Impact 18: of The Bull

"At the beach..." I begin, "out in the water?"

She looks up, focusing on my eyes, my parted lips. I realize she might spank me...

"I came," I tell her. "I masturbated..."

I can tell she's caught by my confession. I've surprised her.

"That's how I lost the top," I admit.

"Whore."

"Your whore," I promise.

She reaches for me, pushing her hand between my legs, forcing them apart. I am dripping wet, and thrill to see approval play across her features. Her finger slides easily into me, taking possession of me. I cry out.

"Yes!"

"Quiet, slut!" she hisses, smiling at me, at her effect on me.

"Your slut," I swear, my voice a whisper.

"All mine?" Claire asks, her mouth wet against my ear, her finger pumping in and out of my pussy. "Anything I want?"

She has backed me against the door. I am looking over her shoulder at her neighbors' peep hole, gripping her shoulders for support as my knees sag and open wide. I know what she's asking. I picture her hand disappearing into my pussy. But rather than a wet efffortless fucking, like it was for Claire, the morbid cast of my mind throws an image of pain and screaming, scaring me, making me shudder. My whole body feels shaky and drained. Fear is gripping me, making my legs feel weak. I fight it, willing the images down.

She is staring at me with a glittering intensity, something sharp and wild behind her eyes. She has never been more beautiful. I have never wanted her more.

"Anything you want..." I say, surrendering myself. "Please," I beg, forcing the word out, my voice rising to whine.

Her free hand gripping the back of my neck, holding me to her, her tongue exploring my ear, Claire's finger curls and pumps, her thumb sliding and circling my clit. I imagine her pushing her hand into me, what that will feel like.

"Jesus..." I moan.

But that vicious part of my mind is showing me torn flesh and blood.

'Not possible,' I think, spooking. Not meaning to, I throw my head back and it bounces off the door. The same sore spot I cracked in the cab hitting the metal door with a hollow thud. I suck breath and Claire hesitates-

"Please..." I hiss, ignoring the sting, wanting her to do it, right here on the landing. I want her to force herself inside me, to do it to me.

Claire's finger slows and withdraws, turns and rubs my lips, begins pushing in again, but this time can feel her using force, spreading me. She almost always just uses one, but now she is pushing two fingers into me.

Claire is wrong about women, that they have no special ability to please other women. Men have fingers. There was nothing wrong with Danny's hands, his fingers were long and thick and strong. William didn't have baby hands. But neither of them ever used their fingers in anyway like Claire does. Neither of them ever fingered me this long, with this much care and understanding. I've never been touched this way at all. I've never even touched myself this way, with this much patience. The curling is almost like she is pulling my ass away from the door, drawing my hips towards hers, and the slow uncurling is just as affecting, the pressure and force and stretching. Again my mind flashed her hand pushing into me, gore and rending flesh...

"She is tight," Claire murmurs, but then pulls back to look me in the eye, wearing an expression of genuine curiosity. "Do you know that? Has anyone ever told you what a wonderfully tight little pussy you have?"

Her tone as much as the question itself takes me by surprise, derails the horrors my mind wants to torment me with. She sounds so warm, maternal even... if my mother had ever commented on how small my pussy is while slowly fingering me to orgastic delirium.

"I'm... not sure-" I stammer, but I see Danny's face, the determined face he'd make pushing into me; his "fucking face."

He had told me how tight I was - not just the first time we had sex, but all through college and right up until the end. He hadn't ever told me it was wonderful, or ever told me at all really. But he would mutter about it.

"So fucking tight!" he liked to swear as he pushed into me. He had promised me he was a virgin when we started dating, that I was the only one when I let him fuck me bareback the first time. I had wanted to believe him... or maybe I just gave in. But I had always wondered who he was comparing me to. I'd never had the courage to ask.

"Yes," I mutter.

"Ha!" she barks dryly. She is not at all amused, and I'm sad. That must be clear to her, that this is a very different kind of surrender for me, a more painful confession. Claire knows, after all, that there is only one other person who could have told me I'm tight.

She pushes her fingers deep inside me, fingertips reaching and curling back with smooth even force, grinding me in ways that threaten to make me scream. I look away from the peephole, biting down on her neck.

She twists her neck away from my teeth, her lips against my ear.

"...you are so very tight Sarah," she whispers, the grinding of her fingertips, joined once again by the rubbing of her thumb, and the warm intimate approval of her voice. "I love how you feel, how you grip me..."

