Letters

I turned my attention to Vicky's pussy. I have always liked the word, "pussy," and it seemed to be a term of affection rather than crudeness, like slit or cunt, and that was what I felt—affection. I moved to the center between Vicky's legs, and using the fingers of each hand, opened the miracle before me. Without pause or regret, I kissed the opening to Vicky's vagina, and then inserted my tongue. The soft ridges and bumps inside, tickled my taste buds as I fucked her with it.

My finger replaced my tongue in Vicky's hole as I kissed my way up her sex. There was a soft moan from under me as I licked the small lips that lay limp between the larger ones. I sucked them into my mouth and fellated them in much the same way I would a penis. I lightly chewed on the elastic skin and stretched them out using the suction of my mouth—and then let go causing them to snap back to their former position like drunken guards of the gate.

There was the sound of whispering behind me, and then the bed shook as David climbed off and on again. I looked over my shoulder and David had assumed the position behind me. His penis slipped inside and he began to fuck me, horse style, as Vicky watched from below. It was my turn to moan and I did so, loudly, as my pubic hair became reacquainted with his. My tongue returned to Vicky's pussy and I added a second finger. With my free hand, I reached back between my legs and rubbed my own clit. I didn't want to be obvious, but I wanted to know.

There had been the whispering I heard before he mounted me. Had Vicky made him put on a condom? 'Put a raincoat on the little fellow,' I could imagine her saying. 'That's the rule.' My fingers were only two or three inches away, and all I would have to do is...but I didn't, and decided it was better not to know—not yet anyway.

For the moment, it all seemed so unreal to me; there were moans and squeaks and the sounds that a body makes when it collides with another skin to skin, and all to the accompaniment of the music that was pumped into the room from the all-night-with-the-blues show coming to them straight from Chicago in glorious FM. Shadows on the walls of three bodies; hands moving, heads bobbing, legs bending and then striating, flickering from the three candles that lit the room.

Vicky's clit hardened under my tongue and her hips danced the age-old dance. They did the bump and grind at a steadily increasing pace that ended with an upward push that didn't recede. Her breathing had quickened at the same speed and was now holding fast as Vicky made noises that I was "sure" sounded just like a woman in heavy labor. Vicky's body convulsed with each move of my tongue so I stopped licking and held firm on the hard little ball.

David had also started to show signs of approaching orgasm as his groin made slapping noises against my ass. He had a tight grip on my hips, and he used them as leverage to pull me back to meet his thrusts. My own orgasm hovered in a kind of stand-by mode in anticipation of the warm splash of semen I hoped to feel inside me. As David smashed against my ass for the last time, and his cock had penetrated as far as it would ever go, I felt a hot gush deep inside my pussy and it spread quickly through out.

Our bodies were frozen in the posture of copulation and ecstasy for endless seconds as my hovering orgasm finally landed, and the sounds of birthing had returned to the room. For a fraction of a second, I thought Vicky was cumming again—until I realized the sounds were coming from me. Behind my closed eyes, small dots of light kept rhythm with my pulse, and the twitch of David's cock as he ejaculated—caused my body to lurch uncontrollably.

***

The last paragraph in Twobi's letter had gone on to describe the next few weeks in her life and how she was torn between the euphoria of what she had done, and the sheer madness of it. She wrote that even the relief she had felt when her period finally showed— "better late than never," she had thought, didn't satisfy the guilt. Her husband had never even asked about the weekend she spent with Vicky and David, nor did he seem to care. It was like nothing ever happened, but it did happen—and would likely happen again.

Twobi ended the letter with a promise of an update.

22.

Amy set the magazine down and had coaxed the last few drops of her beer from the bottle, when the idea struck. All the old jokes about bottles and women came rushing into her mind and she felt a moment of shame for even thinking about it. 'Only a slut would do something like that,' she thought. "Slut," she said out loud. "Slut Amy," she said again, but this time it produced a quiet laugh.

The thought of waking John for a brisk 'roll in the hay,' as her mother once called it, did cross her mind, but tonight she wanted something different, and although he was a good lover, he did lack imagination when it came to sex. Tonight she wanted to be bad. Tonight she wanted to be "slut Amy," even if it was all by herself. 'Ha—ha,' she thought as she went to get another beer.

