“I’m not sure who’s fucked who,” says Larry sleepily, cupping her bottom with
firm hands. “And I’m losing track of the exact number of times. But it’s been
fair exchange. Above and below.”
Pauline is astride him now, first stretching back, then leaning forward, letting
his eyes linger on her breasts, let him kiss and lick and tease her hard nipples
as they brush his face.
She reaches down, right down there,to sheathe his prick, his penis, his cock,
his rod, his willy, all such silly names, yet an exciting catalogue to recite under
her breath when he’s already so hard again, a natural material phenomenon
like a stone or a tree or a jolt of lightning right up the rippling crevice of her;
but she’s in control now, poised for take-off, almost at the point of no return,
as long as the ride’s easy, gently does it, the triangle of her sex is perfectly balanced
on him, so he disappears in his dark murmurs and while she’s astride this
cunning old Adam, she’ll give him his golden apples all right, just a
quick/slow/quick/slow squeeze around and about the hairy zone, he just can’t
stop going into her, but they keep going . . .
She can see his tanned chest below her, his scarred arms, tiny curved crescents
like cigarette burns on the shoulder. His belly is noticeably curved also,
thickened by the prison stodge, but what the hell, he is a great stone giant lying
on his back, heavy weathered curved lips, pitted slabs of cheek, a hell of a heavy
stand on him, standing steady for centuries, for her steady pleasuring, her
repeated steady roll. She will never relent. She is sitting on top of the world. In
control. She is at the apex of earthly power. She is reclaiming this male organ,
(all hers, hot and engorged), she has just discovered it and this time she won’t
let go without a delicious fight.
He’s going to, going to—he’s moaning, bucking wildly, stroking the cheeks
of her arse together. She lets everything go.
Much later, as she swallows his harsh black coffee, and listens to distant domestic
bellowings in the bedsits upstairs, she isn’t sure about anything, despite
the languour in her aching body.
Already there are anxieties—were they too perfunctory with the condoms?
and a replay of Graham’s counsel keeps surfacing, however much she tries to
force it down—suppose those marks on his arms were tracks from injecting,
inside men, shared needles, all that nightmare stuff . .
Manolis Aligizakis 