There is a pause, and I can feel Claire's lips curling into a smile against my jaw. "Clearly the same is not true for me," she admits with a self deprecating huff.

"No-"

My cry is strangled. I mean to contradict her, but my thoughts are garbled by pleasure. She starts to pull back from me, maybe intending to tease, but I hold her tight, trying to find the words, desperate for her to keep doing what she's doing.I feel her pushing a third finger into me.

""CLH-"

Again my mind tries to shock me with an image of her hand forced into me; of terror and ripping. But the reality of what she's doing to me with her fingers and thumb swamps my torture porn imagination, keeps me tethered to the pleasure of the moment. I see myself on the tile floor of Kip's bathroom, moaning and loudly eating her pussy while she urges me on, calling me her beautiful girl and little bitch, screaming as she flooded my mouth with her cum, laughing and telling me how much she loves me.

'Claire would never hurt me,' I tell myself.

"...I love your yoni," I gasp finally, my legs starting to cramp and kick.

"Yoni?"

But I'm undone. The orgasm clutches me and I clutch her, trying and failing to stay silent.

"OHGD!!" I call out.

I feel Claire spring away and fumble at me, but I can't stop.

"CLAI-"

Wet fingers fumble and push into my mouth, the taste of my pussy.

"RMMMNN-"

Her wet thumb sliding against my cheek, palm finally making a seal over my mouth and nose, she manages to silence me.

I suck air as best I can between her fingers until she sees I've regained some semblance of control. She releases me and in a blur of action has her keys out and is working the lock, pushing me into the loft.

She holds me there, against the wall, just out of view of the still open door. Both of us are panting loudly, but she is stiff and ramrod straight, supporting my limp quivering slump.

I am naked and have lost one of my sandals. Cum is tickling my inner thighs as it drips down my legs.

Her face is turned away from mine, listening for noises from across the way. After a long moment she relaxes.

"I'm sorry," I whimper. "I'm so sorry, Claire..."

"Tch!" she tells me, smiling. "Now stay here."

I'm still jerking and weak, I wipe my thighs with my palm, amazed by how wet they are. I slowly drop to the floor, listening to her gathering our things, watching her shifting our bags and towels into the loft; my dress and panties... my sandal.

Finally she shuts the massive door, leaning against it, letting out a long shuddering breath.

"What the fuck is a 'yoni'?" she barks. Her tone is more amusement than curiosity.

"Sanskrit?" I mumble. The hem of her dress is dark where I sprayed her. I reach up and pinch the damp silk.

"Of course she knows Sanskrit," she says wryly, taking hold of my hands, pulling me onto my feet and gathering me in her arms, looking into my eyes. "I thought maybe it was slang."

"It's from the Kama Sutra?" I tell her, smiling back. "It means 'sacred space or cave' - or something."

"Or something?" she laughs. "How do you know so much, or something, about the Kama Sutra?" she teases, eyes shining in the shadowy darkness of the loft's entranceway.

"GNSS 0120?"

She pulls me away from the door, wrapping her arm around my waist. I let her support me, putting my arm over her shoulder, reaching my other hand around to hold her hip. She starts us forward, but that stops her.

"Gee en es es oh one-twenty?"

"Introduction to Gender and Sexuality Studies with professor Julie Kim."

"Mmmm," she says, giving me a quick penetrating look, but looking away to lead me through the kitchen towards the bedroom. She doesn't switch on any lights, but once we are clear of the dark shadows of the kitchen space the light from the street is bright.

"I thought maybe my Young Sarah was researching sex positions," she says as she lets go of my waist and lets me drop onto the big bed.

She mugs a lecherous smile at me, but behind the joking she sounds genuinely excited. I want to protest, to defend the Kama Sutra as more than a manual of absurd and impossibly contrived positions, that it was as much about food and perfume and grooming as it was about sex, that it was a book of etiquette, psychology and anthropology...

But I don't.

"Do you want to try new positions?" I ask.

Even in the half light Claire is ablaze, her silhouette more perfect than any tantric goddess. She is standing above me, fully dressed. All I have on is one sandal. She has all the power.

"There is at least one I can think of that I'd like to try," she says, touching my breast possessively, gently rolling my nipple between finger and thumb.

I blush, knowing what position she means, seeing it in my mind's eye.

"I think my Young Sarah wants to try it too!" she laughs, pushing me down and tickling me. "But that isn't a 'yoni' I think - What made you think of the Kama Sutra?

