Katherine looks over at Vicky. The auburn-haired woman has settled back on the couch, her legs wide open in a truly indecent posture. She joins her, thighs together, more demure. She can’t stop herself looking down at Vicky’s bush where she notices a thin line of secretions separating her cunt lips. Vicky notices her gaze. The inner juice seeps into the thick rust-coloured vegetation.
“I’m a bit excited,” she confesses. She’s a bit drunk. “I hope they ask us to do it together first,” she says.
Katherine bites her tongue. She’s never had any kind of sexual contact with a woman before. Well, there was this girl, Diane, back at grammar school. When they showered after hockey one day, Katherine had once blushed to her roots when she had been caught daydreaming and staring at the other girl’s budding breasts and the first growth of thin hair on her pubis. She looks into Vicky’s green eyes. She has an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. On the other hand, she’s getting wet, inside. Anticipation?
Inevitably, British males have so little imagination, that’s what the guys ask for.
Vicky takes Katherine’s hand and leads her to the carpet. The men settle in their chairs, pulling them away from the card table, idly fingering their cocks.
She gently pushes Katherine down, her back against the floor. She slides back, parts Katherine’s thighs, opens her legs wide and moves her head towards the beckoning crotch. She licks the shaven lips, and a jolt of raw electricity runs through Katherine’s body. Jesus. Vicky gnaws at the entrance and soon inserts her tongue inside the now dripping vagina. The men have grown totally silent. The agile, experienced tongue moves in as deep as she can manage it. Katherine closes her eyes. The warm, velvety, darting tongue then moves upwards and envelops her clitoris. Katherine can feel the bud swelling. She can no longer control her body and a spasm races across her stomach. The tongue deftly extracts the expanding clitoris from its thin hood and Vicky moves her head forward slightly so that her teeth are now chewing Katherine’s button. Jesus. Jesus. She sighs. He used to do it exactly the same way. But the American woman quickly tires and now uses two fingers to bring Katherine off. As she does so distractedly, she whispers:
‘You taste really nice.”
Katherine looks down at the auburn bun bobbing up and down between her thighs and the jerky movement of the hand ending up inside her, stimulating her inner parts with knowing cunning and talent. The pleasure moves up and up through her.
“69?” Vicky suggests.
She circles Katherine’s body and lowers her own, hairy dark cunt over Katherine’s face as she lies down on her, stomach to stomach, breasts almost joined, slightly out of alignment. She licks away at her cunt again in the new position and Katherine timidly extends her tongue upward where it loses itself in the woman’s thick, curly bush. She has to use her fingers to find a way through the pubic hair, separates Vicky’s cunt leaves and slips her tongue inside the other woman.
She tastes so strong. Katherine almost gags initially, but overcomes her reluctance and begins licking the inner walls opening up above her. Vicky is a prolific secreter and soon her juices are flooding Katherine’s mouth, settling in a ring around her mouth, pungent, an abundant gluey deposit.
“Wow,” says one of the men.
Soon, Katherine finds a rhythm and her tongue patterns its in-and-out intrusions against the movement of Vicky’s head and mouth lower down. It even settles into a routine. She feels the heat increasing in her throat and lungs. She must be so wet down there too. It’s both repugnant and perversely pleasing. She wonders if men really enjoy it.
A hand strokes her damp forehead. She opens her eyes again. It’s one of the men.
“Oh, it’s a waste of talent,” another says. “Now for the real stuff.”
Yet another walks over as Vicky disengages herself and Katherine is left sprawled, open, spread-eagled on the carpet as the men surround the two women.
