Novel Experience (Sara Miles) (3 page)

“Sorry.” I am. I love Danny—he’s the nicest, kindest, most generous man I know. I never feel that variety of jealousy that some women get when their best friend gets married to a hot guy. I know he is a bit too timid in that department for my tastes. Sometimes I feel bad for her. The thought of Gail mounting Danny from behind gives me a little thrill, though—her toned thighs slapping against his tight, muscled ass. I feel the knot of tension in my groin begin to loosen.

“I’m not sure I want to actually do it, it’s just the thought of it.”

I understand. I mean, I felt the same way when I wrote it. I’ve written sexy bits before, but none of them had made me go off and masturbate. I’ve read erotic fiction and gotten off before, but I had never managed to turn
myself
on like that.

My head is caught somewhere in the cloudy space between the mindless porn and the more engaging movement of Gail’s skirt. My brain farts out a bad haiku:

naked bottoms dance,

Gail’s skirt slides ever higher.

my trembling thighs part.

Eventually she’ll give up the pretense and just go at it. I watch her thighs, occasionally switching my view to the television. In my mind I picture the scene in my book, with Nara, my protagonist, convincing her latest conquest to submit to her desire. Some men would do anything for a good fuck, but Nara didn’t want what they wanted. She wanted control, over her job, her life, everything in it. Men, other women. Mostly she succeeded. She was the anti-me. That feeling of power is an illusion—something that takes Nara another few hundred pages to figure out. Still, illusions have a power of their own. I imagine myself in that position, a man kneeling in front of me, exposed, the toy strapped tight to my mound, a plug in my ass, and the pounding of his spread cheeks against my hips as I thrust into him.

Alright, if Gail isn’t going to start, I am.

I unbuckle my belt and scoot my pants down. I'm wearing my comfy panties today, which makes me not just a little self-conscious. Not granny panties or anything like that, but they aren’t the pretty little things that Gail gets away with all the time. Her and her boyshorts. I decide to take them down with my pants and save myself the mild embarrassment. I leave the bunched pants and panties hugging my knees. I like the added bit of confinement they offer.

I feel Gail’s eyes on me, but when I glance over, her gaze is back on the TV. Mine linger on her. Her panties are visible now—black lace, vaguely see-through. She rests the palm of her hand on her mound, her fingers lightly brushing her lips through the silk crotch. I can’t see to know for sure, but I imagine they're a little damp with wetness.

God, I am wet. I slide a finger down between my lips and a shiver rolls through me. It catches Gail’s attention, and she involuntarily arches her hips slightly, pressing herself against her hand. She watches me slide my fingers up and down, just parting my lips with my fingertips. My eyes are locked to her tense thighs.

I don’t tell her that I want to have my head between those thighs, feeling them tense and clench as I lick her. I want to. At least, the wine and mango vodka makes me want to. But no, despite her revelation about getting worked up over that chapter I’d written, she is still the same Gail. Horny, but conventional. And married. Would that even be cheating? Was what we were doing now even a kind of cheating? I realize that I’m thinking myself out of an orgasm, so I set aside the questions and just watch her slim, gorgeous body writhe on the couch next to me. I’ve given up the pretense of watching the men’s asses on the television, but Gail either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

She lifts her shirt off over her head, and I get an eyeful of her round, perfect breasts—curved in just the perfect way, topped with two small, dark brown nipples. She pinches one between thumb and forefinger as she moves her hand under the waistband of her panties. I’d rather her take them off completely, giving me a view of her neatly trimmed little bush, but she rarely does that.

She watches the men on the television, now getting attention from some newly-arrived women. The focus changes to their bodies rather than that of the men.

“Want me to rewind?” I ask, somewhat breathless.

“No, I think I need to watch them do it,” she says.

“Alright,” I sigh, happy to keep my hand where it is.

It isn’t long before the women are spread open for the men. Cue the requisite shots of penetration, which never do much for me. Soon the camera angles change, showing more of the women. My fingers dance along my cleft, teasing my clit. I know it won’t take me long to come, but somewhere along the line I’ve decided to hold off for Gail so I could orgasm while watching her come. Every moment that passes becomes more difficult though, between the tight bodies on the screen and Gail’s tight body beside me. She spreads open a bit wider, pulling her panties to the side. Our legs brush each other, and I feel her tense in that way you do when you’re not sure if physical contact is appropriate. I press my leg firmly against hers, and she relaxes against me. I feel pressure building inside me, and so with excruciating difficulty I slow the pace of my fingers yet again.

