He laughed—'Yeah.' — and moved down: his feet, then his knees, went off the blanket into grass.
With two fingers, he touched her cunt. She reached down to press his hand against her. He dropped his mouth; she spread her fingers, her hair pressed out between them.
The odor, like a blow against his face, brought back — was it from Oregon? — an axe blade's first hack in some wet pine log. He thrust out his tongue.
And his cock dragged against the blanketing; the tenderer oval pushed forward in the loose hood.
She held his head, hard, with one hand; held his two fingers, hard against her hip, with her other.
He mapped the folds that fell, wetly out, with his tongue; and the grisly nut in the folded vortex, and the soft, granular trough behind it. She moved, and held her breath for half a minute, gasped, held it again; gasped. He let himself rub against the blanket, just a little, the way he used to masturbate when he was nine. Then he crawled up onto her; both her hands, thrust between her thighs, caught his cock: he pushed into her. Her arms fought from beneath him, to lock suddenly and tightly, on his neck. Holding her shoulders, he pushed, and retreated, and pushed again, slowly; pushed again. Her hips rolled under his. Her heels walked up the blanket, ankles against his thighs.
Finally, she clutched his fist, like a rock or a root-knob, too big for her fingers, first out from them— hunching and hunching, he pressed the back of her hand into grass; between her spread fingers, grass blades tickled, his knuckles — then, as he panted and fell, and panted, she dragged it by jerks, to the blanket; dragged up the blanket; and finally held it against her cheek, her mouth, her chin.
His chin, wet and unshaven, slipped against her throat. He remembered how she had sucked his thumb before and, taking a curious dare, opened his fingers and thrust three into her mouth.
The realization, from her movement (her breaths were loud, long, and wet beside him, the underside of her tongue between his knuckles hot), that it was what she had wanted, made him, perhaps forty seconds after her, come.
He lay on her, shuddered; she squeezed his shoulders.
After a while, she practically woke him with: 'Get off. You're heavy.'
He lifted his chin, 'Don't you… like to be held afterward?'
'Yes.' She laughed. 'You're still heavy.'
'Oh,' and he rolled — taking her with him.
She squealed; the squeal became laughter as she ended up on top of him. Her face shook against his, still laughing. It was like something she was chewing very fast. He smiled.
In the circle of his arms, she snuggled down; one hand stayed loose at his neck.
The contours of the ground were clear beneath his buttocks, back, and legs. And there was a pebble (or something, (under the blanket?) under his shoulder (or was it a prism on his chain)… there…
'You all right?'
He was drifting off, when she slid to his side, knees lapped with his shins, head sliding to his shoulder. She moved one hand on his belly beneath the chain. Her breath tickled the hair at the top of his chest. She said: 'It's the kind of question you lose friends for… But I'm curious: Who do you like better in bed, Tak or me?'
He opened his eyes, looked down at what would be the top of her head; her hair brushed his face. He laughed into it, shortly and sharply: 'Tak's been telling tales?'
'Back at the bar,' she said, 'while you were in the john.' Actually, she sounded sleepy. 'I thought he was joking. Then you said you'd been there in the morning.'
'Mmmm.' He nodded. 'What did he say?'
'That you were cooperative. But basically a cold fish.'
'Oh.' He was surprised and felt his eyebrows, and his lower lip, raise. 'What do
She snuggled, a movement that went from her cheek in his armpit (he moved his arm around her), down through her chest (he could feel one breast slide on his chest; one was pressed between them so tightly he wondered if it wasn't uncomfortable for her), to her hips (his cock rose from between his thighs and fell against his belly), to her knees (he clamped his together around hers) to her feet (he pushed his big toe between two of hers: and she held it). 'Intense…' she said, pensively. 'But I like that.'
He put his other arm around her. 'I like you better,' and decided that he did. Suddenly he raised his head from the blanket, looked down at her again: 'Hey… Do you have any birth-control stuff?'
She began to laugh, softly at first, her face turned into his shoulder, then out full, rolling away from him to her back, laughing in the dark.
'What's so funny?' He felt the length where she'd been as cold now as it had been warm.
'Yes. I
'Oh,' he said, still not quite sure he understood. And, anyway, he felt himself drifting again.
He wasn't sure if he actually slept, but came awake later with her arm moving sleepily against his; aroused, he turned to her, and at his movement, she pulled herself half on top of him: she had been lying there, already excited.
They made love again; and fell into sleep like stone — till one or the other of them moved; and once more they woke, clinging.
So they made love once more; then talked — about love, about moons ('You can't see them at all now,' she whispered. 'Isn't that strange?'), about madness — and then made love again.
And slept again.
And woke.
And made love.
And slept.
III: House of the Ax
Beginning in this tone, for us, is a little odd, but such news stands out, to your editor's mind, as
Mr Newboy has been three times short-listed for the Nobel Prize, which, if he receives it, will make him one in a line of outstanding figures in the twin fields of diplomacy and letters which includes Asturias, St-John Perse, and Seferis. As a citizen of a comparatively neutral country, he has been visiting the United States at an invitation to sit on the United Nations Cultural Committee which has just adjourned.
Ernest Newboy is also the author of a handful of short stories and novellas, collected and published under the title