Passively, Katherine and Vicky allow the men to position them, next to each other, on all fours as two move to the front and insert their cocks into the women’s mouths and the remaining two fuck them doggie-style from behind. The cock in Katherine’s mouth is flaccid, and all her best efforts fail to raise it from the dead. In her rear, Maurice pistons away, punctuating his thrusts with hard slaps on her rump. He withdraws, and exchanges positions with the medic who’d been screwing Vicky. The new cock plunges into her still dilated opening, and the guy quickly comes. In her mouth, the useless cock is just another piece of meat. The third man removes himself from Vicky’s mouth as Maurice, still hard, keeps on screwing the American woman relentlessly and positions himself behind her. The plump man’s labouring instrument is very thick and painfully stretches her cunt muscles. However, he ejaculates quickly, and Katherine feels her innards drowning in the mixed come of the two men. The man in her mouth still labours on, to no avail.
“Hey, not there,” Vicky screams, next to her. Katherine turns her head but cannot see what Vicky is complaining about to Maurice, or the other man. She’s no longer sure who is doing what to whom.
After all the fun and games are over, the two women wash themselves out in the adjoining bathroom. Katherine watches the men’s seed mingle in the tub with the soapy water, as it seeps, on and on from her body as she squats over the bathtub.
“Well, that was quite fun,” Vicky remarks, adjusting her make-up in front of the bathroom mirror.
They leave the Mirage together and become friends. But they never have sex together again. “I prefer men,” Vicky tells her one morning when Katherine, curious, questions her. “Anyway, your heart wasn’t in it. You’re not truly bi.”
When the cash runs out, Vicky helps her get a job in a peep show on the wrong side of town, where she herself does the occasional shift when funds are short. The money’s good and the security guys see to it that there’s no funny business. Six hours a day, Katherine sits in a cubicle in diaphanous lingerie, while men open the door to enter the other side of the closet, a glass window separating them. There is a telephone to communicate between the two areas. For five dollars, the men get three minutes during which she strips and follows their utterly predictable instructions. They are without surprises. They ask her to touch herself. Breasts. Pussy. Sometimes even feet. For an extra ten dollars, which they can insert through a hand-sized aperture in the glass partition, she will spread her legs wide and open her vulva to their gaze, for an extra twenty, she will even insert a flesh-coloured dildo inside her cunt and pretend to masturbate. Invariably, they all lower their trousers to jerk off. An attendant has to wipe the come off the glass partition and sweep the floor with disinfectant every fifteen minutes or so. When rent day approaches, Vicky teaches her a new trick, which is strictly speaking not allowed, but where the management operate a blind eye policy. For another fifty dollars, she will also allow the guy to thread his hand through the opening and paw her. One day, one man goes too far and scratches her badly. Katherine gives up the job and packs her meagre belongings. There are too many books, all used, read a few times each already, too much to carry. Vicky says she’ll join her. They leave Las Vegas and head for the Coast.
Katherine is waitressing at the bar of a big hotel near LAX. Randy businessmen make half-hearted passes, but don’t seem too disappointed when she politely turns them down. She’s not the Angeleno type. The tips aren’t too good and the hours are long and awkward. She still lives with Vicky; they share a small apartment in a block near Pacific Palisades. Vicky sometimes disappears for days on end. Katherine never asks where she has been. There are often marks on her body. One morning as she surprises her in the shower, Katherine sees that the small American woman now sports a snake tattoo weaving its way down from her navel to her bush. Christ, that must have been fucking painful, she thinks. Another time, she sees a bad scar on Vicky’s rump. Deliberate. Burnt into the flesh. They are seldom together at the apartment any more. Waitressing and sex work hours seldom coincide.
It’s Katherine’s day off. Big plans for today; she’s going to lounge by the communal pool and finally start Proust. She’s been putting it off for years. And next, she’s planning on Dostoevsky. She’s always been meaning to fill these gaps in her literary culture.
She lies in bed, vaguely daydreaming as always of the men she has left behind. Does she still love, miss, think of them? She just doesn’t know any longer. Vicky walks in. She looks rough.
“Hi, Kate? Got the day off, hey?”
“Yes.”
“Listen. I badly need a favour,” she says. “I’m feeling damn rotten. My period has started and I’m in pain all over. But I’ve been paid in advance for a job today. Can you go there instead?”
“What sort?” Katherine enquires.
