Jenny’s Elbow

Her cunt, wet and undulant, takes me in with but the thinnest skin of resistance. Her body moves against mine, matching the motions of her cunt. We couldn’t be more together—the sweet crush of ultimate closeness. Like seals swimming in each other’s current or seagulls, at one with the air, soaring through the purest, sweetest sky, our fuck is effortless and, for a time, for the longest, loveliest time, endless...

When she comes it is in waves, each hollow a slow hard surge swelling to a crest of exquisite ecstasy.

I pour into her orgasm.

We sleep for a time in each other’s arms, and when at last we uncouple Jenny blurts, “Oh fuck, what time is it?” and bangs her elbow against my nose. Blood is everywhere.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She can not apologize enough. I’m not hurt, just bleeding. Big red splotches stain the sheets.

“I’m okay,” I assure her, lying back so as not to add more blood to the fiasco. “How are we ever going to get the sheets clean?”

“We’ll burn them,” Jenny says gleefully, “like they did with virgins, no not virgins...”

“Witches?”

“No, like sheets after virgins were defrocked. Not defrocked. What they did in the old days. Deflowered. Oh you poor man. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

For a time we lie quietly next to each other. I’m thinking of Jenny’s virginity, her virgin sheets, wondering how much blood there was and how it was for her, whether it hurt, whether she liked it, whether she came, and wishing somehow I could have been the one to have her virginity, wishing I would have known her then, known her innocence. Now I haven’t quite the courage to ask her about it.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

“I need to invent a time machine.”

“So I wouldn’t have bonked you?”

“No, quite the opposite.”

Not catching my meaning, Jenny says, “So you wouldn’t be late to your first painting class. I know.”

“How late am I?”

Jenny looks at the bedside clock. She turns to me and frowns. There’s such a sad impishness to that frown. I need to kiss her. That’s what I need. But if I move, my bleeding will begin again.

Jenny, always understanding, bends to me. She kisses me. Kisses short but sweet, over my whole face, finishing on my nose, first just gently on the tip, then taking more and more of it gently into her mouth. I am helpless under the onslaught of her love, and not long later she is riding me, riding me through whatever is left of art class, her beauty more than could ever be painted.

I am done in. After several deep breaths, I manage to say, “I can’t believe you kissed my bloody nose.” My words are snuffled because of the crusts of blood clogging my nostrils.

“Well,” she answers, as if she’s given this some thought, “In a way it was my bloody nose. I was to blame for it. Doesn’t that give me kiss rights? And anyway, you kiss me sometimes during my period.”

“Yeah, but I don’t...” I start to protest, for at those times I squeamishly concentrate on her clitoris.

“You do,” Jenny insists. “After, your chin is covered in red. You could be the pirate Red Beard. I love you for it.”

“I love you for it,” I answer. And we are in each other’s arms again. Not fucking. Not right away. And then we are.

The beach house belongs to Jenny’s uncle, whom I’ve never met. Wealthy, eccentric, a successful artist, he didn’t even show up at our wedding four years ago, but more or less out of the blue he offered Jenny the use of this place for a couple of months while he was out of the country. Jenny can do her design work anywhere. I can write anywhere. We jumped at the chance to spend the coldest months of the winter away from the upperMidwest.

The place is wonderful. Way out on the Cape, it sits on the dunes overlooking theGulf of Mexico. It is the last house before five miles of bird sanctuary. Going back toward the mainland there are only half a dozen homes in the next mile, and as far as we can tell, most of these are unoccupied. There is no cell-phone service, but there is cable for internet. Perfect.

One thing surprised me. The walls in every room are bare. Just an old pendulum wall clock stuck on five. “I would have thought your uncle would have some of his paintings up ... or someone’s paintings,” I’d remarked shortly after we’d unpacked. Then I saw the rectangular shadows where once upon a time paintings had hung. “Or does he think we might steal them?” I joked. “You don’t think they could have been stolen?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Jenny said. “But I know what. Why don’t you paint us some pictures for the walls? You said you used to be interested in painting.”

“Interested, yes. Talented, no. I gave up painting for a very good reason. Now I have to satisfy myself painting with words.”

“You should give it another shot,” Jenny said. “What could be the harm? It might be fun. Please.”

