2. The powder-blue Falcon slowed to make the turn . . .
The powder-blue Falcon slowed to make the turn off O Street, beginning a steep climb onto the disintegrating viaduct that bridged the trainyards a mile west of Lincoln. My grumbling pickup truck and I followed close behind. The girders clanged, the planks chattered; I dodged a muffler someone's car had left. It was like driving over a giant, demented marimba. The rising sun glared redly through a layer of haze, lighting the gold dome of the Capitol Building and assaulting my sandpapered eyeballs. All over town, people would be scraping frost off their windshields and gulping coffee, getting revved up for the drive to work. I felt revved up too, though my shoulders ached with weariness. After months of too much drinking and no sex, I'd finally made a contact, if only with this bony wisp of a waitress.
Grace turned west at A Street and then south again onto a dirt road that showed evidence of truck traffic. Her Falcon came to a stop in front of a mobile home that sat by itself in a ten-acre lot. There were pads for more trailers, but they were all unoccupied, as if someone had gotten a loan to develop a trailer court and then left town with the money; the only other building was a pole shed on the south side of the lot that looked as if it had been thrown together from scraps. The dirt in front of her "single-wide"—the pads were arranged with the narrow end at the front—was heavily rutted. Two vehicles were parked there already, a brick-colored Volkswagen bug and a new, polished, chrome-yellow 4x4 Chevy pickup. I pulled in behind her, shut off the motor, and got out; we stood in the cold for a moment, looking blankly at each other. "Those extra cars belong to my roommate and her boy friend," she said, shivering. "Here, take these." She handed me a paper sack with something greasy inside, and went ahead of me up the steps and began struggling with the lock on the metal door.
I entered carrying the sack of scraps, which I took to be ribs. Inside, the red dawn light filtered grudgingly through gauze curtains patterned with leaves and vines; moss-green carpet covered the floor. The walls were paneled with the usual mahogany, but the paneling opposite the door had been pasted over with a mural wallpaper showing a path through a rainforest. The room, however tropical its decor, was ice cold. Grace took the sack and stowed it in the avocado-colored refrigerator, and turned back to me with that silly, slightly anxious smile. Before she could speak, I stepped into the warmth surrounding her thin body and kissed her. Beneath her jacket, she felt hot as a stovepipe in that cold room.
She pulled back a little, looked up at me, and then laid her burning forehead on my throat. "You're a tall fellow," she said. "I was going to say, I have to go to bed quickly, before anyone gets up. Come with me if you want."
I followed her along the dark, green-carpeted hallway. Each bone and muscle of my body groaned for sleep, but the flame of desire licked along my core, and my breath grew shallow with a shallow excitement. She took me to the farthest door, and as we stepped through it I embraced her hard from behind, biting her a little below the ear and running my bared teeth down along her neck. She shivered and emitted a sharp hiss; I moved my left hand lower along her front and held her buttocks back against my crotch as I continued to explore her neck and ear, pressing the tense muscles with my teeth, tongueing the hollows, pinning her to me with my wrist. The scent that rose smokelike around her, that came streaming upward between her neck and her starched white collar, was not the cheap floral irritant I would've expected but, along with the smell of her night's work, something delicate and provocative.
Grace reached back and up and, twining her fingers into my hair, pulled hard, mashing my face against her neck. "Close the door," she whispered. "Don't forget to push the button." As I released her lower body and fumbled left-handedly behind me, she twisted free, still keeping her grip on my hair; I kicked the door shut, found the knob and locked it, and lurched forward, lifting her skirt and then hefting her surprising weight awkwardly up onto the high bed, which gave forth a woody old squawk. She gripped my curls and pulled me down; I bent willingly to her and we met, beginning now to be gentle with one another, she making a little delay here, a refusal there, forcing me to persuade her. This went on until, at the same moment, we both sat up and began cheerfully taking off our clothes.
"Whatever happened to those dumb earrings?" I asked her.
"I took them off in the car. When I'm in the mood I don't like to waste time." She perched on the bed in her brassiere, watching me wrestle with my boots and jeans. Finally I threw my T-shirt on the floor and turned to her, but she placed her palms against my own as I started to reach toward her bra. Not the dainty kind, it was of an opaque, strong fabric, like a sports bra.