Gail pinches her nipple as she rocks her hand against her mound. Her panties have worked down even lower, well past her hip bones and enough that I can see her fingers darting in and out in short little explorations, shining with her own wetness. I slide down next to her, resting myself against her arm. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to mind. It gives me a better view of her left hand as it plays with her stiff nipples. She opens her legs more, and I reach down. I do it almost without thinking, on some sudden primal impulse. It would be lying to say I don’t intend it, but I’m at war with myself over it. I slide my hand into the crook of her knee, pulling her leg over mine. When she doesn’t resist, my own war ends. I release the breath that I’ve been unwittingly holding. My pants and panties fall from my knees to the floor, and I open myself up more.

I glance up at Gail, and find her looking down at me as she fucks herself with her fingers. I leave my hand on her thigh, letting it drift slowly down toward her crotch—but not all the way. Horny as I am, I haven’t suddenly become insane. I feel the heat coming from her tensing muscles. I slide my fingers deep inside, curling them upward to massage my g-spot. On the television, one of the women has climbed atop one of the men, and her hips thump rhythmically against him, the camera giving me a great view of the muscles of her thighs and ass as she rides with long, vigorous strokes. There is no stopping it now—I can feel the crest of my orgasm about to burst in upon me.

Just at that moment, Gail thrusts her hips forward, and my hand slides down to the hot, sweaty meeting of her legs, and I sense the wetness of her pussy and her fingers as she starts to come. She cries out, and every muscle in her body clenches. I fuck myself hard and fast, every thrust prodding deep inside me—a sudden gush of wetness sprays my hand, then another and another as I come. I’m grunting now as my body spasms and curls in on itself.

“Oh fuck, fuck,” Gail breathes, her words hot in my ear.

As I fuck myself hard with one hand, my other hand presses itself against her, rubbing firmly in time with her own motions. Just as I think her orgasm is coming to an end, she raises her hips up to press herself more firmly against my hand, grinding against me. Her hand slips atop mine, and suddenly I find my fingers inside her, her hand moving mine forward and back against the length of her pussy, soaked with her own juices. My own orgasm doesn’t want to end; it just rolls on and on, my body shivering and convulsing as I try desperately to keep up the pace on both of us.

“I’m coming!” she squeals, and I adjust my hand to make sure I rub the full length of her before going deep in with my fingers. Gail moves her hands down to the couch for leverage and thrusts her hips hard and fast against my hand, head arched back, eyes closed. Her voice becomes an incoherent series of grunts and moans. My own orgasm begins to fade, but already I can feel more stirring inside me. I want to climb on top of her and use both hands, my mouth, every inch of me on her to keep her coming—every second of it is hotter than anything I’ve ever seen before. I don’t want it to end.

But it does. Her arms relax and her hips sink back to the couch. In the background are the weak grunts of the women faking their pleasure—suddenly it strikes me as funny rather than sexy. I laugh quietly, then take back my hand. At that moment I realize I am now in a situation that requires explanation, or at least some sort of discussion. Would she freak out? Get angry or upset?

“Oh, fuck, you should have done that a long time ago,” she says, with a triumphant exhale of breath.

“I’m …. well, it wasn’t something I planned.”

“Don’t start getting all talky on me,” Gail says, her breathing still ragged. “I ought to bring you over and have you show Danny how you did that.”

I don’t know what look I have on my face, but it makes her laugh.

“Don’t worry, I’m just joking,” she says, but got a look on her face as though she were imagining it. “So, I guess that answers a question for me.”

“A question?”

“You do like girls, don’t you? I’ve always wondered, since you sometimes … well, you sometimes stare at women in that same way you stare at men.”

I’m not exactly angry with myself. Just frustrated.

“Not
quite
the same way.”

“Close enough. Anyway, whatever,” she says. Typical.

“Come on, Gail! I hardly did anything,” I say. More defensively, “And
you
grabbed
my
hand!”

“Well, yeah. I may not be into women, but that felt way too good to just stop. And ruin a perfectly fantastic orgasm? Pfft. No way.”

She’s glossed over something, though, that I can’t let go. “You meant that I sometimes stare at
you
.”

“Me? No,” she says, unconvincingly.

“I do. You’re gorgeous. Don’t take that the wrong way—it’s not like I’m interested in you in that way. Danny has nothing to worry about.”

“Stop being silly, Sara. You’re getting talky,” she says. “What is it with you writer-types? Always have to talk everything out. Can’t you have an orgasm without analyzing it to death?”

