This story, daydream or distraction begins on a back porch: Louisiana, close to midnight, where two dozen or so mingle under a string of incandescent light bulbs and moths. Empty and half empty beer bottles sit on the porch railing. Frogs and toads dissemble under the dark beards of Spanish moss. Some ratty speakers are propped in the living room window, a corner of one has torn the screen. The night is still cool in early spring. The stars are out. She wears a light dress, leggings, a vest, half a dozen necklaces passed out earlier, anklets and bracelets. The men to too. Three of them have been milling in and out of her presence.
They’re attentive and tonight she feels copious. Her joints feel loose. She keenly smells the moss, marsh, and soil exhaling the sun’s heat, the men standing ever closer, arms briefly at her waist, shoulder, their hips glancing hers. Her breasts are sore, nipples tender, and a syrupy ache weighs her abdomen. She knows the signs and somehow so do the men. She should go. But it’s not just drink, or the stars sprinkled over them, that keeps her milling among the others. After each touch, each brush of shoulders, fingers at her waist, she yearns for more. These three men, each so different—lips, the color of their skin, eyes, the muscularity of their legs, shoulders, hips.
Whether for the darkness, the scent of sweat that turned ever more acrid, darker, softer and muscular, or the voices that moved like tongues over her skin, she didn’t, she couldn’t, she half laughed, half moaned, when his hand, when he, standing behind her, palmed her abdomen, finding her belly flat, then moved downward into the V made by her dress between her thighs. She didn’t say ‘No’, ‘Stop’, or rhetorically ask what he did. She knew what he did. She closed her eyes. She felt the lips of another at her throat, under her jaw—a man’s unshaven roughness. The thumb of another moved from her shoulder to the tenderness of her nipple. She should have panicked. The claustrophobia. But she didn’t. The three men closed in. She bit the shoulder of one.
They half led, half carried, half pushed her from the porch. They wouldn’t have needed to touch her. The heat of their bodies carried her like a river. Cool grass under her feet. They moved away from the deck. Nobody even looked. The music thumped. Tom Petty. The toads croaked. Laughter. Wait! she should have said. Stop! But did she want anyone to interfere? She was drowning. A sandal came off. Even as she half walked, half stumbled, hands were under her dress, pulling her underwear down. For an instant she floated in their arms. She floated on muscles that were like smooth rocks in dark waters. Her panties slipped over her ankles. A little further into midnight’s foliage of oak, cypress, magnolia and elm, her vest fell into the swirl of leaves and grass.
She pushed, she struggled, but didn’t cry for help. Why didn’t she? The buttons of her dress unbuttoned. Now they carried her. They pulled her deeper and deeper into the pool of trees, tall grasses, and the shadows of the warm Louisiana night.
She was sweating. Tiring. The hair behind her ears was matted and damp. Their own sweat and moisture colored her breath, flooded her lungs, made her skin sticky. Her eyes were closed. She pushed against them. She kicked. She tried to escape and held onto them as tightly as she could. She grunted. So did they. She bit their arms. She licked the skin. Tasting. Spitting. Her long hair tangled in a limb. Or was it a shrub? Or was it coral? Would she open her eyes under an ocean beating with the salt of a beating heart?
They didn’t untangle her hair. Two lifted her. The same two pulled her legs apart.
Her tangled hair yanked as she was lifted. She kicked. She twisted. She moaned loudly and stiffly as the cock penetrated her. She was wet. She was obscenely wet. She held onto the other two men. She complained. She heaved and held tightly. The stitches of a shirt popped. The man between her legs swung harder, firmer, deeper. She couldn’t lift her head to see. Her hair was tangled. She kicked, legs apart, but the cock’s blunt compulsion didn’t stop—purposeful, inside her, powerful. She cried out when he did. She froze. She moaned. In the dark, and in her own darkness, his heat and moisture flowed.
Now they kissed her.
Now they tore her hair from the bush and lay her on her back. Now another man swung his hips between her thighs. Now she sucked the cock of the man stained with the dank soil of her own womb and the salt of his penetration. Now the third man sucked one nipple, then the other. Now she pulled at the cock hanging heavily between the thighs of the man kissing, mouthing, sucking her nipples. She feels the first stirrings of his milk slip down her wrist and drip from her elbow.
She moans when the second man moans, his orgasm like a beating heart in her womb.
Now they all three kiss her, her breasts, her womb—overfull with the orgasms of two men— her arms, armpits, lips, ears, neck, feet. They kiss each other. They turn her over. They lift her to her knees. They bend her over. A man on either side holds her arm. The kiss her wrists. They suck on her fingers. The third takes her hair in one hand. The third forces her to arch with the heel of his other hand at the small of her back. The third penetrates her from behind.
She flies, arms outstretched. She soars. Each thrust of the cock lifts her higher. She cries. Her nipples swing under her. Her thighs run. The necklaces rattle. She can’t turn her head. She can’t free her arms. She can only widen her knees. She can only cry out when he cries out, when he finally stops thrusting, when all the cries stop and there is only the third heartbeat in her womb—and her own ecstacy.
The two men at either side let her go.
The man behind her draws her upright. His cock is still inside her. She is still on her knees. He kisses her neck. He palms her womb. She lets her head fall back against his shoulder. She hears one of the other men pissing—the patter on the leaves. Smells him. Feral. Animal. Piss mixed with semen. She smells her own cunt, rutting, orgasms, male and female mixed together. She smells the taste of his tongue on her shoulder and neck. She hears a zipper. The man behind her lifts her to her feet. They are gentle now. They are silent. They are calm and patient. They pick up the clothes for her as they return to the deck party. She puts them on one by one.
They all four emerge from the shadows and into the light of incandescent bulbs.
The ache in her womb is no longer the ache of need. Her nipples jut with a new expectation. How will she know? But she’ll know by the color of the hair, eyes, scent and skin. For now she returns to the milling guests stunned, replete, her spine and hips still hooked by the shape of their cocks.
William Crimson | March 27 2018