Narrator: Junior Archvale
Rain fell once more, from the sky and from my eyes. It had ceased to fall from other places. And it masked the sounds of my feet upon the walkway. Silently, I followed Jolene inside, but not as silently as I had thought.
She turned around abruptly; ready to bludgeon me with the shaft of her umbrella. Shock was etched upon her face, and water dripped from the flawless hair gel commercial upon her head. “Oh,” she whispered. “It’s you.”
“It is I.” My voice hung in the air with nonchalance as I unzipped my coat.
Jolene looked down at her watch, then back up at me.
Yes, Jo’, I thought to myself. 2:30 AM is awfully suspicious, eh?
Then, she leaned forward and sniffed. For a moment, she processed. Again, she sniffed to double-check.
I knew the marijuana was too faint. And there was no alcohol on my breath. Nevertheless, before I had dislodged my foot from my second boot, I watched in horror as her eyes bulged in surprise.
A gasp escaped her. Worry pressed its fingers upon her eyebrows and pushed them together. Then, she grabbed me by the arm and pulled me downstairs.
I dropped my weary body upon a loveseat.
She propped herself elbow to kneecap, upon the footstool.
“Tell me everything,” she commanded. “If not at least that you wore a hat.”
At first, I had no idea what she meant by that. But then I thought of Daniel, her ex-boyfriend, and I realized she wasn’t just worried about me. Jolene is worried about Crystal. No -- about Penny. That would be the logical assumption for her to make.
I didn’t want to sniff. If Crystal’s scent was on my face, I did not want to smell it now. Now, I wanted to be alone. I wanted to cry. I seemed so sure that the only relationship I wanted to think about was the one between my pillow and me.
Shame blushed in my cheeks, as I finally came to accept and regret leaving those red silk sheets. For a long moment, I wondered if I could, or for that matter wanted to, repair things between Crystal and I. Regardless of the turmoil in my mind, my sister’s relentless gaze had worked its magic, seconds before I could tell her I was not ready to discuss it. It had been a night of things I was not ready for. So, why stop now? Candour gripped my tongue and honesty held the puppet strings of my lips. We kept no secrets, and that was the way of things between my sister and I. Of course, we never get descriptive when it comes to certain things. That’s called over-sharing.
I began my summary on the bus to Joshua’s. I ended it three steps behind my sister. We both knew, though, that there would be more to tell. Some day.
The beginning was comfortable enough. I thoroughly enjoyed caressing and kissing as much of her body as I could, as tentatively and gracefully as I could manage. I wasn’t sure exactly to arouse her breasts, but I tried my best. But I didn’t stay in that region, as I’d heard too many rants about shallow perverts who can’t be bothered to focus on any other part of a woman’s body when it came to foreplay. I liked the whole picture as much as any one piece of it. The taste of her skin, and her sweat, was becoming familiar. However, as I made my way down her body, there was an unfamiliar smell. I should have expected it, but it caught my nostrils by surprise. It was strong, too strong. My body and mind didn’t know how to react.
Of course, the success of my duties depended upon becoming accustomed to that scent, her true scent. And though it was a very human smell, my mind dredged up memories of visiting the Royal Botanical Gardens, when I was just a young boy. She didn’t smell like any flower I knew, though, that was just a metaphor. This wasn’t any garden I’d ever been to.
And as I kissed her inner thigh, I was reminded of when the prostatorrhea first occurred. Of course, that was a far more masculine smell, with a very different set of pheromones I’d imagine. But it was the closest thing I had experienced to this. It was the only other smell to reach my nose that was so intensely multifaceted.
She spread her legs, and signaled me to come closer as I caressed the contours of them. I wasn’t confident that I had gotten her wet enough, but I didn’t want to spit on her or my hands. That, at least to me, seemed like a potential mood-kill. Thankfully, I had an alternative.
I flexed something in me that I didn’t quite understand. It wasn’t exactly like flexing one’s prostate or taking a piss. But those are the most similar sensations that I can think of. The shots came of my own volition, at this time, dousing my hands and her lower lips in pre-ejaculate. I knew it would suffice as a lubricant.
