Ellen's Long Weekend

By now, I had crept into the room, touching myself.

"You're dry, baby!"

"Fucker!"

"Oh yeah! Yeah, baby. Now we're cooking with gas!"

"Wait! Please! You're hurting me!"

Suddenly Simon stopped moving. He rolled on his side, taking her with him. He kissed her, caressed her gently, stroked her body from her neck to her buttocks, letting her move the way she wanted, but keeping pressure on her bottom so she couldn't break away.

"My God," he murmured, "You are so fucking beautiful."

"Please!" she gasped. "Wear something!"

He withdrew and held her hair tight enough to make her gasp. He rolled a bit towards me, and I'd already gotten a condom ready. He was on the edge. He hissed, "Quick!" I fumbled it and he came all over my hand before I got it on properly. Quickly, he was inside her again, only this time he was coasting, waiting for her to sing for us. I brought my hand to her mouth so she could use her tongue to lick off Simon's jizz.

She writhed, impaled on him, but stopped trying to push him away.

After a while, she was breathless with exertion, she arched her back, brought her arms above her head, and surrendered. Simon's movements became more deliberate, less hurried. One hand held her pelvis tight against him, the other caressed her, touched her breasts.

By now, I've shucked off my pajamas. When I kneel on the floor by the bed, my face is close to hers. I am hungry to feed on every flicker of expression on her face. Pain, shock, desire. . . lust. I watch her legs come up, separate, flex. Her heels reflexly punching his buttocks. She disconnects her brain. Her body relaxes completely. I know she has come but Simon is too absorbed in trying to come to notice. After a minute he realises she's a dead fuck. He stops moving. Rolls away from her.

"Damn," he gasps, "I'm all fucked out."

She's still floating somewhere. I bring a washcloth and wipe the sweat off both of them. I still don't know what Ellen is thinking, or feeling. What Simon was doing was a rape dance. Did she feel it as a rape or a dance? Did it matter?

As if to answer my query, Ellen rolled into Simon's body, curled up in his arms and licked his nipple. She went back to sleep.

All that day, we played with her.

We played the come here game. It was erotic to watch her meekly padding back and forth between us, on command. We took her for a walk down to the beach, and she stood there naked as the Fulford ferry passed two hundred metres off, blaring and driving its two foot wash over her feet, up to her knees.

Simon said, kneading her neck, "Think of all those horny American tourists who have immortalised you with their telephoto zooms."

"Yes," Ellen said, absently, stroking her breast, bringing up the nipple. "It's nice to think I'm bringing good karma into so many lives!"

On the last day, the Monday, when Simon and I came to wake her, she had a sheet over her, because it had been a little cool during the night.

Simon was pushing past me to get to her. His nostrils were flaring, and there was a low growl in his throat.

"Be gentle, Simon," I said. "Let me put cream on her first."

I lifted her legs up, like you do when you change a baby. I spread her thighs. I wiped her with a warm washcloth. She actually had bruising and areas around her entrance that were reddened and tender.

"Simon," I said. "I don't think she should --"

Simon sat on the bed, stroked her outer thigh. "She's excited," he observed.

Of course she was excited.

"Let me put some cream on." Simon rolls her on her side, and starts to put the aloe vera generously over her labia. Then he puts a whole gob on her pucker, and begins to move his finger rhythmically there. She offers no resistance, actually flexes her hips some more to open her crack wider.

Simon gently stimulates her there till the sphincter softens and his finger can easily fall into her.

Without even being told to, Ellen rolls into the knee elbow, offering up her anus.

Simon is trembling with lust, can hardly aim straight. She makes a little sound as he drives into her, and she can feel his bush up against her crack. He grips her hips lightly and begins to move.

I lie on my back beside her, watching her face, She is in a different space. Ellen has drifted off, and left behind a grunting, panting animal with empty eyes and sweat running down its cheeks.

That afternoon was subdued. Simon and I were depressed. I felt grief at the thought we might never see her again. Simon too. It was hard to tell if Ellen was down too. We didn't talk much. By common consent, we didn't touch either.

Ellen seemed aloof, a bit preoccupied. We exchanged phone numbers. In the car Simon and I talked domestic stuff: About the possible dog acquisition, about fixing the water heater or seeing if it would get through another winter.

At the walk-on for the ferry, Ellen dropped her backpack and hugged me, kissed me on the mouth. Then did the same to Simon.

She turned to go, then looked back, smiled and said, "See you next Friday?"