Mad licks his lips like a cat. “You
did
start without me,” he says. “You taste like Ana.”
“So, what’s your pleasure, birthday girl?” he asks.
Raina and I look at each other and giggle.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing,” I say. It’s not that funny, just the same phrase twice, like déjà vu, but I can’t stop giggling. Raina’s giggle rises up into her big belly laugh, and then we’re all cracking up. I love the sound of us, bundled in the big bed, laughing at nothing much.
When the laughter quiets, I say, “Less laughing, more fucking, please.”
“Who fucking?” Mad asks. His cock is already nudging my thigh.
“You fucking,” I say to him. I touch the curls between Raina’s thighs, and then touch my lips. “You, here, where I can lick you.” What the hell? It’s my birthday and I’m about to lose my mind, or at least one part of it. I can’t have what I really want, but I can ask for something that’s almost as good.
I lie on my back in the perfect centre of the bed, feeling like a pampered queen as Raina climbs over me, facing Mad, her thighs on either side of my face. I grab the curves of her ass, force her down until I can find her with my tongue. Taste, smell, taste. River water. Sugar water.
Mad slides his hand between my thighs. “You’re so wet,” he says. “I love that.”
I’d say something, but my tongue is busy licking Raina. She gets a little wetter with each stroke. A little louder too.
Mad pushes my legs apart on the sheets, and rubs the tip of his cock against me. I wish I could see it, watch it harden all the way and enter me. He shaves his balls still, and I love the way they look, soft and vulnerable. For now, the feel of him will have to be enough. He slides in slow, slow, slow, until I’m taking my want out on Raina’s pink folds, her tiny clit.
“Jesus, Mad, fuck her already,” Raina says. “She’s going to make me come.”
It’s a joke. They both know I like to go last, but Mad drives all the way in. He fucks me steady, long slow strokes that move my whole body on the bed. The kind that bring me to the border of orgasm without actually crossing it, a lazy pleasure that trickles through me, teasing, touching, until I’m gritting my teeth, begging in a hissed, grunted breath.
“Raina, you want?” he asks. I don’t hear her answer, but in a second, I feel her fingers playing at my clit. Each of Mad’s thrusts captures Raina’s fingers between him and me, locked to stillness before she can break free and start again. It’s the just right rhythm of stroke and push, and I want to stay tucked between the two of them forever, locked in this perfect moment.
Mad’s strokes become faster, until he’s nearly lifting me off the bed and into Raina’s waiting fingers. He’s finding his voice, the long, low growl that means he’s getting close.
Raina’s clit tightens and hardens, becomes a small, round pink pill on the tip of my tongue.
“Oh,” she says, like surprise. I always forget how quiet she is when she comes.
Her fingers go still, and I feel my clit clench like a heartbeat for a second before she starts up again. She floods my tongue with the taste of her, and I swallow, swallow, swallow, my cheeks wet with her salt. And then Mad goes off, growling and pulsing into me, the warmth of his pleasure filling me, contractions inside me that make my hips buck against him with a wild, unconscious frenzy.
I try to hold it back, the muscle memory, the drives against her fingers and his cock that will bring me to orgasm. I try to take a breath. Hold it, hold it, I think. I want to remember this moment, this sound. I want to hold on to this pre-coming, the way it works up inside me, gathering strength, buzzing its way through my brain and body.
But Raina’s fingers work me, work me, around Mad’s last final thrusts, and then it’s me, my own cries muffled against Raina’s skin. There it is, I think, even as I’m coming. That’s the sound I make. That low, belly-grunting keen. That’s me.
“Happy birthday, baby,” Mad says a few moments later, once we can all breathe again, our chests rising and falling in the almost matched rhythm of those who take in the same air. He’s on one side of me, Raina on the other. He strokes my belly with a touch so light it almost tickles.
“Yeah, happy birthday, Ana,” Raina says. Her voice is sleepy. She’ll nap now, like she always does after, and then deny it. Mad and I will stay awake, talking about whatever it is old, married people talk about after sex.
I slide my arms out beneath both their pillows and settle in between them. Tucked under one pillow, my hand touches a piece of paper. It takes me a moment to remember what it is: the envelope. The pill.
There’s another sound that comes then: a low choked sobbing sound. Is that me? I realize that it is. And I’m surprised at how much crying sounds like coming.
