Penny takes a shortcut through the woods because she is running a little late for school this morning. Last night she was up until almost three chatting with her boyfriend Brad about Mr. Moke’s stupid English assignment—compose three metaphors for God—and this morning it was all she could do to get washed and dressed—certainly no time for breakfast, not even time to stuff the poppyseed bagel her mom left out into the backpack—just what she needs, little black poppyseeds stuck between her teeth, and barely enough time to glance at the note her mom had left underneath the bagel. Working a double again, so wrestle up your own supper, kiddo, xxx ooo tic-tac-toe!!! Right.

The path through the woods is mushy in spots from recent rains—maybe this isn’t such a good idea—just what she needs: mud spatter all over her legs. She steps carefully, and at last she comes out near the railroad embankment. She is about to start the climb when she notices a white sheet of typing paper caught in a cluster of frail reeds, fluttering timidly in the breeze. Penny picks up the paper and reads it as she walks. The nearer to school she gets, the more slowly she walks. She is almost out of breath when at last she arrives on the main steps of Jefferson High, and she narrowly beats the final bell. After homeroom she hurries to the Girls, thrusts down her skirt and panties, and sits on the toilet. She pushes her fingers through the dainty tangle of auburn wool, straddles her clitoris, and touches herself like mad. Orgasm has never come so quickly. But the satisfaction doesn’t last. Immediately she needs to do it again. She wants to do it while sitting on Brad’s lap, his cock deep in her cunt, a wolf watching her with greedy eyes, and she touches herself again, and again she comes almost instantly.

§

As is his habit, first thing, Mr. Moke, the English teacher, stops by the Jefferson High School office to pick up the morning mail. Not that there’s ever anything interesting there, but today it looks like every slot contains a notice or flyer. Probably just the usual trash. Hobbs, the science guy, is in the process of extracting his, but he turns to greet Moke, and Moke nods a hello.

“S’posed to get a spot of weather later,” Hobbs says. Then, “Good Christ, man, you really butchered yourself shaving. You’d better get yourself cleaned up. You’ll scare the fucking bejesus out of the kids. What on earth were you doing? Wrestling alligators in the parking lot?”

Moke moves his hand to his face. His chin, his cheeks, his lips. Warm. Sticky. Red. “Wolves,” Moke says. “Wolves.” He takes the flyer from Hobbs and mops his face as best he can.

Honors English 12 - Period 4

What will the Weather Be Like in Heaven Today?

Current Forecast: Mostly sunny early, with clouds gathering through the morning, and a steady drizzle likely by noon.

God is an attentive lover. The room is room temperature—neither too hot nor too cold. The simple wooden chair is sturdy and comfortable. It won’t tip over no matter how much you squirm, no matter how much you writhe. Not that you can writhe or squirm. God had made sure the rope is secure, the knots are tight. You are completely and comfortably immobilized. You are at home with your thoughts and your feelings.

God has also turned on the TV. It is a state-of-the art wide screen plasma television which takes up most of one wall. Before it was switched on, it acted as a dark mirror, and you could see how beautiful you are, with long flowing hair, and pretty, beguiling eyes, and nicely shaped, pink-tipped breasts, and a trim little belly bordered beneath by a soft smudge of pussy fur. Your lean legs are spread wide enough so that your delicate flower shows its opening. The tender clitoris is clearly erect. Sex dew begins to seep from your excited cunt.

But now the TV is on—a window to the outside world. Morning light coasts across fog shrouded meadows. Immense cargo ships float through calm waters of a placid bay. The sleepy harbor quietly steels itself.

The youngsters are awake. Drowsy at first, they stretch their supple limbs. A warm sun and a mild breeze cast away the mists, and a moment later the little ones are bounding through the meadow, leaping each other effortlessly, frolicking and having fun.

Oh, they grow so quickly these days! You blink your eyes and they’re adolescents. You turn your back for an instant and their nigh unto adults. But their play remains innocent, even as they couple, even as they join one with the other, boy with girl, twining together, legs and arms and everything, middles hugging hard, like light mixing with air, like colors becoming rainbows.

God can be so distracting—his fat cock. It brushes your nose with scents of fresh cut lumber, distant tobacco smoke, dark chocolate, bread baking. It kisses your ear, whispering sweet promises, spilling naughty secrets. It caresses your lips—plump, soft, firm, forceful. The first commandment is Open. The second commandment is Don’t Bite.