“No paints,” I said, thinking that would be the end of it.

Later that afternoon, we took a walk on the beach, watched the sunset, and kissed in the last of the day’s sunbeams. Back inside, we chopped vegetables for a stir fry, and while I was stirring the peppers, broccoli, onions, carrots, and squash in a heavy pot on the stove, Jenny set the table. It was a big table. At one end were two place settings, two wine glasses, and the chopsticks Jenny had remembered to pack. At the other end an oversize pad of paper, a set of watercolors, and several brushes.

“Surprise,” Jenny said. “Now you can paint.”

“Where did you find these?” I asked.

“In the studio.”

“I thought that was locked. I thought that was forbidden.”

“It was. It is.”

“What do you think you might paint?” Jenny asked while we were eating dinner.

“I’d paint you,” I said, “but I’d mess you up. I couldn’t even be trusted with your elbow. Really, Jenny, it would be silly of me to paint anything. I have no talent, only ambition, and barely any of that.”

“We’re on vacation,” Jenny persisted. “We can be a little silly. Tomorrow you should go out on the beach and paint the waves. Paint the sand and the sky. Paint this house.”

The next morning Jenny took me and the paints out to the beach and helped me set things up. “Have at it,” she said. “I’ll just go for a little run.” She took off down the sand. For Jenny, a little run might be ten miles. I took a deep breath and began my painting.

A couple of hours later Jenny was back. “How’d it go?” she said, stripping off her running clothes. “It went great,” I said, embracing her. She was hot and sweaty, and that didn’t stop me. We made love on the living room carpet. We showered and dried and dressed. “I love a good fuck after a good run,” Jenny said. “Now I feel so refreshed. So show me your masterpiece.”

“I can’t,” I said.

She gave me a questioning look.

“It was horrible. My landscape turned into a seascape and then it sank. Nothing but a big fat sinkhole. I have no talent. I’m sorry. I’m just not any good at painting.”

“Let’s see.”

“No. It would be too embarrassing.”

“Let’s see.”

Reluctantly I showed Jenny my pitiful effort. She looked at it. Exhaled. Cocked her head and looked at it again. “I see what you mean,” she said.

“I told you.”

“No, actually it’s not too bad. It has possibilities.”

“What are you talking about? It’s a fiasco.”

“You mind if I... ?” Without waiting for an answer, Jenny took a Kleenex from the box on the credenza, spit on her finger, and using the Kleenex and her spit-moistened finger did some things to the painting. I watched transfixed as she worked. More spit, more Kleenex. At the end she used her fingernails on the house. “There,” she said. “See, it just needed a little touching up. It wasn’t so bad.”

While it may not have been an Edward Hopper, it was certainly closer to art. I couldn’t believe it. “Jenny,” I said, “how did you do that? I didn’t know you could...”

“I guess it’s in the blood,” she said. “But you can do it too. You have scads of raw talent. Maybe all you need are a few lessons.”

“No, all I need is you,” I said.

The next day we went to town for provisions. Fresh vegetables. More wine. Coffee. Bread. Garlic and a garlic press. Double A batteries for the wall clock. When we got back to the beach house Jenny showed me a brochure she’d picked up at the little coffee shop and bookstore where we’d had tea and bagels. “Landscape watercolors for beginners.” The class was to run one week, beginning every morning at nine. $200 plus supplies.

Jenny said, “I’m going to sign you up.”

“It’s two towns over—I’d have to wake up way before dawn to get there.”

“We’ll set the alarm.”

“I’d be too embarrassed.”

“You can do it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“If you do it, I might let you paint me.”

“Nude?”

Jenny nodded.

“Okay,” I said. “I guess I could give it a try.”

We’d fallen back to sleep. The dried blood has crusted on my nose and my face. Jenny is kissing me. Kissing my eyelids. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she says. “You missed breakfast, you don’t want to miss lunch. I’m hungry.”

“Too bad I missed the painting class, huh?”

Jenny nods. She smiles. A somewhat sad but maybe not unhappy smile.

“Does this mean I don’t get to paint you nude?”

“Maybe my elbow.” That same sad smile, but there is a touch of hope in it. Hope or something like hope. I have to face up to it: I don’t know exactly what her smiles mean, and I probably never will, but it doesn’t matter. And I don’t really care whether I paint her or not. Not as long as I get to love her.

