Joey Cloudy online

chapter 2

TRAMP: Orgasm

“This is the strangest life I’ve ever known.”

-The Lizard King

“You want me to go down?”

Big smile, wizened eyes heavy with lust, suddenly animated. She nods her head, moans a barely audible.

“Yes.”

She wants this she hasn’t had it like this in a while. Aaron and Mona were new to each other’s bodies. But, what they were doing was ancient as human history; they were old to one another in this way. Mona was one of those gothic looking waifs with dark eyes and tragic hair. If you’re into the street urchin look and Aaron was deep into her.

Aaron lay on top of her, she on her back, stretched out on his cobalt sofa, nude, pale skin in high contrast to the darkness that surrounded her sex. He liked her dark hair; the disparity between his body and her body aroused them both. Her body soft, her curves full of the promise of everything that is woman, all held now impaled beneath his body, his muscles hard, angular, darkly defined. His hair in short dreadlocks, his skin bronze in the diffused afternoon light that filtered through the Venetian blinds of the living room’s sliding glass doors.

Slowly, Aaron let his eyes eat the woman; her shoulder-length hair fell black around her face to frame the beatific look in her slate gray eyes. Yes, he’d fucked women that were more beautiful, but somehow, she had eclipsed them all. It was the child-like grace he found so alluring; she looked like a sardonic little girl, and there was something peculiar in him that delighted in corrupting innocence. He kissed her again on the lips; they let their tongues play tag like children in a dark park.

Then, giving him a taste of what was to come, she began to suck the length of his tongue. Aaron returns the gesture by licking her lips and gently nibbling on them, flicking his tongue against them as if they were her sex. He pulled back, looked into her eyes, and they both laughed.

He inhaled the musty scent of her breath; he liked the way she smelled. Like a real woman, not like those Harry Hines whores who drowned their scent in cheap perfumes. She smelled of incense, essential oils, sweat, and wet sex. Hers was the ancient scent of a high priestess.

She placed her hand on his head played with the dark twisted vines that danged from his scalp with her fingers she had never felt dreads before, she rolled one between her fingers, it was soft and spongy to the touch, he used styling gels instead of bees wax so they weren’t hard but slightly oily when she squeezed one hard between her fingers, they felt nice to touch and she let the thick matted lengths of hair slide between her out spread fingers, then she pushed him down.

At first, he thought she wanted him to kiss her until she murmured in a husky moan. Go down. He lightly kissed her forehead, the sterling silver ring in her nostril, her lips, her chin, her neck. There was no hurry. As his tongue slipped over her clavicle, he nipped her collar bone gently with his teeth, a little pain, she exhales a lust fueled sigh, he does not break the skin.

He sucks a ruddy nipple into his mouth as he pinches the other between Nintendo callused thumb and index finger, his other hand tangled in her dank bush. He was glad that she didn’t shave it completely when she shaved her legs; it was a symbol of her womanhood.

Soon, he released the nipple from the grip of his lips and let his tongue leave a wet trail of saliva as he meandered towards the curly tangle of hair above her vagina. The Bermuda triangle an arrow pointing his mouth towards its destination with her orgasmic enigma. He worked his way down her body; it was so plush, he could not believe how fine this woman’s body was; she had the loveliest figure of any woman he had ever bedded.

How had he gotten so lucky? It wasn’t luck; after four years of celibacy, it was his due. He decided not to overanalyze it. Let’s see how far she’ll let him go. He took his time admiring her as he gazed up at her face his chin resting on her crotch even from down here, looking at her over the soft rise of her belly, her head raised slightly on the pillow, seeing her face between her breasts which were also beautiful, her face was beautiful, he could be giving her a rim job and she’d look spectacular.

Now that she was undressed, he could see that she was an amazing physical specimen. It was hard to tell before now, since she tended to dress down, favoring oversized tee shirts and baggy jeans that camouflaged what a shapely physique she possessed. She had a baby face, she wore no makeup, and at a distance she looked like an adolescent boy. Up close, she looked a bit deranged, like Ally Sheedy in ‘The Breakfast Club’ because she cut her own hair. There was a hardness to her facial features that reminded him of Trinity Carrie Anne Moss in ‘The Matrix’, she was as insane as Marla Maples in ‘Fight Club’, and sexy as the evil chick in ‘The Craft’, which is what she really looked like, except she was sweet in the eyes, naive, even innocent looking. This is what Feruza Balk, Wednesday Adams, all grown up, would look like.

He halted at her navel, making her laugh again as he licked her navel as if it were a misplaced twat. He liked that she laughed in bed; it was a good sign she was relaxed, they were resonating at the same psychic frequency. She put her hand on top of his head and pushed harder, enough foreplay, she was ready to feel his mouth there, he did not resist. He let himself be pushed by her until his chin slid over her clitoris and she moaned softly as he went to work on her with his full sienna lips soft, exploratory probes with the tongue at first over the hood, then down and in to the fissured flesh.