She bent down to the lower shelf in the fridge where the beer was kept and thought of her imaginary friend again. Only this time, he was peeking in the kitchen window that was directly behind her, and masturbating as he watched her bend over. She purposely pushed her naked ass high into the air to give him a better show. Then she thought, 'what if there "is" someone watching me? Some crazy pervert from the mental institution less than a mile away.' She checked the back door to be sure it was locked.

Amy didn't drink much, but when she did, two or three beers could make her a very happy, or sad—or sometimes both, drunk. She sat on the sofa and eyed the empty beer bottle on the table. 'They do kind of look like a soldier,' she thought. Someone had called the empty bottles "dead soldiers" but she couldn't remember who it was, "I may just have to burry him—poor thing," she said to herself.

The magazine was still open to the last page of Twobi's letter as she picked it up and stretched out on the couch. The blanket laid on the floor in a heap where she had left it earlier, but this time she elected to cover her naked body. She thumbed through the pages of the magazine looking for something that would capture her interests. The pictures were graphic in nudity, but lacked any real sex—like the ones Ronda had shown her. 'Sweet poison,' she thought, and for a moment she could even hear Ronda say it—but like one of Amy's mini-gasms, it was just a tease, a precursor to the real thing, which led her...

23.

Where? 'To Ronda,' she thought. Amy closed her eyes and let her mind drift back to that special night. Ronda was bent over; her pink-panty covered ass hovered over the carpet in a squat, and the vacuum cleaner roared as it sucked up the broken glass. There was an occasional "ting" sound as the small shards the broom had missed, went flying up the hose.

Amy was seated on the sofa and thumbing through the pages of the first dirty book in the stack. Blood rushed to her face as she looked through it, and her ears felt like they were on fire; they did that sometimes, when she was digging—or when she let a boy touch her breast.

Any questions she had about erections were cleared up buy the time she got half way through the magazine. The nude man was shown many times with, and without, an erection and she found it fascinating how a penis could be so small, and then grow so big. In one picture it laid limp and hung down between his balls, and in the next, it stuck out straight, fat and rigid. But now, her inquisitive mind asked, 'if a man's testacies were so sensitive, and she knew they were, how come men didn't scream in pain when they closed their legs and squished the poor little things?'

And then there was oral sex; fellatio the books called it, but her friends just said, suck or blow—so,which is it? Suck or blow, breathe in or breathe out, push or pull, black or white—which the hell was it? The woman in the pictures didn't look like she was "blowing" on the penis, if anything, she appeared to be sucking on it—like she was eating a popsicle or an all-day sucker—and she seemed to be enjoying herself.

The room fell quiet and Amy looked up; Ronda had unplugged the vacuum and was rolling up the power cord. She was now standing but still bent over. Her pink panties had bunched up to one side and a healthy patch of black pubic hair extruded from her crotch. Amy had seen her naked before, mostly at gym in school, and her pubic hair was of the straight verity, and she enjoyed some good-natured harassment from the other girls because of it.

"Your 'fur' is showing, Ronda," Amy said, and then laughed. Fur had become Ronda's nickname in gym class. Amy's had been "Red," of course.

She turned, and in an exaggerated movement, fixed her panties, and then stuck out her tongue.

"What do you think about the pictures?"

Amy looked down at the magazine, and it lay open to the page where the woman had the man's penis in her mouth, and her left hand was massaging his balls. Like most redheads, Amy's skin was pail, and just the slightest hint of a blush would stand out like a tall tree on an open prairie. As her face filled with hot blood, she shrugged her shoulders in answer to Ronda's question.

"Oh, come on Amy, you must have an opinion? I'll admit it, they turned me on; I was hotter than a virgin in a whore house—sorry, I must have read that somewhere."

"It was..." there was a long pause while Amy searched for the right word, "educational."

Ronda left the vacuum where it was and walked swiftly over to Amy and started to sit.

"You want an education, try this out," she said as she picked up the dildo that was lying on the couch. She sat and placed the rubber phallus in Amy's lap.

"I think I'll pass on that one Ronda. I can't believe you put that—thing, inside you."

