Space Ship

An instant ago, or so it seemed, they were admiring the seals through the clear glass window. The water looked cold and clean and slightly blue. The seals looked serious and playful and beautiful. “So graceful and sleek,” Marlene said to her boyfriend Ted. “So...” But before she could get the next word out, Ted was cupping her bottom, bringing her body as close to his as possible, and kissing her. There was no one else in the observation area, and the seals swam as gracefully and obliviously as before. The kiss was beyond anything Marlene or Ted had ever experienced. Out of this world good.

When Ted and Marlene opened their eyes, they were out of this world. The zoo, the seals, the cave-like observation area—vanished. Ted and Marlene floated in a not-quite-milky nothingness.

“What the...” Ted mouthed.

“Fuck,” Marlene whispered. She’d never said the word aloud before. Not even in the worst traffic jam when no one was in the car but her.

They were holding hands. They were suspended in the middle of a mild blue light.

“Are we dead or something?” Ted wondered.

“I don’t feel dead,” Marlene said. Ted’s erect penis brushed her belly. “You don’t feel dead, either. What happened to your clothes?”

“I don’t know,” Ted answered. “What happened to yours?”

Some couples might have called for help. Some couples might have explored their surroundings. Marlene and Ted chose to explore each other. Weightless in the wan blue light, they caressed and kissed every inch of each other. Their bodies tumbled and floated. They fondled and fucked until orgasms slammed them together. They drifted, satisfied, bodies joined, souls united, until Ted’s spent penis slipped from Marlene’s slippery cunt, and she swiveled and sucked the softened thing into her mouth, and flipped herself so that Ted could attached his mouth to her sweet center and lap the dewy petals and lick the stiffened clit. Soon Ted and Marlene were swimming in each other again, fucking playfully, seriously, chasing each other’s orgasms and catching them again and again.

“So graceful and sleek,” Irkta said to Ryx as together they peered through the observation window.

Ryx nodded and cupped Irkta’s pretty bottom.

School Bus

“Why are we stopping?” Jenny asked David.

“School bus,” David answered. “It’s illegal to pass a stopped school bus in either direction.”

“Yeah, but way out here in the middle of nowhere? And it looks empty. And the lights aren’t flashing. And I have to pee.”

Jenny and David were on their way to his uncle’s cabin to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. Just two more miles up County C should get them to the cut off. Then another two miles up the mostly gravel road to Paradise Lake. David hadn’t been up to the cabin in almost ten years, since he was barely a teenager. What fun he’d had, though, swimming, boating, fishing, listening to his uncle tell ghost stories by the campfire.

“I have to pee bad.”

“Okay, okay, hold your horses,” David said. “You can go in these woods. Just watch out for poison ivy.”

“Poison ivy,” Jenny exclaimed. “I’m more worried about bears. And what about the school kids, or whoever was on that bus? What about passers by?”

“I’ll keep watch,” David said. “Anyway like you said, it looks empty. And hardly anyone ever comes down this road.” He hopped out of the Mustang and strode to the old yellow bus. “Sisters of the Sacred Heart Academy,” he read off the side. “High School District 69.”

But Jenny was already in the woods. David pushed open the school bus door. He stepped up the three metal steps. Yup, the bus was empty. A moment later he was joined by Jenny. “I didn’t have anything to wipe with,” she said. “I thought you were going to keep watch. Anything in here?”

“To wipe with? I don’t think so.” David was walking down the aisle, Jenny a step behind him. “Looks deserted. Funny place to park.”

“You don’t think something bad happened?” Jenny said.

“Maybe they all had to pee,” David said. He’d reached the end of the bus and turned around.

“Maybe it’s abandoned,” Jenny said.

“Wait a second.” David had caught sight of something he’d missed on the trip down the aisle. Something small and pink and soft on the floor beneath the second to the last seat. He bent over and picked it up. A pair of panties.

“Cute,” he said. “I see London, I see France.” He twirled the pink panties on his forefinger. “I see ... Wait a second.”

“What?”

David stopped twirling. “Look at this.” He held the panties so Jenny could see the crotch. “A wet spot. And still damp. Naughty school girl.” He brought the panties to his nose. “And still...”

“Smelly?” Jenny asked.

“Mmm ... want a sniff?”

“No!” Jenny exclaimed, turning away. But a moment later, “What’s it smell like?”

“You had your chance.”

“Come on, just tell me. Does it smell ... cunty?”

“Cunty? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that word before?”