“I’m not analyzing it!”

“Bullshit. I can see the wheels turning. We had a nice wank. It doesn’t mean anything more than any of the other times we wanked together,” she says, firmly. “Get over it. Now, weird as this is, it made me incredibly horny, so I’m gonna need to go and get ready for Danny when he gets home.”

“Uh …”

“Don’t worry—he already knows we wank together sometimes.”

“Holy shit!” I say, standing up and yanking up my pants. “When did you tell him that!”

“Pfft, years ago.” Her blasé attitude isn’t doing anything for my blood pressure. Then it hits me that all those times we hung out together, he knew. My shame must have shown on my face. “Don’t worry about it. I think he wanted to like the thought of it, but his head told him he couldn’t.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t blow a heart valve!”

“Oh, come on, he’s not a prude—well, okay, maybe he is,” she admits. “But you’re sounding awfully prudish right now, too—especially since you just had your fingers in my pussy.”

I blush deeper at the comment, and feel a sudden heat rush through me. Gail laughs as she stands to reassemble her outfit. I give her body one last scan with my eyes before she whisks away her nether parts behind drapes of cotton and polyester.

[Three] Consolation

I DON"T KNOW EXACTLY WHAT
to expect from my first real meeting with Thane. My editorial meetings with Andrea were like afternoon teas. She’d offer some criticism, we’d argue, and most of the time I left feeling like I’d basically gotten what I wanted. After his brutally honest assessment at our first meeting, I had a feeling that tea and cookies weren’t on the menu.

“Raymond is too docile,” Thane says, shaking his head. “No man who’s a television producer is going to be so ... deferential to a writer.”

“He’s not deferential!”

“No strong male would put up with her shit. She’d be marked as too difficult and avoided like the plague.”

“Even if she were incredibly sexy?”

“Especially so. Men in positions of power—or even men who only think they’re in such a position—have access to women just as gorgeous who aren’t nearly as demanding. She’s got to give them something more than that. A reason. Something undeniable and unique. That’s where your conflict is.”

“I’m not writing a book about how women need to change to pick up men!”

“I’m not asking you to change your women,” he says, probably for the twentieth time in the last hour. To his credit, he doesn’t say it with the exasperation most would if they’d been forced to say it so many times. “This is about the men. Most men would probably act as your men do. You have a wonderful protagonist here. She deserves better than just any man, right? He must be special. And she must be special as well. I don’t need to tell you this. You already know. It’s just not coming across.”

“Thanks for at least admitting that I’m not an idiot.”

“Of course you’re not an idiot,” he says, and this time some exasperation does come through. “It’s not a matter of changing. It’s about her finding something in herself. I think you can do it. God knows Clara Barton never did.”

“You know, I’m a bit tired of hearing her name,” I say. I’m pouting, dammit, and it’s humiliating.

“There was always a moment in Clara’s books where a light went on in the woman’s head, where she realized that the man had been right the entire time. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s what the character does about it that’s the problem.”

“So that’s it, then? You couldn’t change Clara, so you’re trying to change me?”

“I never tried to change her. I tried to make her books better. And she was very nearly as stubborn as you are. This isn’t personal, Sara.”

“It’s my
work
,” I say, lifting up the printed manuscript of the first third of my book, then dropping it down on the desk. “I don’t know how to not take it personally.”

“You’re still new to all this,” he says, slumping back in his chair. “For your own sake—and not just a little for my own—I hope you soon learn how.”

* * *

“HE ... DOESN"T LIKE MY BOOK,”
I say. Yes, I know, that isn’t exactly what he’d said. Maybe he’d even said the opposite. But I knew what his words felt like, and my own version sounded closer to my experience than his actual words. And I don’t care how irrational that sounds.

“He must have liked it a little,” Theresa says. “Or he wouldn’t have wanted to work with you, right?”

Theresa is packing up for the day. My meeting with Thane has gone late—with the greater part of it filled with argument—and the poor girl has been stuck waiting for us to leave. Thane had just left, parting with a smile and kind words. I wanted to stab a pen into his arm.

“Well, it doesn’t feel that way,” I growl at myself, scaring Theresa a little. I take a deep breath. “You know what? I need a drink. It’s closing time—why not join me?”

“Join you?” she repeats, a look of mixed fear and excitement in her eyes. I can’t help but wonder how many famous authors had passed through here and not given her the time of day. Of course, I’m not exactly friggin’ Clara Barton. “You mean, at a bar?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“It’s just … whenever I go out to a bar with friends they try to set me up with guys.”