With your mouth full and your face blocked by God’s bulk, you can’t see the angels, but you can feel them. Their soft white feathers smooth your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Their soft white feathers play with your breasts, nibbling the tips, stiffening them until they ache. Their soft white feathers trace the swell of your clitoris, teasing it mercilessly, twisting across, fluttering around, until it begs to be swallowed. Their soft white feathers whisk your cunt, wallowing in the slick wet, working you wetter and wetter and then toying with your tiny pee place until you don’t know if you’re going to:

a. piss

b. come

c. all of the above

Clearing by mid-afternoon.

The big ships sit snug in the harbor, docile along the long docks, riding low from the weight of the cargo, half a hundred tons of wild-eyed wolves. Cranes lower heavy chains into the dark holds to hoist the iron cages. When sunlight slices through the bars, the wolves blink. Heads lowered, they growl, and their drool makes the decks slippery as sin.

God’s orgasm builds steadily. His phallus in your mouth proves itself to be a powerful monument to industry and ecstasy. The third commandment is Suck. You use your lips and mouth and tongue, singing silently to the ever-increasing excitement. Concentrating, you ease and constrict your throat. Billowing clouds of wondrous sensation, the new communion, obliterate whatever words might have been invented or uttered. A purer kind of communication. A cleansing flood. The fourth commandment is Swallow. A last dollop of God’s seed sits like a spot of sweetest honey on your chin, just beyond the reach of your tongue. Leaving, God has left the door partly open. At least the TV is on.

Where has God gone?

a. To make coffee.

b. To walk the dog.

c. To work.

In the meadow, the youngsters are napping. Sprawled here and there, some still in slow embrace, others basking contentedly in the hazy afternoon sun, their sighs like the hum of satisfied bees.

The wolves are on their way. They trot briskly, lascivious tongues in the lead, lapping the last of the stevedores’ blood. They are ravenous. There are too many to count, and there is no stopping them. Where is God when you need Him? If only you could shut off the TV. If only you could close the door. If only your prayers would work. Oh, Wolves, please go back! Spare my children. Please come to me instead. My door is open. I am helpless. I am yours. Devour me. Devour me!

There is no stopping them.

Pop Quiz

Third period is study hall in the library. She sits at a table near the back with Brad, her almost-boyfriend, where they can look out over the room, and there are only stacks of books and tall dark windows behind them. She’s never actually even seen Brad’s cock, but she did touch it once, outside his pants, while they were kissing. Hand job, she knows it’s called. If she had to do it again, she’d slip her hand in, wrap her fingers around his girth, and stroke him up and down. According to her friends, it doesn’t take long, and then the mess, warm and sticky. She puts her hand above Brad’s. Lets her palm ride upon the back of his hand. As gently as possible, she caresses his hand, and while she’s doing it, she whispers in his ear.

“Hand job.”

“What?” he whispers.

“Hand job,” she says again, as slowly as she can, the final “buh” a blurt of kiss into the hole of his ear. “Cum,” she whispers. “Hot and sticky cum.” The “sticky” almost sticks to her lips. “Are you hard now?” she continues. “Are you hard and hot in your pants? Your cock all big and bulging? If I reached in and touched it, would it come for me? Would it come all hot and sticky in my hand?” As she whispers, she squeezes Brad’s thumb. Next period they share 12^th grade English, Mr. Moke, and they’ve planned to finish their assignment: Use three metaphors to describe God.

As if reading her mind, Brad says, “Should we be doing our assignment?”

“I can’t think,” Penny tells Brad. “It’s got me in a blur.”

“What’s got you in a blur?”

Penny shows Brad the page. “I found it on the way to school this morning. Near the tracks. Do you think someone could have tossed it from a train?”

Brad glances at the page. “I got one of those, too,” Brad says. “There was one in my gym bag. I thought you wrote it.”

“Me?”

“It seemed like something you’d write. I don’t know. I couldn’t help thinking about it all through gym. My you-know-what threatened to burst through my jock. Jeepers. It was like torture.”

“Well, I didn’t. I couldn’t write stuff like this.”

“You couldn’t? Then who did? And how did it get in my gym bag?”

“I don’t know,” Penny says.

“Maybe Moke wrote it. Maybe everyone has one.”

Brad and Penny find themselves looking about the library at the other kids. The other kids look clueless, but there is no way to know. Brad and Penny find themselves looking at each other.

“You know what?” Penny whispers.

Brad smiles.

“How’s your you-know-what now?”