“Well, does it?”

“It smells good.”

“As good as me?”

“I don’t know. I’d have to compare.”

A few minutes later, curled tightly together side by side on the second to the last school bus seat, his tongue deep in Jenny’s cunt, his cock deep in Jenny’s mouth, David was thinking about the last time he’d been up at Paradise Lake, about the story his uncle told—the girls’ camp on the opposite shore, not there anymore, not for many years, because something unspeakable had happened, and no matter how much David had begged, his uncle wouldn’t say another word—he’d just wink. So one day David rowed the old rowboat all the way across, and looked around, and tried to imagine the unspeakable: grizzly bears, tornadoes, madmen escaped from an insane asylum; but images of pretty girls, naked, sunning themselves on the slim spit of shoreline kept flooding his mind, kept getting in the way of his unspeakable thoughts, until at last he had to masturbate right there on the sunny shore, first time ever in the outdoors, and a few seconds later his stuff shot out, gleaming through the clean air, and landed on the quiet water. David watched his semen sink to the bottom, ripples spreading like after a fish jumps, and then he tucked himself back into his cutoffs and rowed home.

Meanwhile Jenny was getting closer and closer—David knew the signs, the way her cunt seemed to open, to kiss back, to yield and take at once, and Jenny’s mouth sucked but sporadically—rather she was breathing about his cock, panting—and he wondered whether he should try to come in her mouth, or whether he should fuck her now, put his prick into her and push all the way to the plush bottom of her soppy cunt and bury his seed in her orgasm.

Before he could decide, his prick decided for him. Responding to the deep shudders of Jenny’s body, it erupted, filling her mouth with one white-hot jolt of pleasure after another.

“Oh, wow!” said one of the eleven high school girls crowded in the school bus aisle. Some of the other girls giggled. Some blushed. Some looked sheepish and some looked excited. To David and Jenny they were a blur of short plaid skirts and long thin legs. David and Jenny tried to untangle themselves, to sit up, but it was awkward, and Jenny’s face was streaked with semen, and David’s penis was still flagpole stiff, and their clothes were who knows where. David used the delicate pink panties to wipe Jenny’s chin, then his own.

“We were just...” he started to explain, showing the girls the panties. “Whose are these, anyway?” He stood up, his prick waggling. “Come on, confess. Which one of you left these on the bus?”

Some of the girls giggled, some of them blushed, some of them looked sheepish and some excited, but none of them answered his question.

“Okay, then, out—out of the bus! We’ll get to the bottom of this.” David herded the girls down the aisle and out of the bus, and had them line up facing the side, palms pressed against the panel which said Sisters of the Sacred Heart Academy.

“Last chance to confess,” David said.

No one uttered a peep. “Okay then, you had your chance. Turn around and on the count of three, lift your skirt so I can see your panty. All of you—one, two, three.” As one the girls lifted their short plaid skirts, revealing one schoolgirl bottom after another, each adorable ass covered by silk or nylon or cotton cloth in hues of blue, pink, puce, ivory, silver, and peach.

“I don’t get it,” David said, staring at the eleven panty-covered bottoms. “What gives?”

The ivory-pantied girl, the one who’d said “Oh, wow,” turned. “Must be Sister Barnacle’s,” she said.

“Who?” David asked.

Ivory-pantied girl was looking at David’s penis. It was fully soft now. At the touch of her stare, it lurched a little. “Sister Barnacle,” the girl repeated. “Our bus driver.”

“Oh,” David said. “Where is Sister Barnacle now?”

Ivory-panty shrugged. “We tried to pull her out, but we couldn’t.” Several of the girls giggled. Several nodded. “We tried, truly we did. The quicksand got her. We’re going to miss Sister Barnacle. She was so deliciously slutty.” Several of the girls nodded. Several giggled.

“So,” Ivory girl concluded, nodding first at Jenny, who’d just now come down the stairs, dressed again, and then at David, whose penis answered her nod. “Can either of you guys drive a school bus?”

Bulldozer

An hour ago Martin Williams was sitting at his desk in his third floor office at Pan Pacific Cargo staring at his pencil. The pencil was the same deep yellow-orange as the skin of a bulldozer—the very bulldozer parked on the hill above Martin’s house, the very bulldozer in which Martin now sits, staring down the hill at his home and the house next to his home.