To be honest, I was terrified. I don’t think I let that show, though. Part of me was beginning to regret becoming anything more than a warm body beside her. Tonight had already been too much in too many ways. Why did I let her convince me to add something like this on top of everything else?
And yet, stopping now was not a possibility. I had agreed to return the favour as best I could. I had no idea how, though. She had sucked the best orgasm I had ever had right out of me, and now I was being consumed by self-doubt.
Pornography taught nothing about decent foreplay. And written stories often depended upon imagery and metaphor rather than a technical description. Health class didn’t reach anything either, not that I’d expect it to; though its misinformation was always amusing to discover.
“How did he break it?” I asked.
“I think an active sport broke it in high school.”
“Isn’t he the only active sport you’ve ever been with?”
She hit me playfully. “Hah hah… just shut up and get to work.”
I rubbed the copious amounts of pre-ejaculate between the folds of her inner and outer lips in slow, flowing strokes with one hand while I placed the other upon her mound and moved it with my hand in a circular motion. As I did this, I briefly looked up at her for reassurance that I was doing things right.
Upon a weak smile, she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes quizzically at me, as if the only mistake I had made was looking up from my duties. I found the reassurance I sought in the rate at which her nostrils flared.
I wasn’t sure at which point I was to move onto the clitoris. I knew where it was, and I knew its significance, but that was about it. Also, I remembered hearing something about men swearing by the technique of licking the alphabet upon the area around and over it. Or was that what’s to be done to the lips before moving to the clitoris? How do I manage my time, here? When should I stop just touching and start licking?
My face had betrayed what my fingers did not, and she saw the puzzled look etched upon my face.
“You’re doing fine. Just, feel free to apply more pressure, at a slow pace.”
I had been about to ask for feedback. But I was afraid that all she’d do was laugh, and leave me to my intuition. Now, I gradually increased the pressure of my touch and moved in my thumb. She’d made me cut my thumbnails. This was more important than having a decent nail to scratch stuff off the sides of my bassoon’s double reeds.
Does any of that rhythmic hand co-ordination put me at an advantage here? I doubt it. I tried to keep my mind on the motions of my hands, but they seemed to be running on autopilot. All I had to remember was to increase the pressure of my touch every so often. The alphabet? Sounds cliché. Why not write something meaningful?
“Tell me when you want me to move on to other regions,” I requested.
She just leaned her head back, and a faint humming escaped her lips. It wasn’t a tune, just a contented droning sound.
Should I have asked her what to do next? No, she said she wanted to see how amusing it would be to let me depend upon instinct and intuition. But do I really feel secure with that plan? Obviously, I’ve never done this before.
I didn’t bother to pull her lips apart, I guess because I’d never seen it done in writing or pornography, despite all the masculine bravado in the hallways of school that revolved around the parting of vaginal lips.
I braced my nose, and moved my face in. I tried to watch Crystal’s reaction, but it was quickly obscured by her chest. I was left to depend upon my ears, and her breathing.
“Drop your tongue down further, like you’re a dog lapping milk from a dish. And keep your upper lip like that, covering your teeth.”
Apart from having to stick out my tongue, my lips were in the exact position they usually were around the reed of my bassoon. Tight. Comfortable in a position that most would find uncomfortable.
I licked long strokes between the inner and outer lips of her labia, tasting a mix of flavours that was the both of us. And I was still unsure of when to move on, but I figured she’d tell me. Of course, she hadn’t told me to start using my tongue. That had been my own decision.
I ventured a gentle nip at one lip, without teeth. And then after another long stroke of the tongue, I nipped a bit harder on the other side. This elicited a sound I couldn’t determine to be pleasure or pain.
And then she gripped my skull by the temples and moved me so that my tongue was on her clitoris. “Suck it, for ten seconds.”
I obliged, assuming this was to draw more blood to it.
“Now lap it up, bitch!” she commanded, and I felt the light slap of a belt against my back. I leaned into her, and started to spell the first word, letter after letter upon her. Every time I paused between a word, the belt would come down. I knew the marks she left would fade. I was more concerned with the fact that she seemed oblivious to what I was spelling. But I had to wonder, If someone was licking such a pattern on the head of my cock, how soon would I pick up on it? Is she getting my message?
