I imagined him smelling like the cheap cologne and soilings of that man from the bar. I lay back down, with a desire to touch myself as David snored peacefully beside me. I threw the white sheet off David and reached for his cock, trying to waken him with my touch. Now I really needed him to enter me, fuck me hard, fuck me loud. I wanted Sergi to hear it all.
David let out a cranky moan as I planted my face between his legs, lifted him up from his buttocks, like a mother lifting her child to change him. Trailing his hair-lined stretch from anus to testicles with my tongue, I took his flaccid cock in my mouth and it came to life, even before David fully came to.
“What are you doing?” he asked. Propping himself up on his el bows, blinking hard. He was startled, his heart beating fast. I didn’t answer; enthralled on getting him off, I held on with my mouth, kissing, sucking as loudly as I could.
There was no sound coming from the hallway or from any part of the apartment any more. The house was frozen in screaming silence aside from my mouth’s wet popping sounds and David’s gentle moaning. He was lying down again, tossing his head from side to side.
“God, I love you,” he said softly. And I loved him too. But maybe I hated him more right now for making me feel so vulnerable. I wanted to hurt him, to hit him. So I did. I sat on top of him and slapped his face. It was harder than I meant to. He shot up like an alarm clock had gone off under him.
I pushed him back down and laughed loudly. I splayed his arms out like Jesus on the Cross and bit his neck hard, wanting to leave my marks on him for everyone to see.
“Stop it” he said. “That hurts.”
And he looked hurt. I didn’t feel like comforting him. “Wake up and fuck me then,” I said. I got on all fours and lifted my ass to him. He obeyed like I knew he would. He licked my ass and stuck his fingers in my swelling cunt.
“Fuck me, David,” I demanded.
He placed his delicate hands on my hips and positioned himself to carefully enter. And he pumped slowly, softly, as if he were nod ding off on a swinging hammock. I closed my eyes and moaned for him. It felt so sweet, like being rocked in a lullaby. Holding my breath, I felt the first tinglings of an orgasm.
Then I saw a pair of strong thick legs with light-brown hairs on the shapely calves and a fat, rose-coloured prick being stroked happily in my peripheral vision. I didn’t hear him enter the room, but I knew he’d come. I felt it.
I refused to look up at his face and concentrated on David inside of me instead. I wanted him to defend me, to scream for him to get out. He didn’t. Instead, Sergi sat on the edge of the bed and cupped my left breast, weighing it, massaging it, as if he were buying a cantaloupe from the Boqueria market. He was whetting his mouth, moaning, “Mmmm,” at the premonition of sweetness to come.
While Sergi concentrated on my torso, David’s pump had gotten increasingly faster and even deeper with Sergi in the room. I could feel him spasming, becoming more erratic in his thrusts. I had be come disconnected from my body. I floated to the corner of the room, took a seat, and saw it all. Sergi’s power, David’s frailty, my complete submission. My heart pounded, so did my head, my throat and my dripping cunt. Sergi stuck his hand in my mouth and I obediently sucked on his fingers. Where had those long and dirty fingers been all night? I caught whiffs of cigarette, semen and garlic.
It was all beginning to hit me hard and my entire body hot-flashed. Sensing this, Sergi ran his fingers through my short hair and clenched the taut skin on the back of my neck. Like you would a cat. David pinched my nipples and slapped my buttocks. I tingled and shivered, growing weaker and weaker with overwhelming pleasure. “Do you like us touching you?” David’s voice was close to cracking from the excitement.
I heard a yes hissing from my throat and I wasn’t sure where it had come from.
I was one of them now. Before meeting them I was woman who demanded respect. Now I’m a woman who accepts humiliation. There is a beautiful kind of strength in this kind of shame.
Sergi shoved his penis into my face. He hit my forehead, my eye lids, the bridge of my nose, with his swollen sword. He was getting back at me for the entire night, for something. Something he probably couldn’t understand himself. Then he took aim and shoved his cock to the back of my throat. I gagged and coughed, unable to lift a hand.