“You OK, baby?” Mad asks. He’s put his glasses back on and he’s leaning up, looking at me. “Want to talk about it?”
I crumble the envelope under the pillow. “No,” I say. “I’m OK. Really.” Maybe I am. Maybe I have everything I need here, right in the bed: two people who love me, who fuck me with joy and tenderness, and one small pill that gives me some kind of control.
Raina puts her head on my shoulder and brushes my hair behind my ears. “I brought a cake.” Her voice is drowsy. “You can make a wish later.”
I don’t say anything, just close my eyes and inhale all of the pheromones and atoms I can. Oranges and warm skin and salt and sex. Remember this, I tell my body, my brain. Remember as long as you can. It is the only wish I can possibly make.
Wives
Kate Dominic
My Irish Catholic mother had firm opinions about marriage. She’d thump her coffee cup on the table and shake her head at the latest scandalous gossip. “A man who will cheat on his wife is ‘a man who will cheat on his wife’! Any woman who thinks otherwise is a fool!” Given Mother’s red-haired beauty and fiery temper, and the fact that she’d always managed to keep my wild and carefree father firmly entrenched in her bed, I’d always pretty much taken her opinions on marriage as gospel: men who cheated on their wives were not to be trusted.
I’d often been told I resembled my mother. Unfortunately, I was three weeks into a torrid affair with Jawid when I realized he was married. Not that I’d looked that hard. I’d met his “ex”, Nasrin, at one of the routine hospital social functions a while back. She was a few years younger than Jawid, I guessed in her late twenties, and quite beautiful, with the deep, expressive eyes and lithe figure so typical of young Middle Eastern women. She was impeccably dressed in an emerald-green designer suit and exquisitely delicate jewellery that subtly enhanced her warm and ready smile. I’d been delighted to discover the wicked intellect and generous sense of humour she kept so well hidden under her quiet demeanor. I’d liked her.
But when Jawid said he was available – and I did ask him – I assuaged my quick flickerings of guilt with the knowledge that I wasn’t a home-wrecker. It had been months since the last time he and I had worked together. Whatever had happened between Nasrin and him had been just that – between them. People’s lives changed, especially those of talented doctors as handsome and personable as Jawid. I let myself conveniently forget all about Nasrin. And forgetting was easy.
From the moment Jawid first touched me, I was consumed with passion for him. At work, I constantly battled my almost primal need to be with him. I wanted to maintain my position as a senior administrator. I was only thirty-two, and had fought long and hard to earn the respect and cooperation of my colleagues. So Jawid and I had to be discreet. But his kisses electrified me, and we were both working brutally long hours. When our need became desperate, we indulged in quick, dangerous trysts in my office, the only room available with a locking door. On quick breaks, he lifted my skirts and took me roughly and quickly on the top of my desk, dropping his pants just enough to fuck me, hissing and thrusting harder and deeper when I grabbed his hips and viciously scored his skin.
When we could steal whole lunch hours, I stripped him and pressed him into my desk chair, straddling him naked, riding him slowly and thoroughly. My breasts felt alive against his skin. When he closed his arms around me, my nipples strained towards the soft tickles of the lustrous dark hair on his chest and arms. I opened to him, like a flower, demanding his tender probing, offering the petal-soft lips of my vulva to him. He took my cries into his mouth as we shattered into the sunlight stealing through the closed slits of the window blinds. I was greedy. And so quickly in love.
And so blissfully, naively, unaware of the cultural chasm between my “Americanized” lover and me. Jawid’s English was flawless, almost without accent. He’d been in the States since he was fourteen. He seemed thoroughly assimilated, at least for Los Angeles, where celebrating Eid al Fatir is no more unusual than celebrating Christmas. Although I’d never met the large and much loved family he talked about so often, I assumed that was because our whirlwind affair had blossomed so quickly, and because of our hectic schedules. Besides, he and I had so much in common: a love of Renaissance paintings and techno dance music, a dedication to the childhood vaccination programme for undocumented immigrant children that I’d worked so hard to implement. In my hard-headed Irish-American brain, love conquered all, especially on the day Jawid said he wanted me as his second wife.
Which to me meant he was divorced from his first wife.
Wrong, wrong, wrong!