"Careful!" she said. "No, really. I'm very sensitive."
I shivered, drawing back a little. We were now squatting yoga-style, our knees touching, my hard-on an alert third party between us. "OK," I said. "Do you want to undo it yourself?"
"Go ahead but don't grab." I opened my legs and she slid toward me, holding her hot long body against mine as I worked the clasp. Her hair felt stiff as wire against my cheek; looking past her, I noted the pale-green sheets with their dark-green border of printed leaves. I got the thing unclasped—four stubborn hooks, no less—and peeled the straps back. Under them, the untanned skin made a visual bra more delicate than the finest silk. Grace held herself tight against me so that I could see no farther than her shoulders.
"Lie back," she commanded. "Put your hands behind you."
I did as I was told. She regarded me solemnly, placing her light fingers among the wool of my chest, and shrugged; the bra slipped slowly down her thin arms, revealing shivering white half-moon titties, stark above her tawny stomach. The vivid, smallish nipples thrust themselves outward like tangerine ends, and I immediately forgot my promise and reached for them.
"No, ow! You'll hurt me." She quickly grabbed my wrists.
"Sorry." I wet my lips and lay back on my hands again. She tossed the bra aside and moved forward so that her pubis pressed hard against the base of my cock.
"R-r-ruff!" she whispered hoarsely, her breasts shaking. "Now I get to tease you a little bit."
Her breasts swung forward, becoming little inverted bells, as she bent down open-mouthed to kiss. While her nipples traced tickling triangles on my chest, I tongued her frantically, tasting sweet saliva and a hint of bacon; I thrust myself up against her and felt her growls in my own throat as she rode the tube of my cock like a ridge-backed pony. After a while she sat up, panting, and by craning my neck I managed to lick one of those jiggling buds before she jerked back out of reach.
"Ah-ah-ahhh. . . !" She pinned me to the pillow by my hair, and wriggled higher on my stomach. "OK, but only lips, now. Don't bite." Slowly she bent forward, offering one hot little breast; first I blew on it, then I touched it with my tongue, then I flicked the nipple from side to side. Wanting to get a good mouthful, I felt held in check, but these light touches did wonders for Grace, making her rack and shudder above me.
Soon I reached round her little ass and found her cunt from behind; as I pushed a finger into her, she cried out and dug her nails into my neck. "Ouch! Jesus." She raised up off me, balancing with one hand as she brought the other to my lips, fingers bunched together, and pressed. Not knowing what she wanted, I kissed them. "Open up," she said. "Spit. I'm too dry." I complied, treating her fingertips as if they were sexual, probing and licking them. Then I found out how sexual they were. Grinning, she took the spit from my mouth and swirled her fingertips around the sizzling end of my cock. That was when we got a shower; I came like a fountain, in a voluminous watery spritz of whey-like stuff that seemed to splatter everywhere, onto my chest and hers. I swear I got some in my ear.
Grace giggled. "Oops," she said. "Plenty wet now."
I smiled back, stopping her wrist, holding her hand away from my tingling penis. "That wasn't supposed to happen yet," I said. "Just give me a second or two. There should be lots more in there."
Grace shook her lithe body happily, like a dog shaking off water. "Well, hurry up," she said, smiling. "And next time don't be so touchy!"
Soon I let go her wrist, and she raised herself and guided my still-steaming cock toward her pussy. I grabbed her hips and thrust, pushing to get into her in a hurry, but internally she was still too dry, so that at first it felt like trying to fuck hot gravel; also my dick was rubbery, still only about two-thirds stiff. Finally I lay back and let her take me into her, twitching at every scalding millimeter as her cunt, wetter now, seemed to pull me in slowly like a snake swallowing a bird. Except, of course, it was the snake that was disappearing.
Grace's hands sat lightly on my shoulders; eyes closed, chewing her tongue in concentration, she began flipping her head from side to side as she took in another half-inch, then another. I could feel the heat from her skin illuminating my chest. Now her weight came on me again, and some pain with it as she shoved herself hard downward agaist my dick. She opened her eyes and her mouth made a lopsided smirk, lazy and a little mean, like a Buddha on speed.