Nature Walk

One morning Jenny met an old guy on the beach who told her not to miss the nature trail on the bayside of the cape. It’s a gloomy afternoon, so we decide to take a look. “He said the entrance was just a bit past the gate,” Jenny tells me. We’d been walking down the road awhile, and I was wondering if we’d missed the trail entrance. Around the next bend in the road the gate comes into view.

Jenny takes my hand. “Are you reassured now?”

“Very.”

She squeezes my hand. “I knew that old man wouldn’t steer us wrong.” Then she tells me about a dream she’d had the previous night. “We were in this house and suddenly you were in my mouth. You said, ‘I’m going to come in your mouth.’ It’s really rare I remember exact lines from dreams. Things seem so real at the time, but somehow they get washed away.”

“Then what happened?” We have reached the gate. Sure enough, the path is just ahead.

Jenny smiles at me, her adorable impish smile. “Then my mouth was full.”

We walk down the paved pathway and only a few yards in is a sign for the nature trail.

A boardwalk crosses a swampy area. The overhead leaves drip from the rains of this morning. We hold hands and make our way along the boards. The air is still and cool.

“This is lovely,” Jenny says.

The boardwalk ends and there is a path of sand and crushed shells. The path is damp but nice to walk on, just the slightest bit crunchy. To the side are areas of vegetation we’d never seen before, and various birds chirping and hopping from one branch to another, and off in the distance tall trees quite different from the trees we are used to. We stop to take pictures with our camera phones.

“This is so beautiful,” Jenny exclaims. “Kiss me.”

We embrace. I can’t help but remember her dream. Although the wet sand shows signs of travel, on a day like this it is unlikely anyone else is on the trail. I wonder if we might do more than kiss.

We walk on. We stop again after a minute and kiss again. Jenny might have the same idea as I do. I suck her tongue gently into my mouth. We press close. Jenny’s lips flush hot. I cup her little bottom, pulling her firmly against me, and push my tongue into her mouth. She responds for a moment and then breaks the kiss. “Oh good sir,” she says, her eyes twinkling, “you do quite take my breath away.” With that she turns and heads on down the trail. I hurry to catch up.

Not too many steps more and a little salt and pepper dog rushes up to us, his tail wagging like mad. The dog is followed by its owners, a middle-aged couple. “He’s frisky but he won’t bite,” the woman says, her accent surely Canadian. Jenny is already bending to let the frisky dog sniff her fingers.

“It’s beautiful here,” I tell the couple.

“Spectacular,” the man agrees, a jaunty tone to his voice. “And it gets better, you’ll see, if you’ve never been here before.”

Almost before we can say good-bye, they stride off, marching briskly back along the trail. Jenny and I resume our leisurely walk. A spur in the path leads to the bay. Fog hangs low over the water. The gentlest waves lap the shore. It is beautiful in its serenity, the calm, the peacefulness so beguiling, the bay side so unlike the Gulf side, that we forget to take pictures. We almost forget to kiss. Almost with reluctance, we return to the main path.

Another few minutes and the sand and crushed shell of the trail give way to ordinary dirt. It is soft, slightly squishy, but not so slippery that we are in any danger of falling. The trees now are closer together. The vegetation is lush. The air thicker. Bird calls pierce the air. The path curves sharply away from the water, and there is a boy, maybe in his mid-teens, sitting on a wooden bench, and a teenaged girl crouched between his legs, her head at his groin. Clearly she is giving him a blow-job. We stop in surprise, almost slipping. The girl looks up at us, her mouth opening as if she’s been surprised, too, and a creamy dollop of cum seeps out over her bottom lip. She hurriedly wipes it back into her mouth and stands up. The boy stands up too, tucking his erect cock into his pants. Then they slip past us, the boy guiding the girl from behind, and they disappear.

Jenny and I look at each other. I shrug. She giggles. We both grin. I think about sitting down where the boy had been, but Jenny is already heading off down the trail.

“I wonder what else we’ll run into,” Jenny says. “Maybe bears or mountain lions, what do you think?”