Martin has never been in a bulldozer before. His work, freight dispatcher for Pan Pacific, doesn’t require bulldozers. Martin’s work doesn’t require a pencil, either; he uses the computer. The pencil is for puzzles. Earlier this afternoon the yellow Eagle #2, sharpened to perfection, had pointed birddog still at the latest sudoku booklet Amy had given him, its rows of boxes waiting patiently to be filled in, until Martin picked up the pencil, twisted it into his fist, and jammed it point first toward the middle most sudoku square.

He stopped short.

He rubbed his forefinger up the pencil stem, considering the pure function of it. Shaft to hold the lead as well as to hold on to. Lead to make the words or numbers. An eraser in case you made a mistake. Plus room for lettering down the side. Advertising. Until everything is sharpened away, written down, erased.

Martin tapped the point against the hardwood of his desk. He tapped again. A small sharp pop of a sound. Carpenters hammering nails. Women in high heeled shoes. Some of the secretaries at Pacific Cargo wore high heeled shoes. Martin couldn’t remember Amy ever having any. Boots. Sandals. Saddle-shoes. Best of all, barefoot. Her little toes—the way they tasted. Light as the air of dreams. He’d tasted every part of her, from those tender toes to those delicate ears. Especially those ears. He’d capture the whole of one in his mouth, and she’d twist away, saying, “Don’t! That tickles!” but in a way which made him know she liked it. Carpenters! Martin hammered the pencil point-first into the sudoku puzzle hard enough to snap the shaft. The drive home took ten minutes.

Calm now, Martin fingers the bulldozer’s heavy levers. The one between his legs is big as a baseball bat. Martin as a boy dreamed of playing baseball in the major leagues, but he’d dreamed too of operating heavy construction equipment: power shovels, steam rollers, wrecking ball cranes, and especially the bulldozers, the big ones which could dismantle buildings and move mountains of earth with equal ease. Back then he expected to do both—play centerfield for the Giants and, in the off season, drive a powerful orange bulldozer. Somewhere in his brain, marriage and children figured in—a pretty, blue-eyed wife and blond, curly-headed children: two boys and two girls, with dogs for the boys and kittens for the girls and pink and blue bicycles on the driveway. He could teach the boys to hunt and fish and play baseball, and his wife could teach the girls to cook. Back then Martin didn’t really understand girls, except that most of them supposedly couldn’t throw a baseball and they didn’t drive bulldozers—but that was okay—they baked cherry pies—at least according to song. Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy, can she bake a cherry pie, charming Billy?

As it turned out, Amy bakes a great cherry pie—though Martin prefers her rhubarb—and she has twinkling blue eyes. And she is as pretty now as the day six years ago when Martin first laid eyes on her at the county fair selling tickets to the baseball toss. Knock over three stacks of three clay milk bottles and win a kewpie doll—three throws for a dollar.

“How many milk bottles do I have to knock over to win you?” Martin asked.

Amy’s blue eyes twinkled. “All of them plus one,” she said. Maybe she’d heard the line before. Maybe she knew that Martin’s thirteen words were thirteen more than he’d spoken to a female his own age in all his eighteen years, six months, and eleven days at St. Anne’s Academy for Orphan Boys.

“Let’s get started,” said Martin, laying down his first dollar.

Amy was wearing a short skirt, and when she bent over to pick up the fallen bottles and baseballs, Martin could see her peach panties. Martin kept throwing—his jeans were stuffed with San Diego Padres’ bonus money—and neither his arm nor his eye tired. It wasn’t that easy. Unlike Amy, the bottles were big and bottom heavy, and the two at the base were set almost apart enough for the baseball to pass straight through. It took a perfect pitch. 127 kewpie dolls sat goggle-eyed on the shelf, watching Martin wind up. It took him just over an hour to win them all.

“That’s it,” Amy said. “You’ve wiped me out.”

“What about the plus one?” Martin asked.

Amy closed her booth, and Martin gave her a ride in his brand new pickup truck to a secluded spot near top of Spartan Hill where they kissed until almost sun up. “Wow! I didn’t know you could come just from kissing,” Amy confessed.

“You didn’t?” Martin said. “I mean, you did?”

Amy laughed and slipped her hand into his shorts. It didn’t take long, and it turned out she could come making him come.

At little after sunrise, pink licking the sky and birdsong licking their ears, Martin drove Amy home, her peach panties soaked but still on. Two months later they were married at city hall. Their orgasms continued to come, oodles of them, from kissing and touching and fucking, kiss after kiss, touch after touch, fuck after fuck—orgasms galore, but no kids.

