"Okay," he said.

At 11:44 she was on her hands and knees facing the TV as he penetrated her from behind. He liked this position best. The long slope of her back. The upside-down, petite heart-shape of her ass. Her head down, bobbing with each thrust. Beads of sweat on the back of her neck. Gasps. Damp velvet pussy. His thumb on her asshole, her breath sharply indrawn. Saddam. A hard slap. Red handprint on her left buttock. Moqtada. His head swimming, his cock aching, her hips rocking back to meet it. Moqtada Moqtada.

Thomas gasped, pulling out of her. It was 11:50.

"What are you doing?" she yelped, her body still rocking forward and back.

He got up, walked to the glowing laptop, shut it off, closed it, and put it in a drawer. Then he knelt behind Sabina again and slid his cock back inside her. "Sorry," he said. They began to fuck once more, working themselves up, finding the obscene rhythm again. Her ass was turning red where he'd slapped it; he slapped it again. 11:52.

"Fuck my ass," she said. Only when stoned did she demand anal. "I'm close. I'll touch myself, I'll come really hard if I touch myself while you fuck my ass."

Sliding out, he placed the head of his cock against her asshole. "How will it ever fit," she said. She always said that; she liked the sound of it. She was rubbing herself, waiting for him to push inside.

Downstairs, the crowd sustained a lung-bursting roar. Ten million flecks of saliva under the brutal

promotion

lights. His eyes flicked to the TV, the harshly glittering ball. "For this year," a newswoman said, "the crystal triangles on the ball feature three doves symbolizing 'Hope for Peace.'" Behind her the million voices chanted. Overwhelming clamor. Prayers, incantations. Blurred faces glimpsed. In six minutes, the ball would drop suddenly, fall a jarring distance, and stop with a hard jolt.

Leaning away from Sabina, he grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. Now they were in darkness.

"I'm yours," he said. He licked his thumb and rubbed it on her asshole. She liked only minimal lubrication. He pressed his cock into her. The tense resistance at first. The sudden, reluctant, exquisite parting. She groaned through gritted teeth. "Hurts, Jesus, fucking hurts so bad," she groaned, her fingers working intensely. "Yeah, fuck it, fuck my ass..." He began to thrust cautiously.

From the way her body tightened rhythmically around his cock and the speed of her fingers, he knew she was already almost there. He was, too. A jubilant feeling came over him.When the voice outside — the single huge, inhuman voice — roared, "TEN...NINE..." it felt to Thomas like actually there was no crowd out there, that the voice was not roaring for countries or calendars but only for him and Sabina, for the timeless safety of orgasm.

"Fuck it," she was saying, forehead pressed to the carpet, fingers working. "Break my fucking ass."

"SIX...FIVE..." the great voice roared.

Outside, the screams filled the planet.

Her cries became snarls.

"FOUR...THREE..." the great voice roared.

She went absolutely silent, her back arching suddenly, her ass pressing back on his cock and clenching the head of it so hard he thought he might cry out.

"TWO...ONE."

He pulled out and ejaculated deliriously, endlessly, on her back. Outside, the screams filled the planet. She collapsed on the carpet. He lay down beside her.



12:06 a.m., January 1. The hour when the revelry goes quiet in your blood and you think about the person you ought to be and the world you want to live in.

"Fuck 2006," Thomas said, sitting up. "And fuck 2007."

"Hm?" Sabina touched his arm, gently, in the dark.

"Fuck the twenty-first century," he said. "Let's put the blinds down, lock the doors and windows, never leave. I just want to stay here, right here, you and me, and fuck as much as humanly possible until we die of fucking."

"Okay," she said.

"Okay," he said.

Her hand — her slim, gentle hand — moved with exhausted ease from his arm to his cock, where it rested comfortably, like an old friend.  n°

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
	Nick Antosca's stories have appeared in The Barcelona Review, Identity Theory, The Antietam Review, Hustler, and others. His first novel, Fires, was published in January 2007 by Impetus Press. Visit his website here.