The idea that we might run into a bear or cougar has actually occurred to me. They aren’t unknown in these parts. “You’d rescue me, wouldn’t you?” Jenny says.

I nod, trying to think what would be the best thing to do if a bear or cougar should appear. I don’t feel adequately prepared.

Another quarter mile or so and the trail loops around, rejoining the outgoing trail. There is a mist in the air. As before, the birds flit from branch to branch. Ten minutes after that we are back on the boardwalk, crossing the swamp, and then we are on the road to our beach house.

A car drives past us, windshield wipers wagging. It is the middle-aged couple with the frisky dog. In the back seat are the teenagers. The driver and his wife both wave to us. The teens do not.

“Do you think they were... ?” Jenny starts to say.

“I don’t know. Looks that way.”

Jenny nods solemnly, her body tense. She stares down the road.

I take her hand and she lets me lead her back to the house.

Jenny seems upset, more agitated than angry. “Are you all right?” I ask. “Did the ... Do you... ?”

“Yes,” she says, nearly a growl. “Right away.”

We tear off each other’s clothing. Never have we had such a ravenous fuck.

Perverted Oatmeal

We’ve been having oatmeal almost every morning. Steel-cut. Jenny says she prefers it to instant oatmeal. I never liked oatmeal until Jenny. She lets me make it. I find making it therapeutic. I don’t know what I mean by that, but I do like making it. I like stirring it while it simmers. We prefer out oatmeal cooked down, nice and thick, but not hard and certainly not burned. So I watch the pot and I stir.

Sometimes Jenny watches me watching the oatmeal. “Is it that fascinating?” she asks.

“Come here and look.”

She stands next to me. She’s wearing her Eeyore sweatpants, which she sometimes uses as pajama bottoms, and one of my old running shirts. The oatmeal is beginning to thicken. Lots of bubbles. They begin to come more slowly but with more force.

I put my hand on Jenny’s ass. She has such a nice ass, small and firm but soft too. Soft and firm. Like oatmeal? Well, smoother. Much much smoother. I stir the pot. I use a flat bottomed spoon so it gets at the bottom. I stir and I stroke Jenny’s bottom. Jenny takes the wooden spoon from my other hand and stirs the pot. Her stirring synchronizes with the motion of my hand on her bottom. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

“Does it remind you of anything? The bubbles?” I ask.

Jenny’s bottom is so nice to hold.

“I don’t know. Fireworks?” Jenny guesses. She stops her stirring. “Because of the way they pop?”

Together we watch the little explosions of cooking oatmeal. The cheeks of Jenny’s bottom are just right for my palm. I give a gentle squeeze and then I move my hand inside Eeyore’s waistband. Her ass is slightly cool. I am holding the outer cheek. The one away from me. My little finger is almost at the edge of her asshole.

“Close but no cigar,” I say. “Here’s a hint.” I squeeze her ass cheek, half squeeze, half caress, my little finger getting closer and closer to her asshole.

“What?” she says. “I don’t get it.” She sets the spoon on the stove top.

“When you come,” I say.

“Huh?”

“When you have an orgasm, your asshole looks like that.”

“Like oatmeal farts? No way!”

“It does. It’s adorable.”

Jenny takes my hand out of her Eeyore bottoms.

“Don’t me mad. It’s so cute. It’s so exciting. Beautiful really.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true.”

“Ha!”

“We could make a little movie. As proof. Then you’d see.”

Jenny laughs. “Oh ho, so that’s your game. Well, no way, Buster. Over my dead body.”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to take my word.”

Jenny moves away. I start to follow her. She puts up her hand. “Better mind the oatmeal,” she says. “Wouldn’t want it to burn, now would we, Mr. Smut Film Movie Maker Man.” She stands at the edge of the kitchen, staring at me. It’s hard to know what she’s thinking. Impossible. I stir the oatmeal. Jenny watches. Eventually she leaves the kitchen. Eventually the oatmeal is ready.

This morning we serve it with almonds and whole strawberries and plump blackberries. And maple syrup. Lots of maple syrup. And coffee. Lots of coffee.

“This is so good,” Jenny says as she enjoys her oatmeal. “You make the best oatmeal. I love it. I love you.” She gets out of her chair and comes to me. She sits in my lap and kisses me. Her lips taste of maple syrup. Our tongues touch. Then we are kissing voraciously. “I’ve been thinking,” she says. “But you’ve got to promise to erase it right away. Okay?”

