had hands as well as a mouth. My acceptance of his presence must have encouraged him, like a human lover, to become bolder. His hands slid over my skin with the drifting touch I preferred; not rough human hands with their too heavy press, but a reverent glissade of sensation.
The mouth moved down my belly, lapping, sucking, open mouthed kisses that had me writhing in anticipation as I realized his ultimate destination. Automatically I reached down with my hands to tangle in his hair, steady his head and direct that mouth to where I wanted it most, but my hands passed through a slight heaviness, then nothing. Sam didn't appear to need direction though; I felt crawling fingers nudge my thighs apart and those same illusionary fingers advance, creeping up my inner thigh to touch the damp curls of my sex with a careful finger. When I thought he would push a finger into me, it retreated, to walk its way up the other thigh. This time it skated briefly over my clit, a frisson of feeling before it fell back.
It was a carefully planned assault. Advance, retreat, push forward, fall back, building me higher, on a roller- coaster ride to release. I don't know when I started begging, when I wanted the promised orgasm more than pride, when the soaked and twisted sheets under my fingers bunched and wound around my hands, but when the promise of what was to come was too much, I felt Sam's mouth on my sex, felt the damp rasp of a tongue as his whole mouth closed over me. I felt the catlike flicker of his tongue lapping on my clit until I came with a howl and a shriek, sobbing with release.
I took a shuddering breath, and another, and I felt his whole mouth descend once more, slurping and suckling, fierce and demanding until my whole body shuddered through a second climax, shocking in its intensity and sudden in its arrival. I never come twice. Not until Sam.
I lay and let the aftershocks wash over my body. How did one thank a lover who wasn't really there? I could hardly offer him coffee, lead him to the door and kiss him goodbye. But Sam wasn't finished yet. The sheet was gone and I sprawled in wet and sated abandon on the mattress. My body was already missing the touch of his mouth, when I felt the briefest whisper of a kiss on my lips. I dipped my tongue into his mouth, missing the taste of myself when a lover kisses you after going down. But the missing sensation faded when I felt the stretch of penetration.
There was not the weight of a body lying over me, nor the rasp of wiry hairs on the insides of my thighs. There was simply the unmistakable feeling of fullness, of a fat and turgid penis slowly pushing its way inside me. I gasped slightly in surprise and angled my pelvis the better to accept his thrusts. He slowly continued to push, until he was, I can only imagine, sheathed all the way. He was large; thick and firm. I clenched around him, as much to see if I could feel contours, to see if his fatness was illusionary or if he would shrink down like a pricked balloon with my counter pressure. He swelled inside me and my tightening muscles gave the glorious friction of real sex as he began to slowly move in and out.
I reached a hand down between my legs, curious to see what he felt like. I missed the feeling of encountering the hairy globular testicle sacks, but I ran a finger around my stretched opening. This was no illusion; some one, something, was inside me, fucking me with a steady rhythm. I moved my hand, unsure of where to place it. There were no buttocks to grasp, no back to run my hand along, no balls to tease. I settled for grasping the mattress on either side of me, and let him fuck me.
He was steady and relentless, moving in a slow-building tempo. The sensation was initially unnerving; to have such one-dimensional sex was strange. The only sense was that of limited touch; there wasn't the weight of a body resting on mine nor the musky smell of male sweat in the air; the only scent was my own sharp arousal. There weren't the grunts and groans and creaks of lovemaking and there wasn't the visual stimulus of seeing a body lost in pleasure. No, it was more like masturbating with a vibrator except that I didn't have to do the work.
My analytical comparison shattered into a million fragments as his thrusts, firm and measured brought me sweetly to a climax. Through the blurring consciousness of orgasm, I was amazed. I never come from penetration alone. Sam's movements were faster, sliding easily in my wetness. His thrusts disintegrated into the jagged, fractured spurts of a man on the brink, then as I tightened around him, I felt the unmistakable feeling of wet, spreading warmth inside. I relaxed. He relaxed. I could feel him softening inside me and the slide of his spend, viscous and thick, trickled down onto the bed. Curiously I put a finger down to catch the liquid, but like the phallus it was an illusion.
'Sam.' I spoke his name out loud. 'You can come back any time.'
His head was between my legs again, but I felt wrapped in the cocoon of his satisfaction.
I stayed in that apartment for seven years. Sam stayed with me for all that time. Even when I had a nearly- serious, nearly-permanent relationship with Richard, I always made sure I was home alone at least one night every week for Sam. Eventually Richard left me, but Sam stayed.
The eviction notice came as a shock. I knew that the run-down neighborhood was becoming trendy as real estate prices in Denver soared, but I hadn't expected anything to change that quickly. They were pulling down the old apartments and building modern condominiums. Luxury buildings, ridiculous prices.
That night, after Sam's loving had made me weak from more than sex, I told him. 'Come with me,' I said. 'I don't know where I'm going yet, but please, come too.'
There was no answer; there never was on the few occasions that I had addressed him directly, but I thought I detected a palpable sadness in the air. I knew then that Sam would never leave this space.
I live on the other side of Broadway now, in a sleek modern condominium that echoes with emptiness and loneliness, especially on the hot dry Denver nights that remind me most of Sam. His apartment has long gone, but I have studied the block that has risen in its place. Apartment 3C. That is his space. I never knew the exact boundaries of his realm, but apartment 3C contains the space that used to be the bedroom. In the five years since its construction, that apartment has come on the market six times.
I have the deposit now; the next time that apartment 3C is offered for sale, I will be ready.
I hope that Sam remembers me.
Chapter 9 — Clit Lit
After a lousy first year at college, I was forced to try to upgrade my marks over the summer. The thought of being confined to a stuffy classroom and a dusty library when I could be frolicking outside in the sun appealed to me about as much as a vaginal exam by Dr. Freeze. But I signed up for three courses, nonetheless. And of those, ‘Radical Writers of the 1930’s’, turned out to be twice as hot as the summer itself.
There were eleven of us in the class. We were given a reading list that included authors such as Henry Miller, Anais Nin, and Erskine Caldwell. The books were all available at the campus bookstore and online, but being cheap by circumstances rather than choice, I headed to the library instead. And just as I reached for ‘Women Involved’, by little-known author ‘InX’, another hand jumped up and snagged the book off the top shelf ahead of me.
“First come, first served!” Annabelle yelped.
I turned and looked at the girl. The short brunette with the voluptuous figure was one of my new classmates. A brilliant white smile split her pretty face, her brown eyes gleaming. “Okay,” I said. “You beat me to it. Now I’ll have to buy the darned book. Maybe not eat for awhile.”
I slumped my shoulders in a pathetic posture and started to lethargically drift away.
Annabelle caught my arm. “Hey, why don’t we share it? Like, both read it — to each other.”
It wasn’t the exact reaction I was going for, but book beggars can’t be eschewers. “Okay,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders.
Annabelle grinned and squeezed my arm. The girl was dressed in a dark top and white shorts, her shapely, olive-skinned arms and legs showing to full, shining advantage. Her large breasts pushed out the sleeveless top, her bouncy booty stretching the stitching on her shorts. Her dark hair cascaded in shimmering waves down her back.
I was wearing a thin yellow summer dress and leather sandals, my honey-blonde hair braided back in a ponytail, my slender, sunbrowned limbs popping goosebumps due to the AC flooding the library. Except where Annabelle’s hand gripped my bare arm — that patch of lucky skin was quite warm.
She knew a secluded spot in the library where we would have some privacy for our reading. It was up on the
