reaction. 'Why not just admit it?'
'Yeah, okay… maybe it slips out sometimes, once or twice, in the heat of the moment. But it's just a noise, a sound effect. Oh God! Like when you stub your toe or discover you've bounced a check. You make it sound like I'm praying for an orgasm or something,' I complain.
'It does seem like a prayer sometimes. Especially when you're on your knees.'
' Pffft,' I say, missing the point of his humor. 'I'm an atheist. I don't do that.'
I consider the matter closed, and assume I've made whatever point I intended. Ready to forgive his minor transgression, I shift in bed and begin to move closer, but he's not finished yet. He's still having a laugh, too loudly, at my expense.
'I'm an atheist, too,' he reminds me, 'but I never say Oh God! And, definitely, never during sex.'
This may be true, because I don't think I've ever heard him say it. But there's no way I'll admit that now. 'Of course you do,' I say, frustrated. 'Even if you don't realize, it just pops out. The God blurt.'
'No, never.'
He's too confident, and I'm not. And there's some quirk of my personality that gets the best of me in situations like this. I never know when to shut up, even when I might be wrong.
'Okay, wise ass,' I challenge. 'So, what do you say when you drop something heavy on your foot?'
He ponders this for only a second, grinning at me. ' Ouch,' he says, and his hand drifts over my bare thigh, settling comfortably between the argument. I pull my legs together, immobilizing his wrist, but he doesn't seem to notice as he explores whatever he can still reach. One fingertip wiggles free to trace the satin-smooth cleft beneath his hand. I toss him a dirty look and he smiles back, unrepentant.
'You're running late for an appointment and your car has a flat tire.'
'' Shit.' And I kick the tire, because that's what real men do.' His hand is deliberate between my thighs, that roaming finger teasing the lips of my cunt, idly stroking. He finds my clit and taps it gently, as if trying to get my attention. I do my best to ignore him and resume my interrogation with prosecutorial zeal.
'You've overdrawn your checking account.'
' Fuck me,' he answers, his smile spreading into a sardonic grin.
'Fuck what?' The adventurous finger chooses this moment to penetrate with sudden boldness. I gasp and try to wiggle away. But I don't try very hard.
' Fuck me,' he says again, softer than he should, closer than before, and these words linger against my ear in an entirely new context. Soft lips define the curve of my breast, seeming to wander without direction before discovering a peaked nipple with gentle tug of teeth and tongue. The friction between my legs is no longer aimless, and I forget all about God.
'Fuck me.' Now my voice is a whispered echo of his, and the tattered shreds of my argument fall apart along with my thighs. Adam takes advantage of this opening and pushes another finger inside, twisting gently into the moist heat of my body. He quickly finds the single sweet spot that makes me breathless, and his fingers curve inward, pressing rhythmically, insistently. Too soon, my tongue is tipped with the dreaded phrase, and I can't stop it, even when I bite my lip in a vain effort to remain silent.
' Oh God! ' I whimper, clutching at his shoulders as I come. And I say it again, and again, and again, helplessly, Oh God! with each burst of pleasure that begins in my cunt and spreads outward, flexing my fingers and toes. And then, just as helplessly, I dissolve in laughter when my mind clears and I realize what I've said.
'Four,' he murmurs, and I smile beneath his smiling kiss, chagrined but somehow pleased in spite of my failure.
'Fuck you,' I respond, sweetly. My fingers find and encircle the rigid column of his flesh, pulling him closer.
Adam enters me with a muted groan, pushing deep and almost painfully against my womb. His hands slide beneath my hips and lift me to the unrelenting pressure of his cock, holding me so tightly that it's impossible to move except toward him. I strain upward, rocking in a motion that soon becomes uncontrollable, frantic and primitive.
And yes, it is Big and Throbbing, this Cock that fills me, and my Pussy is Tight and Juicy with the madness of wanting, and language fails me again, as it always does when he fucks me. The words form on my lips, unbidden, but I say them willingly now, Oh God! breathing it in and crying it out, no longer eloquent but no longer caring. Reduced at last to the worst dialogue imaginable, I hear myself sob and gasp, moaning to the God of Fuck, moaning the syllables of his name, a torrent of sound as desperate and hopeful as any prayer could be.
Much later, when our frenzied coupling has finally given way to languid movements and contented sighs, I see the smile playing on his face. He doesn't have to tell me what he's thinking.
Yes, I did say it more than eleven times.
Maybe even more than fifty.
And my prayer was answered.
Amen.
Chapter 9 — A Pillowbook Tale
Rain streamed against the windows. Everything in the room seemed to have stopped down until just the sound of their breathing filled the air. The woman had written a poem across his body with her lips.
She looked at the rain pouring outside in long rivulets against the glass. She liked the quiet hush now, just holding him like this. He felt surrounded by the little silver net of her being, caught like a golden fish in her embrace.
'Touch me,' she whispered, drawing his hand between her legs. She was so wet and slick that his fingers slipped easily against her, into her. He felt her tremble a little behind him and smiled to himself.
'I want to taste you,' he sighed, drawing his hand across his lips and inhaling. Every part of him wished to turn around and tear the blindfold from his eyes and take her. He had never experienced such romanticism in his life.
'You're my captive this time,' she whispered.
'Not the other way around.'
His skin was on fire everywhere she had kissed it. A thousand little sparks seemed to blaze at once all over his body, where her lips had imprinted him. He was burning. But he was also curious to see where she would go with her poem. His hand blindly and obediently returned to her cleft and continued its caress.
She felt herself opening.
'Do you understand Ikebana?' she asked in a soft voice.
You are my canvas
'No,' he said.
Teach me
She walked him backwards; to a low alcove, that held a deep futon on tatami mats. The alcove had hundreds of different flowers in vases. The riot of color would have assaulted his eyes, had he not been blindfolded. Delicate floral fragrances swirled all around him.
'You'll need to lie down.'
She guided him onto the low bed. He lay on his back, with his legs slightly spread. She moved his arms away from his body, stretching them out like wings, palms upright. He was getting hard, and she blew her warm breath over his penis to stiffen it further.
'You are the primal element of this arrangement,' she whispered to it, and it swayed under her mouth, dancing. She brought her cheek to rest against it, tenderly, for just a moment.
His legs quivered, just as his mind was quivering, at her presence, so close to his manhood. His mind reeled and a thousand images flashed in front of him. It took every ounce of his strength not to move, not to tear away the blindfold and just grab for her and pull her against him, to move inside of her in one quick fast thrust. He trembled under the weight of his own power to lie there, surrendered into his experience of her.
In the background he heard Kodo drummers begin to play. The drumbeats entered his bloodstream and he breathed in time with them. He felt her move against him.