I promise.

She lies on her back on the couch, still in my running shirt and her Eeyores. I’ve run water into the oatmeal pot so the remains won’t stick. I’ve got the camera on the coffee table with it set to video. All I have to do is push the button. But we have all morning. All day, in fact.

So I sit on the couch and rub Jenny’s feet. For some reason she likes her left foot rubbed more than her right. The soles of her feet are hard from all the running she’s been doing. I start with her right foot, and I spend a lot of time on each toe, squeezing and pulling and pinching. I press her arch and her heel, too. Eventually she gets impatient for her left foot to be rubbed. I give in almost right away. I spend even more time with her left foot than her right. Jenny’s eyes are closed. I don’t fully understand the nature of this pleasure, but I know from Jenny’s face that it is great pleasure.

I put my free hand on Jenny’s Eeyores, and while still caressing Jenny’s foot, I press my palm against her pubis. The base of my palm rests on her mound just above her clitoris. I press in time to the rubbing of her toes. I take my time. Mostly I press slow and steady, but sometimes I increase the pressure, sometimes pushing my hand up to provide different stimulation. Jenny’s right leg goes over the back of the couch, giving me greater access. She takes a few deep breaths. She sighs. I study the rise and fall of her little breasts under the running singlet. Her nipples tighten as her arousal increases. She makes little humming noises. I continue to pinch and pull her toes, to press and push her pubis. Her lips part. Her nostrils flare. I’m pretty sure she could come just from this stimulation.

Finally I draw her Eeyores down over her hips and pull them up her legs and off. Her right leg goes back over the back of the couch. Her left leg goes over my shoulder. With my left hand I pry apart her outer labia. Her inner labia open on their own. Her cunt glistens with wet. Her clitoris is distended, plump as a baby berry. I stroke directly upon her clit with the thumbnail of my right hand, light pressure, but it is enough. With a keening cry she comes, her belly clenching hard. I continue to stroke her clitoris, sometimes circling, sometimes side to side, and sometimes up and down. She continues to come, one hard orgasm after another. I push the forefinger of my right hand into her cunt. I use my thumb to stroke either side of her clitoris. Her cunt spasms as she comes again and again. I want to suck her clitoris the way her cunt is sucking my finger, for I’ve never seen her clit so fat, but I don’t want to disturb the flow of her orgasms, so I refrain, concentrating instead on stimulating her with my thumb and my fingers. With her next orgasm her body buckles, then jackknifes, her legs drawn up. And there it is, her little tea-colored asshole, clenching like mad, quivering and shuddering and popping like cooking oatmeal. But I can’t get at the camera. My fingers are stuck in her cunt or palpitating her mound. I simply enjoy the sight, the wonder and beauty of her ecstasy.

The waning of her excitement is slow and delicious. Every so often fresh spasms wrack her body. Her cunt constricts around my finger. I imagine what that compression might feel like on my cock. I am tempted to fuck her, and while it might be the thing to do, she is at such obvious peace, in a state of utter bliss, that I don’t want to risk spoiling it. Eventually she falls asleep, and I let my fingers slide free of her sex. I cover her with a blanket. I lift the Eeyore bottoms from the floor, fold them carefully, and set them on the end of the couch. Then I go to the kitchen and clean the oatmeal pot.

It is some time before Jenny wakes. I have been sitting across the room on the easy chair reading my book, The Possessed, and watching her sleep. She turns her head to look at me. She takes a deep breath, sighs, and rubs her eyes. She blinks. “Did you get it?” she asks.

“Ah, no.”

She smiles. “See! Admit it, you were wrong.”

“Okay, I admit it. I was wrong.”

“But... ?” she says.

“But tomorrow I’m having my oatmeal with cream.”

A Bed Big Enough for Four

We have been in the beach house two weeks when Jenny says, “Oh no! We’ve run out of tuna.”

“Who knew you’d develop such a craving for tuna salad sandwiches?” I say.

She smiles. “It must be that horseradish mustard you use.”

I smile back. “Who knew you’d like horseradish so much?”