Still on my knees, Sergi got off the bed and went somewhere be hind David who had resumed fucking me. I hadn’t felt Sergi get on the bed with us so I figured he was standing somewhere in the room. But where?
David put his lips to my ear and whispered, “Please don’t be mad at me.”
Then, as if David had just been shot in the head, he collapsed his entire weight over the curve of my back. Straightening myself, tensing my muscles, I held him up with all my strength while Sergi let out a wail and David cursed the air. Sergi was hurting him, thrusting himself gratuitously, forcing himself into David’s small channel. Our interconnected motions awkward, stunted; like being connected to a long, thick, knotted sailor’s rope catching, bumping, and slithering up the edge of a boat.
I fought and contorted myself trying to keep David inside of me. Caught in between us, David was falling apart, on the verge of burst ing. He was snorting like Quixote’s Rocinante, shouting for God, sobbing quietly, for all of us. I joined in their guttural wails. It was the holiest and saddest of choruses. And then like a crescendoing car alarm screaming at the night, it was over.
Sergi pulled out and walked out. David fell into a ball of wasted flesh in coital position beside me. At that moment, I couldn’t imagine a greater pain than loving a weak man. He couldn’t look at me, at least not yet. Then I thought of my mother, thought of what she would think, if anything as terrible had ever happened to her in her life.
I craved solitude and began sliding my body off the edge of the bed. My knees cracked, my joints ached. I reached for my pants suit lying in two disjointed pieces on the floor. I grabbed my shoes, my bag, and walked barefoot out of the room, down the swirling corridor of mosaic tiles, past Sergi’s room with its door closed, and out the front door, leaving them alone in their stifling silence. My heart pounded loudly in my ears.
As I stepped out of the elevator and on to the shaded entrance of La India’s outer lobby, I remember thinking that I didn’t feel a single emotion. Neither happy nor sad. But I must have been wearing some kind of face, because a straight line of cheery tourists slowed down to look at me as they passed. I rummaged through my bag and found a last bent cigarette. I gave it one puff, looked right back at their innocent sun-blotched faces and had the urge to vomit.
Turning the corner off Carrer de Carme, I let it all out. The en tire night’s bile released on to the grey, rounded-stone streets of this Iberian port city that had witnessed so many centuries of misery.
I hung my head down for a while and watched the last string of saliva detach itself from my mouth. Holding myself up with one hand on the stone wall before me, I found its coldness provided a sobering effect. I wiped my chin with my sleeve and slicked my hair back from my face. As I straightened myself up, an old and squat Catalan couple walked by me, cautiously observing me with two sets of beady brown eyes. There was a rose in her hand and a book tucked safely under his left arm.
It was Diada de Sant Jordi. The sun felt strong. It’s nice to be warm when you’re feeling cold. I decided I would walk to las Ramblas and browse all those books I had yet to read. Buy a book, maybe two, maybe three. It was the new beginning I had wanted, though it was a beginning to an end. But I was good at endings.
Then a song popped into my head. It was a song that used to make my mother cry whenever she heard it in passing. “Perfidia”, Treachery, was its name.
La perfidia de tu amor.
There was no turning back. Barcelona’s morning sky was the steeliest of blues.
Author Biographies
Matthew Addison
Matthew Addison’s stories have appeared in
Fishnet
,
The Best American Erotica
, and
X
:
The Erotic Treasury
. He lives in Northern California.
Jacqueline Applebee
Jacqueline Applebee breaks down barriers with smut. Jacqueline’s stories have appeared in various anthologies, including
Swing!