Amy's statement felt like salt being rubbed into the self inflicted wound of her own guilt. Ronda hadn't believed it herself after she had done it, and the blood on the bed had scared her. Her dreams that night had been filled with nightmares; of trips to the hospital and doctors asking her how it happened, and her mother crying as she sat beside her on the gurney and listened as her baby girl confessed to blatant debauchery.

"Whats the matter Ronda, you look kind of pail?"

"Oh, nothing. You want another beer, I think I need one?"

"I've already had two. I'll get drunk for sure, and you know how I am."

"Please have one with me, will ya?"

Against Amy's better instincts, she agreed. Ronda did look like she needed something—maybe just a friend.

24.

While Ronda was gone, Amy shuffled the magazines in front of her; she would look at the cover and then set it aside, and then pick up the next. At the very bottom, was a black book with one gold embossed word on the cover, "Letters." She was about to open the book when Ronda came back in the room.

"No, not yet." Ronda said as she walked over to Amy. "Here, I'll trade ya," and she handed her the beer, and then grabbed the book.

"Okay, Ronda, what's up with the book?" Amy said with a slight hint of frustration in her voice. 'Not yet,' she thought. 'The dildo, the dirty books, and now this particular book and she says, "not yet." This was all planed—but why?'

"It's a book I found and I wanted to share it with you."

"More dirty pictures?" Amy said, and then took a sip of her beer.

"No."

"Then, what?"

"Letters."

"—Yes go on."

"Love letters. Not just any love letters, but secret ones."

Amy laughed and said; "I don't think they could be 'too' secret if they're published in a book."

"Well, maybe 'anonymous' would be a better word—first names only, and they were changed to protect the—well, you know. It's sort of like peeking through a window of someone's life. Their real life, not the sugar coated biographies you see on TV. These letters are the bones of the proverbial skeleton in the closet that are usually left out."

"Okay you sold me, let me see it," Amy said as she reached for the book.

"No, please. I—I want to read one to you. It's important."

Ronda's eyes grew big, and she wrapped herself in a protective cocoon of body parts: her shoulders bent over, her elbows pulled into her sides and her legs crossed. One lone tear escaped the corner of Ronda's eye, and Amy watched it as it followed the contour of her cheek and made its way down and under Ronda's chin. In a swift movement of her hand, Ronda swatted at it, as if to shoo away an invisible fly, and then screwed up her face in a look of disgust and shook her hand.

"Sorry, it's a very sad letter."

"That's okay—are you all right?"

Ronda nodded and took a deep breath, but avoided looking at Amy as she continued. She cleared her throat.

25.

"Dearest Sweet Poison."

Amy tried to recall the letter—but it was lost somewhere in the years that had gone by since. Still, it seemed important.

26.

Ronda closed the book. Her face was red, and there were more tears. 'All the friends and relatives of the first one,' Amy thought, but quickly discarded the unsympathetic string of words. She moved closer to Ronda and put her arm around her friends shoulder. Ronda turned and surprised Amy with a full embrace, and then laid her head on her shoulder.

There was an awkward moment when Amy didn't know what to do with her hands; she placed them on Ronda's shoulders, on her lower back, and then settled on patting her upper back. She was trembling and Amy was tempted to say something like, 'its only a movie,' or something funny to relieve the tension, but thought better of it.

"Amy?"

"Yes."

"Can I ask you something?"

"I guess—sure," she said as she closed her eyes, but opened them quickly. The third beer had begun to do its work, and the room had gone into a spin when she closed them.

"Do you still dig?"

Five whole seconds had gone by before Amy understood the question, and when she finally did answer, her voice started from a low pitch and slid up into the vocal stratosphere. "—WHAT!"

"Ouch," Ronda yelled as she pulled back from Amy and stuck the tip of her finger into her ear, and then gave it a shake. "Did you have to scream in my ear?"

"Did you have to ask such a—personal question? Jesus, Ronda."

"It isn't like we've never discussed it before. We used to do it together—years ago, remember?"

"Yes I remember, but that was more like playing doctor or something, you know, I'll show you mine if you show me yours type of thing. Not digging."

"I know, but I need to know—if I'm, well—abnormal or..."