"Size, I guess? I mean...it's just that, according to the Kama Sutra, there are three different sizes of yoni-"

"Sacred caves!" she interrupts, with faux seriousness, squatting at my feet, which are still hanging off the bed. I push myself onto my elbows to watch her. She is working my remaining sandal off, brushing my feet clean with her hands.

"Vaginas," I agree, earning myself a kiss on the knee.

"There are three sizes of vaginas?" She teases, throwing my sandal aside.

"Yes. And three sizes of linga-"

"Linga?" Claire interrupts, she is pushing my knees wide

"Phalluses..." I answer, distracted by her kisses on my thighs, working inward.

"Mmm," she agrees, but sounding unconvinced. She is pushing her shoulders under my legs, bringing her mouth to my pussy, tickling me with her breath. "That's a very feminine word, linga... But those are the sacred... stalagmites?"

"Cocks," I squeak as she begins to lick me. I am still wet, have hardly recovered, but I can again.

"Although the yoni and the linga are both abstractions?" I explain, falling back onto her soft duvet, addressing the ceiling. "So yes, linga is the sacred phallus."

"Linga..." she repeats again, clearly enjoying the word. Hands on my hips, tongue pushing inward. She seems to lose herself for a time, licking and sucking me, making love to me as much with her lips as her tongue.

But all of the sudden she lifts her head, hands squeezing tight. "So... there are three different sizes of... lingas... too!?!"

I pull myself up to look at her. Her lips and chin wet with cum, my legs bent over her shoulders, framing her face, which is rising from my crotch like a Jack-in-the-box, she is looking at me with comic intensity. I can't help but feel a little disappointed when, giving my pussy lips one last little peck, she pulls away, and frees her shoulders from my legs. I watch her rise up off the floor, pleased when she pauses to look at me, at my body. I lean back and spread my arms, arching and twisting my back a little for her. I am naked and she is still fully dressed.

"MmHmm..." I answer suspiciously, knowing I'm missing something, but feeling deliciously sexy. "There's a whole system, with animal names..."

She pulls herself upright, standing over me, and kicks one foot back behind her and out to the side, in order to reach her sandal's little buckle. She freezes in that pose for an instant, waiting for me to explain, standing on one foot like a ballerina. Her whole body radiates a caricature of childish interest.

"Hares are the smallest..." I start, petting myself, feeling how wet she's left me.

"Hair-dicks?" she laughs, but watching my fingers now, which are circling my clit. "The Kama Sutra has hair-dicks? Really? You're teasing me!"

"No! Not hair-dicks, hare - like... petit lapin?" I explain, pushing one finger, then two inside me while she watches. I'm proud of myself for being able to pull the French word from a half remembered nursery rhyme.

"Mon petit lapin, s'est caché dans le jardin." I sing, pushing a third finger in, and pumping.

"Cherchez moi," she replies in song. "Coucou coucou! Je suis caché sous un chou."

She makes me laugh, her voice is sing-song and silly.

"A bunny," I agree.

She watches me finger myself while she strips out of her dress and panties. I push my fingers deep, turning them, so I stretch, preparing myself for her. Her breasts, with their dark upturned nipples sit proud on her ribs. Her eyes glitter and make me moan, my fingers pumping faster. I'm in danger of doing more than preparation. Sleek abdomen muscles flex and stretch as she shimmies her hips and steps out of the puddle of her clothes.

"So small lingas are bunnies," she says, nodding seriously. "But there are three sizes - what then?"

"Bulls..." I tell her as she kneels on the bed.

"From bunnies to bulls?" she asks, as I turn to crawl with her to the middle of the bed. I begin to wipe my fingers on my thighs, but she puts her hand on mine.

"Don't stop."

She watches me curl on my side facing her. The pillows are wonderfully cool and smell like her - her hair and her skin, the mix of perfumes from her shampoos and soaps. I lift my leg and let her see how wet I am, how wet my fingers are, how easily I can push two fingers into myself. Her fingers still touching my wrist, she reaches to cover my hand with her own, pushing a finger in with mine.

"This is a cruel gap, no?"

I must look surprised and confused because Claire laughs.

"Bunnies to bulls, I mean," she explains quickly, laughing at the misunderstanding. "What's the biggest," she asks, "whales?"

"Horses."

Now it's Claire's turn to look confused. She huffs doubtfully, her eyes focused through me, picturing this. But her hand moves with mine, a second finger joining the first as I begin to push deeper. We've never done this before; together this way.