Shellacked in two seasons of double-A ball, Martin gave up his dream of the major leagues. Maybe some of his poor pitching had to do with being away from Amy. “I miss you so much,” he said to her over the phone as his second season drew to a close.

“You’re sweet,” she said. “What about me do you miss most?”

“I don’t know. Everything.”

“Don’t be shy,” Amy said. “You can tell me. Do you miss my perky little titties? Do you miss my sweet ass. Do you miss my tight, hot cunt?”

“Oh, God,” Martin said. “You’re making me hard.”

“I know, darling,” Amy said. “You’re so fun to tease. I can’t wait till you’re home.”

“Me, neither,” Martin said. “Most of all I miss making you come.”

“Mmmm,” Amy said into the phone. “Mmm-mmm-mmm.” After the sighs abated, Amy would say, “That was nice.” It was nice, but there was more to Amy’s orgasms than the sound. There was the scent and the sight and the feel. There was being there. There was Amy herself. “Pitch well, honey,” she said.

“I will,” Martin answered. But his mind was elsewhere.

On the final road trip, two cute teenagers met Martin in the parking lot a few steps from the team bus. “You’re a player, aren’t you?” one of them said. “You’re cute,” said the other. “Want to play with us?”

“I can’t,” Martin said. “I have to pitch tomorrow.”

“We’ll just warm you up a little, like in the bull pen,” the first girl said.

“Yeah,” said the second. “Like you can be the bull, and we can be the bull’s-eyes.”

“Sorry,” Martin said, trying to step past them onto the bus. “I’m taken.”

“You don’t look taken,” the second girl said. “You look lost and forsaken.”

“Those girls giving you a hard time?” Lombard, his roommate, a catcher from Iowa, said to Martin in the bus. Martin tilted his head to the side and raised his shoulder, a half shrug. “Cuz they give me a hard time all the way out to here.” Lombard patted his groin, then moved his hand a foot and a half forward.

That night in the hotel room Martin was almost asleep when Lombard came into the room, a girl giggling at either elbow. “Wake up, sleepy-head. Lookee who we got here.”

“Just a little pitch and catch,” one girl said. “A little shag and tag. A little ball and ch—hey, where you going?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Martin told Amy from the lobby phone. “I can’t sleep without you.”

“The season’s almost over,” Amy said. “We’ll have all winter to...”

“The season’s over,” Martin said.

The next afternoon the girls from last night watched him warm up in the bullpen. “Way to pop it,” one of them said, after his fastball clapped Lombard’s big mitt. “Ooh, baby, that sound makes me wet, wet, wet.”

Martin took the mound staked to a three run lead. It wasn’t enough. He could throw hard, he could throw straight, but his ball didn’t move. It didn’t rise or fall, sail or dip, it just went straight in—straight in to the batter’s bat, and straight out into the outfield or beyond. As he trudged to the dugout between innings, one of the girls smiled at him. “Your fast ball’s got real pop,” she said. “But your curve is pure candy. And you’re not wild enough. Don’t you know you got to scare these guys? Nail a couple in the nuts and they won’t hang over the plate waiting to feast on your stuff.”

Martin smiled sheepishly.

Next inning, his last, he was rocked even harder, knocked out of the box once and for all.

The baseball disaster didn’t diminish Martin’s dream of family. He landed a good job with Pan Pacific and Amy finished college and started teaching morning pre-school. Almost every night for the next two years, Martin and Amy worked on their family, but without success. They spent the last of Martin’s bonus money on fertility clinics, where a succession of doctors said there was no reason for them not to have children.

“Your uterus has a little tilt to it,” Dr. Burrows, the first of the doctors, told them early on. “It’s canted slightly forward, but that shouldn’t make a difference. If anything, the angle makes entry from the front easier. More conducive to clitoral friction.”

“No reason,” Amy said to Martin at home, stripping off her clothing the moment she was through the front door. “And my cunt has a cant to it.” She pushed Martin back on the couch. “Want to test my conducively canted cunt, big boy? Come on, honey, fuck some beautiful babies into me. Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah. My cunt has a cant to it and we might drown.”

No reason, but two years later there were still no kids. After the final session, Martin started to ask the new doctor, the fourth of their quest, “Do you think ... is there any chance that ... that...”

Dr. Elizabeth Hartley, the pretty woman doctor with the tidy blonde bun and the big round glasses, waited patiently for Martin to form his question.

“Amy gets excited very easily,” Martin blurted. “Some times, she ... before we even ... before I’m even...”