mon. Give the brother a break. Wouldn’t you want to be on a boat full of hot white chicks?”
“That isn’t right.”
“Nah, bullshit. See,” Ben drunkenly fished out his iphone. “Look at this.” He shoved it between us. “See?” He tapped a finger over the top left corner of a gif. “Black chic. See? Shes got on— She’s got on— What the fuck?” He turned it toward himself. “Cammie bikinis.”
“That’s why nobody sees the black chick.”
“That’s a lot of white chics.”
“Like a brother’s not allowed to have a good time. And there’s another black chic!”
But I wasn’t looking. “I’m goin’ to bed.” I almost fell back onto the couch. “Who still has red shag carpeting and faux wood paneling in 2016, Ben?”
“It’s a basement, Ted.”
I stumbled up the stairs, through the dining room’s smell of fries and hamburger, and into the guest bedroom. I collapsed next to my wife. She was snoring, on her side, and turned away. I put my hand on her shoulder. I almost turned her over but softly kissed the nape of her neck instead, lit by the bedside clock. Instead of waking in the morning, I remember motion and crackling sheets. The room had stopped spinning but was still dark. In the white half-light of the digital clock’s readout, Karen above me. She was on her hands and knees, knees straddling my hips, hands over my shoulders.
Her lips parted. Her breathing was shallow as though expectant. Her sleeveless nightshirt was yanked under her armpits. Her nipples hung thickly down. Her panties were midway tight between her thighs and I dimly saw the thick legs behind my wife’s. Her long indrawn cry turned my attention. Her fingers twisted in the sheets. I felt her knees spread wider. She looked at me and through me. She was jolted, then grunted.
Each thrust elicited a shocked grunt.
She braced herself at my shoulder, gripping it as she was penetrated. She spoke, garbled, bestial, sexual words—foul—but in the way that electrifies a man: the momentary expression of pain; of ‘don’t do this‘; of initial impossibility; the tightness at the center of her thighs that can’t possibly accommodate but always, and suddenly, will. And then the turn of the eyes, the mouth opening, the pleasure, the descent into her dark confession, the relaxing that’s more like a acknowledgement and surrender. At one moment her voice thick with his size and heaviness and at the next her punctuated cries were pitched and feminine.
She was being fucked.
And then our eyes met as if, impossibly, just realizing. Her tits swung back and forth above my lips, touching them, then my tongue. I took hold of her wrists, holding her, my stomach a knot of conflicting emotions. The jolts that shook her and the bed were becoming quicker and going deeper. Her breathing was becoming uneven. She had never come on my cock, not like this, but this was different, this was going to change everything.
I released her wrists. She screamed just before I stuck my thumb in her mouth and held her there with my other hand at the back of her neck. Her nostrils flaired. Her eyes widened. Her cheeks puffed with stifled cries and she sucked my thumb as if to ameliorate the thicker intrusion in her womb.
And then she couldn’t look at me anymore. Her eyes lost focus. Her vision rolled blankly upward and her womb expectantly and involuntarily squeezed the question thrust into her again and again with a matching urgency.
The hard jolts stopped.
There followed a powerful shuddering. The hands that gripped her hips held her womb tightly on the penetrating ejaculate. And then there followed stillness. My breath, hers and his. Her teeth were still sunk into my shoulder, her womb raised obscenely behind her. Her knees were wider and the panties between were stretched to the breaking point. Her muscular thighs were drawn inward by the banding as if she were in bondage.
The weight shifted at the foot of the bed and he left the room without a word.
My wife’s nipples dug into my chest, aroused and fulfilled. Her spine remained bent with the unmistakable contrition of female copulation. I held her until she lifted one knee over my hips. Then both were together. One of her hands was cupped at the base of her belly, as though feeling the heat deposited there. The other was behind her head and her forehead was pressed to the mattress.
I stared at the ceiling, at first, then slowly looked down, noticing my own erection.
And what selfish self-hate made me rise from the bed and go to the care, made me get the hell out of the house, I can’t fully explained. I fell asleep in the car but only after I had tried and failed to masturbate.
I didn’t go back in. I sat outside the faded blue, clapboarded house until I saw my wife, carrying our backpack, and started the motor. She didn’t look at me. We backed out, drove away, and said nothing to each other.
And then, finally: “I told her we had a fight.”
I didn’t answer.
“Lyra doesn’t know what happened,” she added. “She thinks maybe it was something she said.”
“So, what do we do?”
“You held me there, god-damnit,” she blurted and began to cry.
“I just—” My stomach tied in knots and I gripped the steering wheel. “You never came on my cock.”
A short laugh burst from her.
I could feel her staring at me. “What do you want me to say? Yeah, it was fucking great. He was fucking great. And yeah, his cock is big and I don’t know where he put it all. Okay? I’m a woman. He fucked me and probably impregnated my fucking orgasm.”
I yanked the car to berm.
Stones popped under the tires and pulled lips to mine. Her hands flew to my crotch, unzipped me, and she mounted me with the steering wheel jammed in her back. She was desperate. We both were. There wasn’t room. Our confection was more brutish than graceful and urgent. Her short clipped cries were hoarse. Her short blond hair stuck to the roof of the car in a static frenzy. Her fist was in my hair. Her other was on the gear shift. She knocked it into neutral. I didn’t care. Just before the car drowsily plowed into a ditch, just before my balls began uncoiling, she came.
Will Crimson | July 3 2016