"Hey, lady." I grinned up at her as I squeezed her butt. "You need any help with them groceries?"
She reacted to my joke with a frown. "Hush, smartass," she said sternly. "I'm boiling."
I licked the balls of my thumbs and reached toward her breasts again. She grabbed my wrists and gripped them hard, but I raised my knees behind her for leverage and pressed; she stared at my hands in hypnotic fascination, and when my thumbs came within a half-inch of her nipples she began a slow unconscious grind against the base of my deep-thrust cock. I pushed her hands back further until I could touch the hot tender skin. Now I rolled my wet thumbs over her little cones as delicately as if they were eyes; Grace's eyes glazed over, she muttered something unintelligible, and her back-and-forth motion against my penis suddenly became harsh.
Her fierce strength caught me by surprise. I struggled to free my wrists, so I could hold her hips and prevent her from hurting me, but she clutched my wrists with the grip of an eagle. I braced my knees against her as she slammed down and back with her whole weight, cursing me, pressing my hands against her heaving chest: "Damn you— Goddamn you—" In our struggle we rocked the trailer and made the headboard slam the flimsy wall. Just when I thought my equipment would be torn off at the root, when I was on the verge of screaming for her to stop, Grace stilled above me, mouth open tremblingly, breathless, and then burst and burst in a violent flood of orgasm. I thrust hard up into her, setting her off again and yet again, until she collapsed on my chest, limp and burning, the breath whistling hoarsely in her throat.
Now my mind was clearer and my nuts were sore. I wanted to come again, but Grace whimpered so when I moved that for the moment it seemed cruel. I held her and rocked her a little, studying the paneled ceiling. The pain at the base of my cock, I decided, had been about a nine point two. The ten had come once when I got my index finger pinched between a haysled tongue and the drawbar of a tractor. I heard a child's footsteps and the flush of a toilet. Grace whispered something into my neck.
"What?"
"Shhh," she said. I smiled to think of the noise we'd been making minutes earlier. "What do you see?"
"I see the ceiling," I said. "Lots of grainy wood up there. A couple of spots in the grain like the eyes of a little fox, looking down at us."
"I see a field of purple flowers, after a storm. They're moving together, as if they were nodding in the wind. Only instead of all blowing one way, it spirals—" I stroked her back, which was hotter than ever and wet with sweat; after a time she sat up, my cock still in her, and took my face in her hands. I returned her gaze as long as I could, then averted my eyes. She lay down on my chest again, sighing. "Well, you nasty college boys," she said. "You need it again, don't you."
"Second time is better," I said apologetically. "Third time is the best."
"In ten minutes I'll be asleep," she said. "You can forget that third time. Sorry."
Her cunt made a hard contraction; I eased my aching cock out of her a fraction and then back in. "I don't want you to go to sleep." I pursed my lips and blew a narrow stream of air down her sweaty back, and she contracted again.
Grace raised up and looked me over. "Well, OK," she said, and smiled. "But I think you'd better keep me talking."
"I thought I heard you say a name when you were coming," I said. "Who's Don, or Dan?"
She looked saddened. "I wouldn't have," she said. "It was your imagination."
"Are you married, or anything?"
She curled up on top of me and began teasing my thick chest hair with a slender forefinger. "I belong to someone. He jumps out of helicopters in Vietnam; some special something. I'm afraid of him. I've seen him shoot a dog."
This was chilling news. "So long as he's not sleeping in the next room," I said bravely. She had another contraction, clamping me deep inside her.
"He's got a wife over there," she said wistfully. "Did you ever have sex with Vietnamese women?"
"Mexican women. Vietnamese women. Thai women," I admitted, concentrating on feeling the heat of her long thin body. "Prostitutes. Thai women last time I was on R&R. They don't call it Bang Cock for nothing."
"Are they any good?"
"I don't know," I said. "Good or bad, sex with a prostitute is kind of the same. It’s kind of like jerking off, only somebody is watching you. All I really know about Vietnamese women is they're short."
"What about me?" she asked. "Am I good?"