Jenny says, “As I see it we have three choices. You can go out in the ocean and catch me a fish.”

“What’s are the other choices?”

“We can go to Piggly Wiggly.”

“Or?”

“Or we can starve to death.”

We get to town a little before noon.

“As long as we’re here, we should try out one of the restaurants,” Jenny says. We have just driven past ‘The Beachcomer.’

“This one?”

“Why not?”

The place is clean and cheerful but almost empty. “Y’alls sit anywhere,” the waitress says.

Jenny finds us a table where she can look out the window. The other patrons, a young couple, are at a table in the opposite corner.

“What if we’d wanted to sit at their table?” Jenny asks me.

“On their laps?” I say.

Jenny grins. “You think that girl is hot, don’t you?”

I open the menu. “You think their tuna salad is as good as mine?”

“No one’s tuna salad is as good as yours.”

“But we could try it, just for comparison.”

“We could.”

Jenny looks over at the other couple. “What do you think they’re having?”

“It looks like they’re having cell phones.”

“I don’t understand how people could do that,” Jenny says.

“If they’re out on theCapelike us, maybe they’re starved for cell phone,” I say.

“That must be it,” Jenny agrees.

The waitress comes over. We order two tuna salad sandwiches and two beers.

Jenny digs into her purse and pulls out her cell phone. She puts it on the table.

I laugh. I take my cell phone from my pocket and put it on the table.

“Is that a challenge?” Jenny says. She picks up her phone. Her fingers fly. A moment later my phone beeps.

“What are you thinking?” the text reads.

I type back: “I’m thinking I love you.”

“Oooooooh. Tell me more.”

“I love you sooooooooooo much.”

“Mooooooooooooooooooooore.”

“What if I run out of o’s?”

“Hey Mister, wanna buy an O?”

I laugh. Jenny knows all the oldSesame Streetsongs by heart.

She types: “Excuse me. I’ve got to pee.”

While she is gone I type: “Is the restroom clean?”

“Very.”

“Any good graffiti?”

“None.”

“Are you tempted?”

“To write graffiti?”

“Yes.”

“No. What would I say?”

“Jenny was a bad girl. She masturbated here.”

“You’re so naughty.”

“Thinking of you with your panties down is making me horny.”

“Pervert.”

“I’m getting soooooooooooo looooooooooooooonly.”

“Oh?”

“A little hard, too.”

“Only a little? Think of me all alone here, touching my clitty. Maybe that will fatten you up.”

“Oh darling. I need to fuck you.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m on my back. You’re on your hands and knees over me, facing my feet. You’re sucking my cock. I can see your pussy. Your pussy is so beautiful. So wet and open. You suck me until I’m almost there, and then you swivel around. You sink down on my cock. Your ride me so good. I love watching you come. I love coming in your cunt when you’re coming.”

She types: “Oh darling.”

I type: “Leave your panties off.”

A moment later she is back at the table. She brushes her fingers under my nose. I sniff the meadowy scent of her cunt. Nothing else in the world smells that good. “We have to go,” she says. “We have to go right now.”

I place two twenties on the table next to the untouched beer and sandwiches.

On the drive back she unzips me. “I’m not going to suck you,” she says. “This road is so narrow and I don’t want to end up in a ditch. But I’m going to look at you while I touch myself. I’m going to imagine your cock in my mouth and in my cunt while I do it.”

“Two cocks?” I say.

“Because you’re such an incredible man,” she says, putting one foot up on the dash.

Jenny is as good as her word. During the thirty minute drive she comes three times. After each come she lets me smell her fingers.

I carry her into the house, up the stairs, into the bedroom. She’s lost one shoe in the car, the other on the way up. I draw her dress over her head. Her panties are who knows where. I spread her legs.

“No,” she says, before I can taste her. “I’m a good girl. I can follow instructions. Lie on the bed.”

She kneels over me, facing my feet. Her mouth goes to my cock. The little petals of her buttercup cunt are open, pearlescent tears of lubriciousness about to drip. She sucks me avidly for a minute. Ten more seconds and I would have come in her mouth, but she swivels around and impales herself. Her eyes are incredibly lewd. “Go ahead,” she half-whispers half-moans. “Come.” She presses down and presses forward and does something with her hips and something with her cunt and together we come.