Imprint
“Fuck,” I spit, fists impotent little balls on the desk. I stare down at the paper, now specked damp from my little fit. Other than the spittle, the page is blank. I close my eyes, jaw tight, but her voice from the doorway startles them open again.
“It’s goddamned hot in here.”
I sigh, unable to ignore now the way my legs are sticking together beneath my skirt. One knee is over the other, and a little pool of sweat is gathering between them, ready to roll down my shins if I unclench enough. I uncross my legs to release the dammed-up sweat. I flex my hands and clear my throat. I don’t look at her.
“You come up here to fix the air conditioning or just bitch?” I ask.
I place my hands over the keys once more, feel their little black heads slick under my fingertips. I’m determined to get something onto this page, even if it’s just a list of groceries we need. Maybe there’s some way to make them sound erotic. Big, ripe eggplant. Bottle of olive oil to lube it. Soy milk, ramen noodles, envelopes so we can drop the rent in the lock-box two days late… It’s hopeless.
I hear her push off the doorway, the house groaning under her weight, the boards of the attic floor whining in complaint or ecstasy, I’m not sure which. She stirs up the dust, and I stifle a sneeze.
“Don’t know how you write a thing with it so hot in here,” she adds. “At least crack a window or something.”
I bite back my anger and manage to tell her, still facing the evidence of my blank mind, “The wind blows my pages around.”
I feel her walk around behind me and saunter over to the window anyway. I bite my lip. I’m really fucking irritable. She doesn’t seem to notice. I haven’t looked at her, but everything about her broadcasts her calm. Her walk, slow. Her stance relaxed out of the corner of my eye. Her voice dripping humid, deep and easy. I recross my legs and feel my skirt itch up my thighs.
“We got that check from your Aunt Virgie. You wanna buy a new computer? I don’t know how you…”
“Get anything done on that old thing,” I finish for her. I’m tight as a bow. I’m hot and writer’s blocked and snippy.
I feel her turn. Her shadow casts over my arm. I swallow.
“Jesus,” she breathes, then she begins to wander over to where I sit in the middle of my attic room. She’s going to see my blank page. She’s going to know I can’t write for shit. She’s going to know. “You so pissy because it’s hot?” she asks. I hear her boots scuffing the old wood, each step precise but lazy. I close my eyes, put my hands in my lap. “Or is it me?” she finishes.
I sigh. “It’s not you, Lana. I just…”
She comes up behind me. I close my eyes, ready for her to see the product of my two hours of solitude. Her hands come down on my shoulders, and I jump.
“You just need a break,” she says. Her fingers tighten on me. She hits a knot in the flesh, and I jerk away from her touch. She holds tight. “Relax,” she soothes, and suddenly, I want to turn and look at her. I want the sight of her filling me up. Like I can’t fill my page. I wonder if her long dark hair is down or pulled back from her neck, letting her peach freckled skin breathe. Her skin is so unlike mine, olive-dark, my Italian inheritance.
Her fingers dig down near my neck, and I gasp. I wonder if she’s in her worn home-jeans. The ones with the rip across the ass. The ones that make me want to kneel down and nip at the skin she lets me see, white and jiggling, soft and ripe.
Her hands move down my back. They’re hot on me, hotter than the air up here at mid-day. She moves the light blouse along between her hands and my skin. She’s getting me pink. Too warm, too loose, my hands no longer able to stay in protective fists. I uncross my legs and feel the sweat bleed down my thighs like cream.
Shit, she’s getting me wet.
“Why you wear this to write in?” Her voice is close to my neck. Her breath is lengthening, getting louder. My own is short, quiet, and scared.
Because it makes me feel like a dirty librarian, I want to say. A filthy slut of a secretary. That’s why I use this two-ton, beat-up, black typewriter, too. But she knows all that. She knows every confession I could whisper right now. I let my eyes close again, the lashes heavy with damp heat. I’m wilting to liquid beneath her tough hands.
Lana’s calloused fingers move back up to my shoulders, and I lean back in my chair. I’m starting to feel as drowsy as I am turned on when her fingers find the collar of my blouse then slide down and nip the first button loose. I become aware of how every breath I take presses my nipples to the cool silk, every exhale stroking them harder.
I let her pull the blouse free of the skirt and unbutton it all the way. All the way, I whisper in my head. Do it all the way. She parts the silk and it rasps over my tits. I turn my head and groan.
“Fucking little tease,” she chides. I frown and don’t open my eyes. Then she pulls the chair out, startling me, and spins the seat so I’m facing her. The cool air rushing across my nipples feels like heaven. I open my eyes and take in her crotch at eye level. It’s bulging hugely, her jeans – the worn ones – packed to bursting with what I know is her favorite cock.
My favorite cock.
I swallow and feel my pussy get dangerously wet. I’m going to stain my skirt for her.
I blink furiously like a virgin and make myself look at the hard, angry press of her cock, waiting for me with just enough patience not to rend the denim and slap me in the face. The image makes me blush, and I feel my cream drip down to soak my asshole, too.
She’s breathing hard over me as she takes the fly in both hands, hips tilted forward arrogantly. She frees her gorgeous, purple, silicone cock, and it bounces, sticking out to me. I lick my lips.
“Suck it wet so I can fuck you with it,” she orders.
My breath shudders out of me violently even as I lean forward and wrap the engorged head with my lips. I start to close my eyes again, to moan.
“Keep ‘em open,” Lana says. “See where it’s buried in my cunt.”
