Silence and the Word (28 page)

I tugged against the rope—tight. Opened my
eyes, and there was Carla, comfortable in a rocking chair, snuggled
up in an afghan, of all the weird-ass things, a fucking orange
afghan. She was wearing granny glasses, and if she’d been a couple
of decades older, she could have
been
someone’s granny. But
I knew that
she
was the one who had tied me up while Janna
was busy distracting me, and she was definitely the one grinning
now, watching us. And when Janna paused for breath, Carla was the
one who reached out to the bedside table, who picked up a giant
economy-sized tube of Wet lube, and who said, “I think she could
use a good fisting, honey,” as she handed it to Janna. Then she sat
back in the chair and started it rocking, her eyes fixed on
mine.

I could have said something. But instead, I
closed my eyes. I bit my lip and lay back; I wrapped my hands
around the ropes and let Janna drizzle lube into my snatch. A
little to start—then she was swirling her fingers around the mouth
of it, getting every millimeter of skin wet. It had been pretty wet
already, but for a fisting, it was going to need to be a lot
wetter. Or so I’d heard.

She rubbed my clit until I started squirming
on the sheets again. Then she slid a finger into my hole—two.
Three. No problem. Four was easy. I had taken four plenty of times.
And when she slid her thumb in there, I spread my thighs wider,
inviting her in. That part, I knew how to do. She fucked me
silently—she hadn’t said a word this entire time—had hardly spoken
since we’d left her class. But I could hear her breathing, could
feel one of her hands pressing down on my open thigh and the other
sliding into me, in and out. More lube. She was doing something
with her hand—spiraling it as she slid in and out of me. Pushing a
little harder each time, pushing closer to the knuckles. I wanted
her to go fast, to get it over with—to just push past the pain,
like the first time I got fucked with a strap-on. But Janna went
slower and slower. And she was quiet enough that I could hear Carla
start to whisper.

“Come on, Susie. You can do it. Relax—you
gotta relax and let her into you. Open up wide and let her into
your wet cunt, your sopping pussy. You want her to—you want her so
bad… .”

Janna was pouring more lube onto me now, cold
at first, thick and wet, coating my thighs and cunt and the sheets
and her hand, fucking in and out of me.

“I saw it at the club; I watched you make up
to my girl, and I knew you were dying for her, you wanted her so
bad. So give it up, baby. Relax and let it go, let her have you,
let her take you.”

She was pushing harder, pushing hard enough
that it hurt, just a little. Pushing down, and her fingers pressing
against that spot that felt so good but made me feel like I was
gonna pee. And I was twisting under her hand, or trying to—I
couldn’t help it—but she kept my hips pinned down with one hand and
fucked me with the other. In and out.

“We want you to let us fuck you, baby, and
it’s the least you can do, little tease, little slut. You pretend
you’re a top but what you really want is for someone to take you
and fuck you hard, push you up and over the edge—”

I was moaning now, pulling hard on the ropes
and glad they were there, moaning loud enough that I almost
couldn’t hear her anymore. I was so close, so fucking close.

“…and you want it bad enough that you’re
willing to beg for it from someone you know you aren’t supposed to
touch. So come on, baby girl…come on… .”

And that was it, Janna’s hand slid into me
with a quiet pop, a sucking noise, and it didn’t hurt at all. It
was in me. Then she started moving it. Moving inside me, her whole
fucking hand. She opened it up and closed it, her fingers reaching
up and into me, like she wasn’t just fucking my cunt, like she was
fucking
all
of me, and I was shivering and screaming before
long, coming up and over and over again.

It went on for a long time.

When they were done with me, Carla untied me,
still grinning. Janna and I showered, giggling off and on. I was
pretty high on an endorphin rush; my thighs were trembling and my
head was spinning. Dropping the soap was funny, and almost slipping
on it was hilarious. I didn’t know why Janna was giggling too, but
I didn’t care. I was just glad she’d enjoyed herself. Janna soaped
my back and I did hers; we washed each others’ pussies clean. That
was all good.