I gathered it was more than three times the length of the alphabet.
I wrote it twice, in capital letters, my tongue as my quill. After the first time, her breathing had become heavy and full of intermittent gasps. The second repeat left me pushing with as much pressure as I possibly could. And then I started again. At exactly four words into my reiteration, her legs tightened around my head and her body shifted greatly above me and around me. She let out a cry of ecstasy that I could hardly hear with her thighs clamped against my ears. But from what I managed to hear at the end of it, my dick flinched in reaction and shot more pre-ejaculate, leaving a wet spot at the foot of her bed. There was a similar wet spot now, having dripped off my chin.
I held myself there, arms around her waist, continuing to scrawl each letter one at a time. And then, assuming it was as sensitive after an orgasm as the head of a man’s penis, I sucked on it for ten seconds. And that drove her over the edge, to a higher plateau of pleasure before she collapsed over me and I stopped.
I found myself breathing hard now, and tried to calm myself desperately. I folded my legs and sat down on the puddle. I closed my eyes, trying to confront the emotions I had been ignoring.
“Oooh,” she sighed. “Let’s try both at once, and we’ll see if you can stimulate my G-spot while you do what you just did.”
I didn’t react to what she said. I guess I was being distant. I was trying to clear my mind, to reconcile what I had let her do to me, and, what I had done to her. This wasn’t how I wanted a relationship to start. This wasn’t the level of intimacy that I was ready for. I thought my message had made that clear.
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed every moment of it. But it was a guilty pleasure. In fact, it was something I’d sworn never to do so soon. I had to wonder, When she wakes up tomorrow, am I going to be anything other than the body that picked up the pieces of what another man broke? Is her love for me genuine, or have I been used?
There was only one way to figure that out.
I pulled her head off my erection, and stood up. I knew both of us were good for many more orgasms without doing anything I wasn’t willing to do. But that wasn’t how I wanted to spend my time with her, not at this point.
“What’s wrong, CJ?” she asked, as I began to dress myself.
I frowned, as I considered how best to phrase my answer. This gave me time to finish dressing myself. I’d be home by 2:30 AM. I zipped up my windbreaker.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “Are you leaving?”
“I feel used,” I said. My hand turned the doorknob. I didn’t expect to be parting with the things I had left in her car. My water bottle, umbrella, swimsuit, towel and CD could be returned at a later time. My wallet, bus tickets and Nintendo DS were in my pockets.
“Why!?” she nearly yelled the question.
I ignored that question, and pulled the door open.
“What are we?” Calm, desperate. Giving up.
“That,” I told her, “is for you to answer.” Then my jaw shuddered and I brought my free hand to wipe the tears from my eyes and fling them in her direction. “But not tonight.”
As the door closed, she let out a whimper of despair. And I wasn’t there to hear Crystal repeat the words to herself, “If this is love, give my regards to loneliness. If not, I give my regards to you. For lust is not the apple of my eye.”
But I was there, at the bus stop, repeating the exact same words to myself. The doors opened nine minutes later. I spent the ride without thinking. I drowned myself in a video game, looking up only to check the street signs. One bus after that one, I was walking through familiar territory, with no umbrella to shelter me from the rain.
“I don’t know what to say, Cameron,” Jolene said when I had finished. “I dare not even judge. I was not there. But I think… that you did the right thing.”
“I dunno. I just… don’t… know,” I sobbed onto her shoulder. “The right thing may have been to do nothing at all.”
“I know, I know,” she said. “Everything will be fine, little brother. Everything.”
“Do you think she’ll try to make amends?” I asked hopefully.
“Yes, she will let you play hard to get if she truly is the one for you,” she said. “But don’t depend on that prospect. Love may find you another way.”
“I feel so lousy, so lonely.”
“Do not regret what you have done, Cameron. I don’t know how you did it, how you resisted, but it is for the best. Now, try to get some sleep. Neither of us should be up this late. Trust me, time will heal your pain. One way or another.”
I felt unclean. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. Sexually. Morally. Unclean.