Sexy with a twist

A lil something I wrote a while back: Not straight porn, but sexy with a twist.

Used Books

It’s eight in the morning and I’ve already poured a fourth miniature bottle of Remy Martin in my second coffee. I haven’t slept in two days, the E hasn’t killed off yet, and I have a job interview in two hours. I’m sitting on one of those tiny plastic chairs in the children’s section of a used bookstore studying the photographic Kama Sutra when I see them, two perfectly dark and beautiful darlings watching me Disapprovingly from the poetry section. I figure they must be from the University, picking up materials for some Lit. Course that will teach them how to interpret Bukowski instead of letting them close their eyes and bathe in him.

Normally, I wouldn’t give a damn, but these young ladies are far too nice to ignore; one has straight brown hair and fair skin, red lips and a long, slender throat that I imagine boasts the gag-reflex of my dreams, the other has curly black hair, even darker eyes and a tight muscle ass that causes me to involuntarily twitch. Maybe it’s the MDMA speaking, but if I squint my dilated eyes, those looks of disdain could be construed as beckoning stars. Maybe they’re also rollin’, or maybe it’s their hobby to frequent bookstores early in the morning looking for drug-addled boys to fuck into oblivion.

I offer a friendly wave, Vatsyayana’s favorite positions flashing cock n’ bush from Curious George to Seuss and back, forcing the store’s only other patrons to flee, ushering their children to the exit, covering their eyes.

Hell, I did them a favor. The poor kids were being forced to read a children’s study bible when their deviant little eyes were obviously lusting for SpongeBob.

I look like fuck and my head is a cloud, but instead of retreating in disgust, the ladies smile dangerously and the curly one with the ass-that- could-break-my-nose wags her finger and mouths ever so slowly, “naughty boy”. They disappear behind a curve leading to the nether-regions of the store, which is now empty save one employee, an elderly woman immersed in re-alphabetizing the Regency romance section.

I down the tainted coffee and feel a rush over my body, like adrenaline’s re-triggered the ecstasy and my cock is starting to jerk and shift in my pants. I calmly rise and try not to think about the fact that I’m completely exhausted and under the influence of pills and powders that I didn’t even know existed before that long weekend. I place the Kama Sutra in the Young Adult section, right between the fourth and fifth Harry Potter books, and slide behind the curtains, where mildew-ridden magazines and remained former bestsellers are piled six-feet in the air. I turn a corner and come upon another curtain in a much darker back area, when I realize I’m still wearing a long, black leather coat and gloves. I shed them, take a deep breath and slowly move the dark curve aside.

It’s dark and all I see are two curvy outlines, but I can smell them, a deep sexy smell, not manufactured like perfume or nasty like pussy, but vibrant and unexpected like sweet mother’s milk. They tell me their names are Angel and Katie.

I have completely forgotten my name.

For an instant I worry about my breath, but I know it doesn’t matter; all they want from me is performance. I hope my party-ridden body’s up to the challenge. I slowly, submissively unsnap and drop my shirt without a word and hear the slightest moan as I fall to my knees.

Within seconds all necessary clothing is shed and I feel that warm softness of lips and thighs, soft, sweet breasts with their delicious nipples and the slippery jackpots as Angel and I fight over who tastes Katie’s tightness first. We share, of course, and become an undulating triangle, where taste, touch, smell andsound intertwine and unravel in shuddering waves. I imagine how many customers will hear the little racket going on behind the stacks. I pound Angel from behind as she tears page after page with a death grip on an early edition of James’ Portrait of a Lady. She’s nearly screaming, bent over one of those little library stepsadders, pretty curls wrapped tightly in my left hand. The slightest blue light from a space in the curtain is stretched across her back, so perfect it’s driving me crazy. Katie’s leaning on a table perpendicular to us and I’m lapping her clip like there’s no tomorrow, fingers curled inside her, tickling the G-spot until she’s calling me unremarkable home furnishings, like, “Eat my pussy, you fucking lampshade.”

None of us are fresh and shown, so I wonder if they’ve been to the same party that I have. Maybe I’d missed them in my drug-induced haze, but I hope they’ve scored the same pills I have, because FUCK it feels nice. We switch and come so many times I know the smell of sex will linger in the store for days. I hope people come in depression and leave horny.

When I finally come, I see more light than I can fathom. I’ve got twenty nails digging into me, triggering pain centers juxtaposed with ecstasy until I can’t help but be war of the possibility of some sort of anerism. I collapse in a heap of remaindered paperbacks, surrounded in soft, warm breasts and arms and bellies and that perfect ass that I’ll fawn over and dream about every day until I’m dead.

But duty calls, and I’ve got an interview in an hour, so I kiss my new friends and smile. I dress and don’t even both to freshen up. My hair’s greasy and pointing in every direction. My five-o’clock shadow is still moist from juices. I walk over to the desk in the corner, flick on a table lamp, and hit the power button on the computer. As I’m entering passwords and sifting through papers, Katie asks if I work there.

I look up and smile, “Yeah, I own this dump.”

Katie’s voice is low, “You know, I’m here for an interview. I just got here early to get to know the place.”

“Well, well,” I say.

She walks over and straddles me, runs her hands through my hair, “So, are you going to hire me, or do I need to fuck you again?”

“Yes,” I say.