I laugh. “Honey, the real purpose of a bar is to get drunk, not to pick up guys. And after today, I think I’m ready to swear off men completely.”

“Well, then, let’s go!” she says.

* * *

I ORDER A COSMO BECAUSE
 I can’t think of any other drinks off the top of my head. Theresa orders a Long Island iced tea. It’s a Wednesday night, so the bar is not exactly busy. I count it a blessing. We find an unoccupied stretch of the bar and sit.

“I think he likes you,” she says.

“You mean Thane? You’re kidding.”

“No, you can tell by how he looks at you.”

“You mean, he likes me in a platonic way, right?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want to think,” she says.

“I don’t know if I want to talk about this,” I say. “We can talk about your love life.”

“No way. You know, Thane never stays late for meetings with
other
writers he’s working with.”

“You're not gonna give this up, are you? What other women is he working with?”

“Dana Trask,” she says.

“Dana Trask is fifty years old!”

“He makes a
special effort
with you.”

“He makes a special effort to kick my ass.”

“That’s his job.”

“Andrea was at least
nice
when she offered a critique. Thane seems to take a great deal of pleasure in inflicting pain.”

“Aren’t writers supposed to have a thick skin about that sort of thing?”

“We pretend. I just don’t do it as well as some others.”

“You always won your arguments with Andrea?”

“Mostly. I don’t think they had high expectations from the book back then, so I wonder if it was just a matter of time and effort. Now that the book is selling, I think they’re making more of an effort.”

“Money?”

“Well, yeah. No one likes to say it, but that’s why we’re doing this, right?”

“Not for the love of the written word?”

“Distant second. I can’t write if I can’t eat.”

She smiles brightly, and I can’t help but return it. Her lip curls. “For a minute you sounded just like Nara. Although I think she said it about working and fucking.”

I immediately recoil. “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or compliment.”

“It’s just the truth,” she says, sipping her drink. “Anyway, why wouldn’t someone like Thane like you?”

I groan. Obviously she’s not going to let this go. “He thinks I’m a lousy writer.”

“Oh, come on, he didn’t say that.”

“Maybe in not so many words...”

“Maybe not in
any
words.”

“If you heard our arguments, you’d think differently.”

“What makes you think I can’t hear? The door in the office isn't that thick,” she says. “It’s as if you didn’t read your own book. Nara and Peter argue with each other through most of it.”

“Yeah, but it’s not
that
kind of arguing.”

She shakes her head. “Are all writers so un-self-aware?”

“Probably,” I say. “And besides—maybe
I
don’t like
him
.”

“You said maybe.”

I look at her again. For a receptionist, she’s awfully perceptive. Her quirky smile sends a little shiver through me.

“And you thinks that means that I do like him?”

“He’s good looking.”

I sigh. “I think I might be looking for something different at the moment. Very different.” I down the last bit of my cosmo. My eyes settle on the empty glass. It’s the easiest way to avoid staring at her smile, or the nape of her neck, or the curves below her shirt. “Okay, I went through that pretty fast. I need another.”

“Get something stronger!” she encouraged.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“You seem to be doing a good job of that on your own.”

“Getting drunk and fucking myself,” I say, my voice full of pathetic depression.

“What?”

“Nothing. Something a friend said.”

* * *

THERESA STUMBES DRUNKENLY INTO MY
livingroom/kitchen/office/bedroom and slides onto the couch. She’s only had three drinks, so she can’t possibly be that drunk. On the other hand, my own reasoning skills have become seriously degraded by three vodka tonics and two shots of Southern Comfort. With her sprawled out on my couch I realize just how tiny she is, and reconsider. They weren’t
small
drinks. I’m not large by any means, but I’m thirty for God’s sake and I’ve got a job that keeps me lounging about all day. If my food budget hadn’t been miniscule, I’d be a wreck. As it is, I have ten pounds more than I ought. Theresa could probably put on ten and look better.

But not much better. She looks pretty damned good as she is. Or maybe that was just the Southern Comfort talking. Theresa wears a contented smile on her face, despite the uncomfortable position she’s landed in, ankles together, knees askew, skirt dangerously high on her thighs. Thighs—another of my downfalls. I shouldn’t even be looking. Theresa strikes me as the kind of girl who has never even thought about women the way I’m thinking about her. But her hair hangs limp down over her face, stuck adorably to her red lips. I want to brush it away and kiss them.

