Fiction

Maenad

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 FICTION








Maenad

by Wagner James Au




She imagines herself running. When Reece is bent over her, his
tongue between thumbs that expose her fully, this is how she sees

herself: running through a thick forest, flying blind over moss
and wet earth. Then, in that moment when all the social
courtesies of coo and moan give way to tense silence, she
sees a clearing up ahead, a silver light through the oncoming leaves.
Running even faster, the passing branches whip across her face,
too fast to feel their sting. She grips Reece’s head in both hands
and fixes him there. If he was to move now, or stop, she would
surely kill him. Breaking through into meadow and moonlight
and the shrieks of women like her, already there, savage and writhing.


    
Reece groans, and tries to roll his aching self off her.


    
But Becka’s crossed heels have locked him in. She thumps against
his pubic bone, face scrunched in concentration. And in a moment, what do
you know, she hoops another, a gamboling little butterfly of a climax.
Her back curls; she grimaces.




Later, Becka’s legs loosen, and Reece feels himself exhale.
He unpastes thick hair from his face. Finally,
he’s in the clear. He slumps against an upright pillow.


    
“Hey. . . ” There’s a puppy dog whine in her voice.


    
Slinking out of his stupor, Reece strains to his hands and knees.


    
“God, you’re sweet. Just a little more?” Becka’s face glows with
a drowsy, Hellenic smile. “There’s another one in there.”


    
Facing south, he opens her thighs.


    
Reece doesn’t mind at all, really. He’s overcome that basic male
hubris, the cute idea, the insane notion, that a man can expect to
satisfy a woman.


    
Oh, tide them over, perhaps. Lip-locked to her clitoris, Reece
guffaws to himself: Bring me three big-dicked tag-teaming Marines,
and a slobbering Great Dane, then we’ll talk.


    
No. All he can give is his honest effort, and hopefully that
will be enough. He often stares at her while she’s sleeping, curled up
next to him in a lovely tangle of slim limbs, and says softly to himself,
Goddamn.





Like Becka, Reece is a street performer, by the North Beach cable
car stop. She met him there, when he wouldn’t stop smirking at her,
even as he windmilled three juggling blades around
his head, her dangling from a brass bar as the cable car swooped by,
him not watching his daggers at all, as she returned his stare, You cocky
bastard, until a negligent tip slashed a parenthesis across his cheek,
and she laughed aloud. And was made, later that night, to lick it clean.


    
Today, he pulls Becka from her yoga hour, to show her three
circular bands with razor edges. Band saw blades, like toothed metal
ribbons in the shape of O’s. They are for his new routine.


    
He tosses the rings above his head, one after the other in quick

whooshes. Hanging for a breath, they descend, edges aiming down.

    
Becka pales. She hears a wet, popping crack.


    
Reece’s shoulders bend into his chest, in acute angles,
almost touching together. He’s just about the shape of a
telephone pole.


    
The bands drop and ring around him without touching.


    
“I’m double jointed, you know.” He sounds bashful. “Well?”


    
She has to grin.


    
“It’s . . . wonderful.”





Later on, Becka’s doing lat pulls with Tess, in a testosterone
annex called Pentheus’ Gym. Tess is going at it, 125 pounds of iron
plate kissing together with prim ease.


    
Becka watches from behind, towel padding her swan neck.


    
“You still counting?” Tess interrupts her.


    
“. . . Oh.”


    
“Never mind. You were saying?”


    
“Well . . . he tries his best, really. But that just makes it
worse. The way he . . . ” She almost sounds demure.


    
“When Reece eats me, it is so fucking incredible. That I want to kill him. Kill
him. He lets me put his balls in my mouth, you know, while he eats me . . . ”


    
“Brave man.”


    
“When I’m coming, it’s all I can do not to tear into them, like . . . ”
She savors an image on her tongue. “Like dim sum stuffed with scallops.”


    
Tess drops the bar, laughing.


    
“Do you know what I mean?”


    
“Listen, if this were a just world, they’d have to do us Cro-Magnon style — a herd of them
lined up behind our asses, and make a day of it, ’til we said stop.”


    
Becka laughs, then looks wistful. “There’s a completeness that I
wish was there. To be overwhelmed. I like to imagine . . . ”


    
Then her gaze slowly pans to Tess’s face and down to her biceps.
An image fireflies in her head, glows there languidly.





That night the blood in her body rushes to the single spot.
Reece is holding her legs open with both hands, weaving his head in figure eights, tongue
whirling like a velvet top.


    
She is a bit afraid, thinking of what she wants to do. She grips
Reece by the ponytail.


    
She’s getting close. He can sense it, in the rush of her breath,
and her thickening taste of sea foam. He’s dimly aware of a
tug on his scalp.


    
“When I. Come. Put your. Tongue all. The way inside me.”
She says it in choked gasps.


    
Reece’s chin and cheeks are awash in saliva and plenum. As
asked, he slinks his tongue in deep.


    
The snare is sprung. She grips the back of Reece’s head and

pushes with all her strength. She feels herself growing wide,
impossibly wide, the circumference of herself described by the imprint of
his invading skull.

    
It begins to hurt really bad. Needles of pain plunge into one
thigh, and out the other. Dry brambles blow through her womb. She
spreads wider.


    
Then suddenly nothing hurts, nothing hurts at all. She pushes Reece one
last time.


    
His shoulders turn in. There is a hollow popping sound.


    
It’s almost done.





Tess appears from where she’s been waiting. Beforehand, they figured
they’d have three minutes, before things got dicey for Reece.


    
Right now, he’s flailing with surprise, ass bucking off the oak
floor. Becka seems frozen in place.


    
Tess fishes a long velvet scarf from her jacket, then crouches down to Becka. She loops a
snug bowline around each of Becka’s ankles and starts pushing them behind Becka’s neck.
Becka’s yoga pliancy kicks in, and Tess slips the taut scarf over Becka’s head. With her ankles
spread wide behind her ears, Becka looks like the letter W in bondage.


    
Now for Reece. Tess grips him by the shoulders, turns him on his
back. Up inside, there is a muted gurgle.


    
Then with a flurry of cracking and popping, Tess folds him in
half, lengthwise.


    
“Are you ready Becka?” Tess asks, while working lubricant into Reece’s shoulders. Becka’s
nails scrape shallow grooves across the floor.


    
Tess pushes hard. Nothing budges.


    
Swearing, she digs in her heels, and pushes. Reece’s shoulders
begin to ream in.


    
Becka’s eyes open for a moment, and meet Tess’s. They roll, and
disappear in two white flashes. Tess can see odd textures rippling across Becka’s belly — a brow, a nose,
an open mouth.


    
Tess sets a steady rhythm, arms locked around his legs. She has
fucked women before, playing the strapped man, imitating the masculine
thrust.


    
She works slowly, changing her grip to his elbows, easing Reece in
past his clavicle. Skin all glazed with sweat and lube, he’s like
grabbing a watermelon seed. Tess tucks his arms in, and his chest is
enveloped; ribs and rippled abs roll by. She grips Reece’s cock for the final push.





Inside, after the initial daze, Reece panics. He can’t see, he
can’t breathe, and all is thick and sultry. Soft things roll around him, steaming across his skin.


    
He tries to cry out, to back out, to breathe. Thrashing his legs, he feels someone’s strong
grasp and reassuring hands on his
heels. And finally, eager to please, Reece acquiesces.





©1998
Wagner James Au
and Nerve.com