Recurring Characters

It was late afternoon when I was born, in the summer. I was conceived from the humidity of your imagination; languid and golden-skinned, faintly exotic and tasting of spiced chocolate. You were in your bedroom, surrounded by your history books and your well-worn copies of D.H. Lawrence and Henry Miller. You had your hand on your cock, and you were dreaming me up with your eyes half open. You thought you could see me when you peeked through your lashes - the curve of my taut ass, the sway of my breasts, the thick curtain of hair you gave me.

You've given me a lot, since then: strong legs, swooning hips, a generous mouth and an agile sense of humor. You've loved me, you've longed for me, you've treated me like a whore. But after all this time, you still haven't given me a name. I've choked down your cock, I've choked down somebody else's, I've taken it up the ass in public, I've been made love to and have wept because everything you told me was so beautiful.

But I still don't have a name.

I wonder if I fuck you well enough, wake you up with your cock in my mouth and my cunt wet and eager for it; if I rise and writhe on top of you like a woman possessed, would you suddenly cry out a group of vowels and consonants and finally, finally, give me a name?

"Arraghyes" wouldn't cut it.

You could have named me after a month. April, May, June. Maybe you could have named me something exotic. Sisina, Wanda, O. Maybe you could have made me French. Colette, Babinette, Claudine. Swedish? Inga.

Inga, you cum slut. Inga, you whore.

But I've always just been "You". Well, you're in my story now. You're the "You". You're the one with no name. You're the one that's going to be the bad pupil tonight, and I'm the headmistress. I'm the frustrated librarian. I'm the dominatrix. I'm the author. I call the shots.

So you put down your pen and your paper and walk away from your computer. You come to the window, where I'm standing and watching you. You get on your knees and look up at me, worshipful. You bunch the fabric of my short dress in your strong hands, inky and calloused from all that hard work of imagining virgin whores and flat out sluts. I kiss you, and you dip your head beneath the hem of what I'm wearing and kiss me between my legs. In your best bedroom voice you enumerate the names for what you're kissing. Mound, mons pubis, pudenda, pussy, cunt. You slip your tongue between my labia. You pinch them with your thumbs.

I sigh. I moan. I react to every touch, every whisper. This is how it always goes. I hear you, and your heated sounds, your grunts, the slap of skin against skin as you bring yourself off while you eat me out.

You push me into the table. My tailbone hits the edge, but neither of us care because we're so caught up, just the way I'm writing it. You love it. You're going absolutely wild and I haven't even touched you yet. When I do, when you slip between my legs and I take your cock in my fingers, it twitches and you shudder, as if you're about to come. My hands are warm and soft, and my fingers are firm around your shaft. It's so good. You're going to come if you're not careful. But not yet. I call the shots. This is my story. I'm going to make you hold back, for now.

I lick from your bottom lip to your top lip, and I give you my tongue to suck. Your tongue feels so large against mine, and your jaw is so strong when you kiss me hard, like a man dying of thirst. My lips almost bruise. You're gripping my wrists. You sound more and more desperate by the second.

Finally, you pin me down. You thrust into me, like I'm some prostitute you found on the corner of the street. You fuck me, hard, and it almost hurts. But, god, it feels so good; you're hitting all the right spots, caressing all the right places. You rub my clit, thrum it like a madman playing the guitar. I make the appropriate sounds, sing those 'Oh my God!' hymns for you.

And then you turn me around, you think without my permission. You pull your cock out, you slam in again from behind. I pant like a bitch in heat. You howl like a dog. You go faster and faster, in and out, pistoning and grinding and rubbing my clit until I swear the friction sets me on fire.

White, hot heat.

I explode. I come so hard I can't breathe or make a sound. The real orgasms are always so silent that they shake you in your insides and you can't make a sound. You can't breathe. You can't speak or move until the moment passes. That's why they call it the little death. Did you know that?

Of course you did.

You know it the way you know my walls are spasming and gushing around your cock, and your cock is spilling load after load inside me, down to my thighs. After the little death, I collapse. I breathe deeper. I moan. You echo me. You kiss me. Minutes, hours, ages pass.

Then you go back to your writing desk. You pick up your pen and paper. You turn on your computer screen and open a new page on the word processor. I walk up behind you dressed in whatever you say I'm dressed in, and we start all over again.