By the time we started drying off, I was
coming down from my high, the giggles disappearing and exhaustion
taking over. I started wondering if this was it, if they were done
with me. Maybe they picked up a different girl every week—it was
possible. That should have been fine with me—all I’d wanted was to
fuck Janna, right? And even if she’d fucked me instead, or they
both had, I couldn’t complain that I was unsatisfied. There was no
reason for me to feel blue—but I did.

My mood got worse as I got dressed—Janna
disappeared to go find Carla. When I joined them in their sunny
yellow kitchen, they were sharing a glass of water. They looked so
fucking cute; Janna leaning against Carla, the glass cradled in her
hands. I shoved my hands in my pockets so they couldn’t see them
shake; I was ready to storm off, pissed for no reason I could
explain.

Then Carla said, “Hey, that was great! Do you
need to take off, or do you want to stick around and talk, maybe
have dinner?”

Dinner. I wasn’t sure what came with
dinner—maybe something complicated—maybe more than I wanted in the
end. It had been a pretty strange day. But for now… .

“Dinner sounds good.”

I took my hands out of my pockets as Janna
handed me the glass, and drank deep.

You ever wonder what women think about when
they’re grabbing the goatee? I bet you hope they think about
you—about the smell of you, or the taste of your slightly salty
come, or how much they want a nice, thick cock slamming into them
right about now…well, sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t think
about men when I’m jilling off. Maybe other women do—I don’t know,
so you can still keep hoping—but I’m a little strange. You know
what I think about?

Jewels. That’s right. When I’m fluffin’ the
muffin, buffing the beaver, airing the orchid—you know exactly what
I mean—I’m thinking about rubies. Rubies and diamonds. Rubies and
diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and I’m getting wet just
thinking about it. Here, let me get more comfortable—undo this
silly bra and spread my legs so I have lots of room to work
with—ah, that’s better.

So as I was saying, I don’t know what other
girls do when they’re dousing the digits, but me, I get myself off
with gemstones walking through my mind. Before I even start, I open
up my jewel case and adorn myself with some pretty or other—not
that I can afford real jewels, but at least I can pretend.
Sometimes I wrap imitation pearls around my waist, or put a string
of bangles on my naked arm. I’ve thought about getting my nipples
pierced, so I can hang earrings from them—don’t you think that’d
look cute? And at Christmas, I could hang little ornaments
there.

I once tried that trick you read about, where
you stuff a bunch of pearls deep into your pussy and then pull the
strand out slowly, one by one. It drove Mike (my ex) crazy at the
time, and it felt so good, so fucking good as those pearls came
out, grinding against my clit one by one, but it totally ruined
those imitation pearls. I need real ones, baby…real strands of
pearls. And topazes and opals, and amethysts, and garnets—I’m not
picky—I’ll even take semi-precious if it’s the best I can get.

Mmm…just thinking about it makes me want to
fuck. And since you’re not here, well, I’ll have to do the best I
can myself. Let my fingers do the walking, from my hard nipples
down to pet the pussy, oh yeah. Uh huh. Just a little tickle here,
then a little jab there…pull those labia apart so I can really get
to strumming the clitar, oh yes. I left my vibrator at the
office—silly me—but hey, I’ve had years of getting off without it.
Just takes a bit more work. Just think of diamonds, girl, diamonds
in your hair and ears and around my smooth white neck—a diamond in
my belly button and another in my pubic hair. They say that back in
olden times, ladies used to grow their pubic hair extra long so
they could tie ribbons in it. Wouldn’t mine look cute with a couple
diamonds attached?

Maybe I’d just stuff a handful up my
pussy—though rubies would be better for that. Oh, yeah. Nice, big,
goose-egg rubies, cold and hard at first and then warming up inside
me. I could walk to work like that, and all those rubies would be
jangling around in my pussy, and strange men would look at me in
the street, wondering where that strange knocking noise was coming
from. And I would smile… . ‘Diamond in the soles of her shoes’? She
ain’t got nothing on me, baby.