The light finally dawned when we were rolling on the sheets in my bedroom, celebrating.
“Beloved,” he whispered, his dark eyes glazed with passion and his golden skin glistening with the sweat of our loving. He held himself above me, balancing on strong, beautifully rippling arms, gliding into me, hot and slick and demanding. “Oh, my Amanda. Nasrin will love the way you cry out when I am thrusting deep into your woman’s heat.”
His words flowed over me like the soundless warmth of his breath, teasing my skin. We were devouring each other on the blue satin sheets of my queen-sized waterbed, letting lust and desire rule us on a long, stolen afternoon, celebrating our engagement while we played hookey from a board meeting that had everything to do with politics and nothing to do with our programmes. I cried out, mindless with passion, wrapping my legs around his waist and trying to draw his firm, lean body further into me.
“Nasrin will love the way you squirm when I suckle your breast, the way your musk fills the air when you climax with me buried in your sweet cunt.” He twisted like an acrobat and sucked my nipple slowly up into his mouth.
A warning bell rang in my mind, but my thoughts were scattering into impending orgasm. I screamed, as pleasure waves washed over me, my body vibrating like a violin shimmering to the draw of the sweetest bow.
“You will marry me, Amanda,” Jawid gasped, his shoulders shaking as he ground into me. “You will become my second wife. I will love you like this for ever.”
He thrust once, twice, quickly, and, as Jawid shuddered into me, I suddenly heard what he was saying. I mean, for the first time, I listened to the words themselves, not to what I’d thought they meant. My belly went cold and I opened my eyes to see the final grimace on his beautiful face as he emptied himself into me. Actually, as he emptied himself into the rubber I’d insisted he use. I felt like a bucket of ice water had been thrown over me.
“You’re still married.” My voice sounded oddly flat, even to my own ears, like someone else was speaking out of my mouth.
Jawid panted above me, his arms shaking slightly, his head hanging as sweat dripped from his thick hair on to my collarbone. As his breathing slowed, he opened his velvety brown eyes and smiled down at me.
“What did you say, beloved?” He leaned down and kissed me, sucking softly on my lower lip. When I didn’t respond, he lifted his head and looked at me. “Amanda?”
“I said, you’re still married – aren’t you, you shit?” I shoved hard at his chest, pushing him off as I struggled free of his hold.
“Am I still married to Nasrin?” Jawid rolled to his side and looked at me with a confused smile on his face. I tried not to think about how sexy he was, lying there with his skin all flushed from our loving, his still tumescent shaft resting on his balls, still glistening with his semen as he pulled the rubber free and tossed it into the trash. He quirked his head at me. “ Of course we are still married. Why do you ask? She told me you two got along. It’s important that wives like each other.”
The confirmation, as unwanted as it was suddenly expected, stunned me more than I’d thought possible. A red wave of heat washed over my eyes. “You son of a bitch!” I yelled, launching myself at him, pummelling him with my fists.
“Amanda? What are you doing?”
His smile enraged me even further. It faded when my nails drew blood down his chest. I hadn’t realized how strong he was until I found my shoulders flattened to the bed, my wrists held in an iron grip against the mattress as he fought to avoid my flailing legs.
“Stop it!” he grunted, as my knee connected with his belly. When I again missed my target, Jawid straddled me, his eyes flashing. “What is the matter with you?”
“You’re married,” I hissed, fighting him for all I was worth. “You bastard! You asked me to marry you, you made me fall in love with you, and you’re already married to somebody else! Why did you do that?” He was too strong for me to fight. I was pinned to the bed like a butterfly on a mounting board. I turned my head towards the wall in frustration and shut my eyes tightly, trying to close him out, trying to shut out the pain, as hot tears leaked out from under my eyelashes. “Why?”
“Amanda, of course I am still married,” he whispered. “Beloved, I would never abandon a wife to a real divorce.” Still holding me tightly in place, he gingerly clipped my wrists together in one of his hands, then pulled my face towards him. “If Nasrin had objected, I would not have become involved with you. I love her, as I love you. I will honour my wives, always!”
Wives. I sniffled and finally looked up at him. Even through the haze of tears, I saw his concern. Which made me cry all the more. And made me think that maybe I should be laughing instead, at the sheer, ridiculous insanity of the situation. I felt like I was talking to someone from another planet.