I look as she pushes the jeans down her sweet thighs, and I see the long phallus where it disappears between the lips of her sex. She’s dripping around it. My mouth waters.
I suck on her cock like I do her tits, letting it fill me hard as they fill me soft. I use my tongue and will her to feel it down in her hidden clit. I hold the base and press my fist into her pubic hair, pushing on her soft cunt-lips, taking the cock deeper.
She pushes me off in a hurry.
“Get up.”
I do.
“Turn around.”
She kicks the chair away. It makes a violent noise as it bangs against the wall, and I start.
“Bend over it,” she says. I blink, trembling, and then I lay my body over the typewriter, one hand on either side, the buttons so cold, like little shards of ice on my chest and belly.
Lana rips my panties down my legs. I kick my heels off and get the soaked satin down my sticky calves, flinging the underwear off one toe across the room.
“Spread,” she says, and I love the choked desire changing her voice.
I spread my legs, relaxing my ass, inviting her in anywhere. She pushes my skirt up over my buttocks, then she fingers my pussy, sliding two digits over my clit over and over again. I whine her name.
“Good,” she whispers. “Good.”
I feel a finger breach my little pussy slit, pushing up into me, hot and raw. She finger-fucks me until I’m whimpering and moving on her hand. Then she withdraws. I hear her suck my juice off her finger.
“Stand up. Turn back around.” I don’t think she’s ever been this no-nonsense. I want her to fuck me so bad I’ll beg for it, or make a fool of myself, or both. I’m trembling hard, like my papers if there were a wind. The heat is a still, throbbing thing in the room. It reeks of sex.
“Hold on,” she instructs, taking me under the ass and lifting me up. I curl my legs around her hips and she settles me on top of the… On top of my goddamned typewriter!
“Lana!” I exclaim even as my ass clicks gibberish onto the page.
“Shut up,” she says softly, grunting to get her cock near my cunt. “It’ll take your weight.”
Then the cockhead is poking at my entrance, and my hole is drooling on it, womb spasming open, ready to bite down on the long, hard pole. My insides are stinging with want. She shoves it into me, and I scream. I throw my head back and grab on tight to her shoulders. They’re bare. I dig my nails in, wanting her to hurt like my poor pussy hurts.
She starts fucking me, and I hear the distant clatter of typing as she batters me with her cock. I rock on the machine, mouth open, sweat slicking my thighs where they hug her jeans. The denim rasps my skin raw.
Soon, she slips it out of me, and I cry with despair.
“Shh, baby. I wanna do your ass.”
“God…” I mewl, already trying to tilt my hips up for it. She helps me get positioned, and the typewriter goes crazy. I readjust, pushing at the machine with my hands and hit the carriage return in the process. It dings a new line.
“Hurts,” I tell her. The buttons indenting my ass and back are like sticks, sharp and hard. They make me grimace. But I don’t want her to stop. I want her to put it in me and ride my asshole open so I hurt there, too.
“Good,” she whispers again, and then she finds my puckered hole with the tapered head of the cock and grunts it past my clenching resistance.
Nothing has ever felt like this. She holds my thighs in place while she moves inside me and I pound the keys down. And I can see the words, no longer gibberish, the page no longer horribly blank. As Lana fucks the shit out of me here on top of my typewriter, I see the story written, all vivid and sensuous and hard and fuck-inspired. I see words like cunt and bury and sweet and cock and wet and come and NOW! She fucks my ass open, and I’m writing. Writing deliriously with my bouncing ass. And even as I feel my clit buzz to action, firing my orgasm through my thighs and womb, and my rectum seizes on her fucking cock, the words fly down to the page and coat the white with inky black while I moan and shake.
When I finish, and I’m clinging to her, she slips the wet cock out and lowers me gently to the ground, my bare feet touching cautiously. She holds me because I can’t stand on my own. My pussy is still grabbing for her thick cock and my clit is hard as a tiny stone.
She pulls away enough to see my face. She pushes the sweaty tendrils of hair off my forehead. “Think you can write now, love?” she asks, smiling.
I lick salty lips, feeling the machine behind me like a living animal. I’m ready to tame it with sex words, touch it with fingers that know my lover’s body. I’m ready.
I smile back up at her. “Get me my damned chair back and we’ll see,” I say.
Her smile turns to a grin, wicked and sly. I can’t wait to write that down.
Copyright © 2004 by Shannon Kizzia. All rights reserved.
Hi, I’m Shannon. Lil’ bit about me… I was a professional ballet dancer with Ballet Oklahoma for ten years before retiring and moving to San Diego. I now live in Oregon and LOVE it! I was recently in a polyamorous relationship with my wonderful lover and life partner, Satina, and Satina’s extraordinary husband of thirteen years, David. The threesome has now lovingly dissolved, though we remain the very best of friends, and Satina and I are continuing on together in what is proving to be the most amazing, exciting, fulfilling relationship I know I can’t describe properly. I’m heavily into my spiritual growth. I believe passionately that sex is sacred and that writing gay and lesbian erotica and transmuting humanity’s damaged sexual energy into something miraculous and whole is my Life Mission! I’m very grateful and honored that my very first submission was published last year in Arsenal Pulp Press’ Hot & Bothered 4. I love animals, I’m a Virgo, and a long, sleek, beautiful purple strap-on was the inspiration for this story! Of course, it’s how my lover wields it that counts. Love and Joy to All!
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