"Hot stuff," I said. "Sweet as maple syrup and mean as a wolverine."
"Did you feel like you were jerking off?"
"Hey," I said. I lifted her head so she had to look at me. "I see you," I said. "You're right here, blazing like a bonfire. Did you feel like you were jerking off?"
"A word man," she sighed. "When you want to be. You dress yourself up like a trucker, but you'd never fool anybody."
I hadn't been aware of dressing myself like a trucker. "You're some psychologist," I said, and gave her skinny butt a pinch. She retaliated by tickling my ribs, and I grabbed her wrists. One thing led to another, and pretty soon I'd rolled her over and was standing between her thighs at the edge of the bed, cradling her small-boned face in my hands. Her makeup was coming off in flakes and crumbs. I kissed it. The tight skin above her cheekbones was hot and dry. I kissed it. There were the beginnings of crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes. I kissed them.
Her mashed-down hair felt like steel wool under my fingers. I kissed her mouth until her lively tongue came thrusting up between my teeth and I found I could glide in her; then I began fucking her gently, teasing her cunt with puppy strokes. "Come," she whispered. "Come in me now."
"Not yet." I counted off a hundred of the little strokes, then began pumping her deep and slow. Her eyes went out of focus; her head snapped to one side, and she bit the heel of my thumb. I began stroking shallow again, counting.
Grace lifted a hand to touch my hair. "I don't need anything," she said. "Let it flow."
"I want to," I said. "God, you don't know how I want to."
I still wasn't ready when, during the third series of deep strokes, she went animal and came again, choking and clawing. It was a powerful orgasm but nothing like the first. After that she was completely open to me, wet and passive and tremulous, but I was unable to finish. My balls were blue verging on indigo and my cock was hard as stone, but it was clear I was getting nowhere. Grace looked so pained and sleepy that I finally stopped humping. Some channel in me was blocked. It could've taken hours.
"Sorry." We said it to one another at the same moment. I bent above her, leaning on one arm, and stared gloomily at the crack under the door. There were more footsteps in the hall, an adult this time, and the sound of a latch closing.
Grace passed her hands over me, pressing the back of my head and neck, squeezing my stringy muscles. "It's all right," I said. "It isn't your fault."
"I know," she said.
Propped above her, I looked deep into her eyes. "'Dear Abby,'" I said, "'I've spent thousands on therapy. Why aren't I popular? Signed, Suicidal and Horny.'"
"It's because you make bad jokes in bed," Grace said. I disconnected us and lay on my back beside her, my legs hanging over the side. "I guess you're ready to leave now," she said.
"I already said it's not your fault," I said testily. The taste of stomach juice and alcohol rose in the back of my mouth. I smelled like a combination of boar taint and filthy clothes.
"I already said I know it isn't," she said. "You're not getting up, then?"
"Well—"
"Why don't you," she said. "You're making me restless."
I sat up and grinned at her; she lay with one arm over her eyes, her naked legs hanging over the edge beside mine. "You were a restless woman before I ever met you," I said.
She lifted her elbow and gave me a grumpy look. I bent far over the edge of the bed, my head pounding, and gathered my underwear and socks. "You're shaking the bed," she said as I was putting them on.
"You didn't mind me shaking it a few minutes ago."
"I could see that one coming," she said. "It circled your head the way a moth flies around a light bulb."
"Do I bore you?" I got up off the bed and stooped for my shirt. "Am I becoming a cliche?"
"You haven't told me your name," she mumbled. "Speaking of cliches." I stuffed my shirttail into my jeans and lifted the bedclothes for her, so she could turn lengthwise in the bed; she shifted to her side, pulling her knees up under her chin.
"Jonas," I said, tucking the blankets around her shoulder. "My name is Jonas Smith. Some call me Joe, but I don't like it."
She puckered her mouth up sideways to be kissed, and I gave her a final peck. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith," she said. "Sure you won't change your mind about staying?"
"Like to," I said, "but I have to go teach."
"G'night, Joe Smith," she said. "Good morning, I mean. You know where to find me."
"That's true," I said. I pulled my boots on and went out, closing the door.
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