God, I’m soaking now, at the thought of all
those rubies inside me. I wish I did have something inside me,
something big and hard. Rubies would be best, but I wouldn’t
complain at a cock right now, no I wouldn’t. My fingers are getting
wrinkled, and it would be nice to have someone else take over
thumbing the button, waxing the saddle. You could buy me jewels—the
kind of jewels I can’t afford with my $7.75 an hour as an Arthur
Anderson file clerk.

How ’bout that for a deal, huh? Buy me rubies
and pearls, black onyxes and opals—hell, I’ll wear an opal in my
ass; I’ll deck myself out in jewels from head to toe, like those
exotic harem girls over in Arabia. And you can lick me from head to
toe, lick right around and over and under all those pretties, and
take ’em off one by one to leave a clear path for you to fuck me,
oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah—wrap your fingers in my hair and pull me
down to the bed naked and wet beneath you—just leave me my pearls,
my string of pearls wrapped twice around my waist and I will fuck
you like you’ve never been fucked before, oh boy, oh God, yes—I
will fuck you until you scream.

1.

In a faraway land under the coconut palms,
there was a quiet little house by the sea. It had old boards that
creaked when the wind whistled through them. It had small rooms
that filled with sunshine on sunny days and moonlight on cloudless
nights. Sometimes the roof leaked a little rain. And it had a young
poet.

The poet was not happy. She spent her days
biting her lips and biting her nails. She spent her nights staring
at the cracks in the ceiling, watching the lizards scuttle. She
never danced in the warm rain. The poet was not happy at all.

She couldn’t write poems, you see.

2.

The poet didn’t know why she couldn’t write
poems. She had studied how to do it, and she had a good wood desk
that faced a window that faced the open sea. She had a stack of
paper given to her by a kindly aunt, and a box of pencils from the
store. She had more time than she knew what to do with. But she had
no poems inside her.

She bit her lips until they got chewed up and
swollen. She bit her nails until they got raggedy and torn. She
stared at the ceiling until her eyes crossed and burned, but her
mind was empty of poetry.

Finally, she decided she had had enough.

3.

The poet decided to go on a quest. She said
out loud to the empty room (because there was no one else to talk
to):

“I must find poetry.” She stood quiet for a
moment, listening for an answer, but there was none. So she began
to pack.

She packed very little. She had always wanted
to be the kind of person who travelled light. Just the clothes on
her back, a small bag packed with a few necessities, some money to
buy food along the way, and of course, some paper and the box of
pencils. Just in case. The poet took one last look at her little
house, and then turned resolutely away and walked out through the
door.

She stepped out into the wide world.

4.

She walked and walked and walked. Just when
she got so tired that it seemed she couldn’t possibly walk any
further, she came to a crossroads. The road forked at a signpost;
one road went left, the other went right. She didn’t know which to
choose.

“Which way do I go?” She spoke out loud, even
though no one was there. The poet had gotten into the habit of
talking out loud, back in her empty room. So she was very startled
when she got an answer.

“What are you looking for?”

5.

Who was talking? The poet didn’t see any
other people! She looked left. She looked right. She looked behind
her. Finally, she looked up, and there she saw two crows, sitting
on top of the signpost. Could they be talking to her? Was it
possible? She decided to answer the question.

“I’m looking for poetry. I’m a poet, and I
can’t write poems.”

The larger crow spoke, its beak opening wide.
“I am Stephan. You must have good white paper, if you want to write
poetry.”

Before the poet could speak, the other crow
opened its beak. “I am Nathan. You must have a good, stout pencil,
if you want to write poetry.”

The poet opened up her bag, spilling out
paper and pencils. “Look—I have paper and pencils!”

6.

“Not good enough!” Nathan sneered.

“Shoddy workmanship!” Stephan sniffed.

“You call yourself a poet!” they chorused.
“Pathetic!”

The poor poet was ready to cry, but she
blinked hard to hold back the tears. “Where do I go? What should I
do?”