“You know, I loved the way you described Nara,” she mumbles.

I scowl. “Really?”

“That bit about the stone and the mountain,” she says. “Unmovable except by time and pressure.”

She’s butchered it, but has obviously read more than just “that bit,” which is certainly more than I’ve gotten from most people.

“I think that’s the first time anyone’s said anything about the book to me that didn’t involve mention of a strap-on.”

“Oh, I liked that part too,” she says, and then, as though she’s let out a secret, flaps her hands over her mouth and turns a bright shade of pink. “Oh dear God, why did I say that!”

“It’s alright,” I say. And maybe because it’s not the first thing out of her mouth about the book, I really am alright with it. “Not everyone seems willing to admit they liked it.”

“I couldn’t believe it, when it started, and then I was horrified! And then, you know, I started getting, you know.”

“Wet?” I ask, sliding next to her onto the couch. Yes, the SoCo is in control at this point, definitely. Not me. I would never do this sort of thing.

She whimpers when I say the word. She probably thought something less explicit, but I can see I’ve gotten it right. She nods, hands still bunched at her chin, though no longer hiding her mouth. I feel that familiar knot of tension building inside me just begging for some sort of attention.

I’ve crowded her on the couch, and our legs touch from hip to knee. My arm presses up against her small, firm breast. The angle gives me a view down her freckled chest to the arcs and curves below. I make out the barest hint of a hard nipple beneath the thin layers of blouse and bra. My eyes linger in a way I’d not allowed before, and I sense her eyes watching me. I want to look up and see what her reaction is to my overt ogling, but can’t take my eyes off her. I trace my fingers down her thigh, brushing her breast deliberately with my arm. To my surprise, she doesn’t pull back.

I try to say something. What, exactly, I don’t know. When I finally look up at her, I see nothing more than a tangle of hair, closed eyelids, and flashes of interrupted light as she presses her lips against mine. It’s awkward, rough, and badly aimed, but all that is lost in a moment of sheer surprise, a crackle of audacity from this girl that I never supposed possible.

My hands come up instinctively, and find the gentle swell of her breasts pressed firmly into them. For a moment I know my grasping hands will be the needle to puncture this particular balloon, but I’m wrong: she doesn’t have the slightest hesitation. One of her hands cups my cheek while the other slides up my thigh.

It takes less than a second to realize that it is her, and not me, that has done the seducing, and only another fraction of a second to realize that it is me, and not her, that may be the inexperienced one at this sort of thing.

My instinct is to stop, to push her away and talk about this. To explore our feelings, to express comfort, support, or to at least define some relationship boundaries. I want to dig out my notepad and fathom all this like a character in a book. Work out the details and understand it before going further.

And then, with her breasts in my hands and her tongue slipping between my lips, I tell my brain to shut the fuck up.

My legs open. Damn it, I’ve worn pants—but that doesn’t stop her hand from doing what it wants. Her fingers press firmly but gently against me, rubbing in small arcs that brush the seam of my panties against my clit. I sigh and break off the kiss, the sudden urge to breath deeply too much for me to ignore. My head lolls back, and Theresa begins kissing down my neck, her tongue exploring every crevice. My hands play feebly with her breasts, caressing their shape, my fingers brush the bare skin peeking out from her blouse. Her hands are soft and gentle, and somehow it makes my own movements clumsy in comparison.

My hips make subtle movements that she matches with her hand. Her hot breath tumbles down my body, between my shirt and skin, tickling my nipples. My hands leave her breasts, desperately searching out the bottom hem of her shirt in order to explore beneath, but there I only find another shirt. With a frustrated moan, I tug it free of her skirt, my fingers finding taut muscle beneath soft flesh, the hint of curves only a few inches further down. Much as I want my hands there, I move them up instead, exploring her navel and the small ring of metal I find there.

“Anything else pierced?” I ask between gasps of breath.

She bites her lip, then grins. “You’ll see.”

I find myself rapidly approaching the point of inevitability, and so quickly reach down and take her hand off my mound. We’ve only just started. I can’t allow it to end so quickly. She takes my movement for what it is—encouragement to move things in a different direction. Her fingers begin unbuttoning my shirt, her lips and tongue still exploring the curve of my neck with frequent forays to the lobe of my ear. My blouse opens, and I shrug it off. Theresa leans back to give me room, and I have a moment to take in the sight of her—hair tousled, face red, breath coming in short, quick gasps.