He dived in and out of her sacred space as he slid his fingers even more deeply into her cleft. She smelled musky, wet, and damp. His spit mingled with the juices of her arousal to wet the mat of hair around her sex, soaking into his mustache and goatee. Mona was into it; she wrapped her legs around his head. She liked that she didn’t have to tell him to go down on her; most guys only wanted her to blow them, and most would never eat her out. Even if they did, it was only a few lazy licks before they hurriedly slid their crooked cocks inside of her, but Aaron was into eating pussy like a butch lesbian. He looked in many ways like a girl trapped in a beautiful boy’s body.

She liked the feeling of his face in her crotch. Guys wouldn’t eat a girl like her out because performing the act of cunnilingus on her would be the same as ordering a semen smoothie. Aaron didn’t care; every moment they were alone, she rode his face like a rodeo horse. She felt the heat of his excitement; he was breathing nearly as hard as she was, hot, short breaths that warmed her vulva. She had come several times already, little ones, but he was working her towards the big one, the kind of orgasm you can’t fake. Mona knew she would spray his face and that he would drink all of her. He grabbed her clit between his teeth gently and began to shake his head from side to side like a puppy with a sock. Yes! It hurt, but she pulled his face against her meaty pussy lips even harder. The white water of her climax threatened to drown them as it rolled over them in a great wave.

Let me finish you.

I can’t cum in a woman’s mouth.

Why not?

I’ve trained myself to concentrate on the woman’s pleasure so that now I just can’t cum like that.

You don’t mind if I try, do you?

No, I would really love it.

I want you to finish in my mouth. I bet I make you cum in five minutes.

Hey, I’m hoping you’re right, but I wouldn’t bet any money on it. Do you swallow?

Only one way you’ll ever find out.

This is gonna hurt.

Only if you do it right.

Don’t flatter yourself, it’s a good size, but I’ve got it under control.

He looked at her, a part of him unable to believe that she was real. Why was she with him? There was no use wasting the little time they had analyzing the situation. That had always been one of his problems; he spent too much time overthinking and not enough time doing. He had missed out on a lot of first class fucks because he was too busy wondering if he should make a move or if she wanted him to make a move or what if he made a move and she didn’t want him to make a move would she still want to be friends and on and on and on it went until some knuckle dragging Neanderthal made a move on the woman while he was still thinking the woman runs off with the grunting caveman because he had taken too long to make a move.

Usually, having decided that he must be gay. Why else would a man not want her? Beautiful women frightened him. But the idea of being seen out in public with a big, fat, ugly woman terrified him. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what people would think. He had the same thoughts himself when he saw couples like them. He could never even have ugly people for friends for fear of being ridiculed by anonymous idiots swirling through this scatological existence.

He had been the kid who got beaten up, the ugly, skinny kid who talked like a white paddy. Who wanted to go there? He had moved out of the old neighborhood after he got out of the suck (Marine Corps). He rarely went back to the old hood, even though his family on his daddy’s side still lived there; he only showed up for Christmas or Thanksgiving, and whenever his car broke down and he couldn’t figure out how to fix it himself.

They made an extra-special sweet potato pie for him because they all thought he was a little crazy, like his mother. Every year during his visits with the family, he would inevitably enter a room unexpectedly the conversation would die as mysteriously as pigeons. The aunts, uncles, and cousins who felt sorry for him referred to him as being eccentric when they were in a generous mood. The rest just thought the nigga was crazy and wondered when he was going to lose it and kill himself. Others speculated that he might kill a whole lot a mutha fuckas before he killed himself.

Everything from his sexual preferences to his sanity was suspect. He was called a sorry assed mother fucka who abandoned wives and children like an angler tossing back a poor catch. Of course, the subject of the race of at least one of his ex-wives and his latest string of girlfriends had everyone’s tongues wagging. It was decided by many of his closest kinfolk as well as strangers on the street that he must hate nigga’s. It was true, Aaron hated nigga’s but he loved black people, they ain’t the same thing.

The more attractive the woman, the more powerful his fear. Mona was terrifying. How had he gone from the lame assed doofus who spent all of his free time in his apartment with his pathetic paintings, too many comic books, jacking off every night looking at the same 80’s porn on the VCR, to the kind of guy a girl like Mona Elisabeth Whittaker fucked? Aaron thought about how his luck really changed over a year ago, the day he got fired.

-about the author JD Cloudy’s poetry has disappeared in the literary journals: Fatfizz, Mad Swirl, Texas Beat Anthology, Danse Macabre, Du Jour, and Death List Five. He has won no literary awards, entered no slam competitions, and never completed college. He lives to write in Dallas, TX.