Ronda's face had wrinkled up and her mouth pulled to one side. Her lips were slightly parted and showing just the tips of her teeth. 'She just wants to know if it's normal to masturbate,' Amy thought, but she also felt that there was something else, something she wasn't quite ready to talk about.

"No, I don't think your 'abnormal,' everyone does it, they just don't talk about it."

"Really, you think everyone does it?"

"Yes I do," Amy answered, but her mind instantly excluded 'some' people.

"So—you're saying that you do it too?"

Amy was afraid to open her mouth. If she had tried to answer at that moment, it would have come out in a series of 'buts and ahs.

"Well?" asked Ronda as the corners of her mouth slithered up into a crooked evil grin.

Amy realized she couldn't avoid the answer; she shrugged her shoulders and said, "yes;" only the "s" rolled off her tongue and ended with an "a" and came out like, "Yessss-a."

"What about the pictures?"

"What about them?"

"Didn't they make you want to..."

"Could I have another beer?"

"—Sure."

'This will be a record breaking beer,' Amy thought as she watched Ronda go to the kitchen. Three had been the former, but her mouth was dry and she wanted to change the subject. She "was" curious though, about the pictures, and if she were to tell the truth she would have to admit they did turn her on—a little.

Ronda returned with the beer and sat close to Amy, thigh touching thigh, and set the bottles down. There was a blanket on the back of the sofa and she reached over her shoulder to pull it down, and then spread it over their legs. She raised her beer bottle.

"To 'Sweet Poison.'"

Amy raised her glass but had no idea why; she just did it.

"Sweet Poison," she said, and then poured a healthy, or unhealthy depending on your point of view, amount of beer down her throat.

27.

"Sweet poison," Amy said to herself as she thought about that night with Ronda. At least she could remember where she first heard it. Still, there was a cloud that surrounded those words and she tried to jump ahead; fast forward her memory like a videotape machine, but that button was on the fritz. No matter how hard she pushed it, the video in her head would only plod along feeding her one scene after another and in its proper order.

She sat up and wrapped the blanket around her and went to the kitchen to get another beer. The blanket dragged behind her on the floor like the long train of a wedding gown. Amy reached for the refrigerator door—but just stood there puzzled. It was one of those things she did maybe ten, or more, times a day—open the refrigerator door. She had tried to open it from the left side—but the handle was on the right. She moved her hand to the right and opened it—it felt awkward and unfamiliar.

Maybe John had switched it around; he was always screwing with things around the house, but she hadn't noticed it earlier—she was sure it had opened from the left. She squatted and looked for a beer, there were none on the bottom shelf. She grunted as she bent down lower to see if there were any hiding in the back. 'Oh well,' she thought, 'I must have taken the last one.' As she rose back up, she saw that there were seven or ten bottles of beer on the top shelf.

Amy took a step back, and any residual effects from her three- beer limit were now gone. She slammed the door shut. Small white- tipped bumps formed on her back and arms and she could feel the short hairs on the back of her neck move as the skin under them tightened. 'They were "all" on the bottom shelf—I know they were.'

"John—are you here—are you screwing with me?" She asked, not expecting an answer. There was no place for John, or anyone else for that matter, to hide in the kitchen—not a full-grown man anyway.

The lock on the back door was still in the locked position, and without a key, it couldn't be locked from the outside—or even locked and then closed, it was a deadbolt. She slowly turned, her senses heightened, looking for anything that might...

The window, the one that faced the kitchen from the dinning room wall, seemed to have shrunk. It was only half, or maybe even a quarter of its original size. Movement from behind the glass had caught her eye—no, not movement—it...

Fogged. She stood frozen in panic, unable to move or even scream. It fogged again—and again—and again; someone was breathing on the glass.

She turned and ran.

"John," Amy screamed as one foot shot out in front of her, and her body pivoted on the other. She ran past the short wall that separates the kitchen from the living room, and then down the hall. Her mind raced well ahead of her feet, and she could see herself waking John, and telling him about the window, and how she could see "his" breath, and...

"DOOR! Where's the FUCKING DOOR!" She had reached the end of the hall. She turned quickly looking left and then right; there were "no" doors—just a long, blank hallway. Amy fell back into a corner and slid slowly down to the floor. The thick-pile carpet that had once tickled her feet was now gone as well; replaced with a hard, multi-colored tile.