"The Hindus must know more about bulls and horses than I do," she says finally, her voice soft and conspiratorial. "But I would have thought it would be the other way around?"

Horses being the largest had made immediate sense to me when I first learned it. I have never seen a bull's penis, but when I was very little, on a long car trip to visit my mother's family in Ohio, I think, we'd seen a horse in a field. Its thick tumescent penis hung almost to the ground. It was before the stroke because I remember my dad had been driving, and Wes was in a car seat, so I would have been very young. I'd asked what was wrong with the horse, which had made my father laugh. Embarrassed, my mother had told me it was nothing, which had made my father laugh harder.

"I spoil her," he had told me, earning himself a slap on the shoulder and more laughter.

"Horses are really big?" I tell Claire.

My voice is breathless. Claire and I are pumping fast now, her fingers are setting the pace, curling over mine, to push and grind. But it's also the memory of the long forgotten horse. I realize that when I imagine Claire with the Algerian boy, his giant curved shaft of his erection gripped in her pale narrow hands, the fat head of his cock filling her mouth, I am calling on that childhood memory. In my imagination his cock is as impossibly big as the horse's.

"What do you know about horses?" Claire asks. Her face is close. Her breath smells like tequila. She is looking down at my body, at our hands fucking me. In the silvery light from the street she is feline - the crisp lines of her muscles, the soft curves of her hips, the perfectly cupped globes of her breasts, her dark oily nipples. She is from a dream, a fantasy.

"They're really big?" I ask.

"What about bulls?" Claire laughs. Her hand moving between my thighs, another finger seeking entrance. I lift my knee higher, stretching for her.

"I don't know," I admit.

"I'll teach you," she teases. I struggle to focus. Her smile is teasing; naughty.

"What do you know about bulls?" I ask.

"More than you, I think," Claire breathes, our fingers are making crude squelching sounds, I wish they could go deeper and push harder; trying.

'I can again,' I think, feeling the breath in my lungs growing hot.

"But what's important," Claire tells me, her hand encouraging mine, "is that there are three different sizes of linga - are the sizes of yoni the same?"

"Not quite?" I tell her, my hips starting to roll and pump, cum dripping down my thigh. I am still so wet, my body is still so ready for her.

"The smallest yoni is a deer," I explain, as our fingers dive deep, crushed together, scraping and rubbing. "Then the mare, and then the... biggest-"

"Yes, yes," Claire says, arm pumping, and smiling at my hesitation. "Out with it!" she orders.

"Elephant?"

I can't help but laugh at the sour face Claire makes, even her hand freezes, stops its pumping.

"Ouf!" she says, puffing out her cheeks and pulling a comic frown. "I really don't like these leaps they make..." she pouts.

I try to comfort her with kisses but she waves me off with her chin.

"No no no, it's ok. What's important is that you," she says, resuming our pumping, five fingers moving slowly into me. "You are my little deer - I like this very much!"

I moan for her as our fingers pick up speed, remembering a slide Professor Kim had up during her lecture on the Kama Sutra. She had projected Gustav Corbet's painting of the Parisian courtesan, Constance Quéniaux - L'Origine du Monde. For what felt like forever, professor Lee had told us about yoni and linga, about sizes and ideal matchings, without changing the slide. She had explained, to nervous laughter, how it was believed the ideal pairings were always smaller yonis with larger lingas and never vice versa. Unlike the strict hierarchies of caste, these pairing were egalitarian - although what remains of the text is entirely phallocentric, written for and about rich men, and mentioning the poor only as sexual prey.

Professor Kim had discussed at length the unique - for the time - importance the text placed on female pleasure. And she spoke about more forbidden parts of the text that were entirely female-centric, dealing with same sex unions; referenced elsewhere but censored and lost to us now. I had stared up into Quéniaux's yoni, and she criticized the importance of violence, how the text explained away women's cries of pain as part of sexual play, a ploy to excite male partners. I had slumped in my seat, beyond mortified that the girls around me might have been able to see how red my face was.

Professor Kim had gone on to discuss Lacan and Bataille and Žižek and god knows what else, but she had never bothered to change the slide. She had left The Source Of the World projected for her entire lecture. Corbet had painted Quéniaux laying on her back, from below, her legs spread wide, her dark pubic hair and hairless vulva. I remember staring up at her open pussy, how womanly and open it was and feeling ashamed. I had blushed in the darkened lecture hall.