,
Best Women’s Erotica
and
Best Lesbian Erotica
. She has also written several novellas available online at Excessica and Shadowfire Press. To learn more, visit her at
www.writing-in-shadows.co.uk
Cheyenne Blue
Cheyenne Blue combines her two passions in life and writes travel guides and erotica. Her erotica has appeared in many anthologies, including
Best Women’s Erotica
,
Mammoth Best New Erotica
,
Best Lesbian Erotica
,
Best Lesbian Romance
and on many websites. You can read more of her erotica on her website
www.cheyenneblue.com
Kris Cherita
Kris Cherita has written for an eclectic range of publications under a variety of noms de porn, and has never been the principal of a girls’ school nor is ever likely to be. The characters and institutions in “Peace de Resistance” are fictitious, and any resemblance to any businesses currently in operation are purely coincidental and would be a huge surprise to the author, who probably couldn’t afford them anyway. Kris lives in Australia and enjoys travel, writing, movies and threesomes.
Andrea Dale
Andrea Dale’s stories have appeared in
Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories
,
Afternoon Delight: Erotica for Couples
,
The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra
and
Dirty Girls
, among others. With co-authors, she has sold novels to Cheek Books (
A Little Night Music
, Sarah Dale) and Black Lace Books (
Cat Scratch Fever
, Sophie Mouette) and even more short stories. She freely confesses that she has a thing for rock stars. Her website is at
www.cyvarwydd.com
Lewis DeSimone
Lewis DeSimone is the author of the novel
Chemistry
(Lethe Press). His work has also appeared in a number of journals and anthologies, including
Second Person Queer: Who You Are (So Far)
and
My Diva: 65 Men on the Women Who Shaped Their Lives
. His contribution to the latter was highlighted on Salon. Lewis blogs regularly at
SexandtheSissy.wordpress.com
. He currently lives in San Francisco, where he is working on a new novel. He can be reached through
www.lewisdesimone.com
Kate Dominic
Kate Dominic is a former aerospace editor and technical writer who now writes about much more interesting ways to put Tab A into Slot B (or C or D or many multiples thereof). She is the author of over 300 short stories, which have been published under many names in three solo books, a wide variety of anthologies, magazines and websites, and in several languages. Kate is currently taking a break from short stories and finishing a series of novels. She can be reached at
KateDominicWriting@ yahoo.com
Dorianne
Dorianne is a queer, kinky northern gal who writes in many realms, both erotic and not. She has written and directed plays for the stage and indie film and occasionally she takes her urge to entertain onstage herself to dance burlesque. In all her endeavours, she hopes to make her audience do any or all of the following: laugh; think; squirm in their seats; get a little wet.
David Findlay
David Findlay is a Toronto-based pornographer who does not have a sister. His parents are alive and well and he doesn’t know where Abercrombie is. David’s fiction, non-fiction, photos and videos tend to dwell on people enjoying things they really oughtn’t to. His work appears in the anthology
First Person Queer
, among other venues. He is currently working on a bluegrass porn opera and a smutty comic book while collecting improbable experiences on the road.
Shanna Germain
Shanna Germain has a poor memory; she thinks that’s why she became a writer, but she can’t recall for certain. Her writing has appeared in places like
Best American Erotica 2007
,
Best Bondage Erotica 2
,
Best Gay Romance 2008
and
2009
,
Best Lesbian Erotica 2008
and
2009, Best Lesbian Romance 2009
,
Dirty Girls
,
The Affair
and more. Visit her online at
www. shannagermain.com
K.D. Grace
K.D. Grace lives in England. She loves gardening, extreme walking, anything to do with nature. She has stories published by Black Lace, Xcite, Cleis and Ravenous Romance among others.
Isabelle Gray
Isabelle Gray’s writing can be found in many places including
Dirty Girls
,
Iridescence
,
Bedding Down
, Be
st Date Ever: True Stories that Celebrate Lesbian Relationships
and
Best Women’s Erotica 2008
.
Nalo Hopkinson
Nalo Hopkinson is a Caribbean-Canadian author born in Jamaica. Her books include the novels
Blackheart Man
,
In the New Moon’s Arms
,
The Salt Roads
,
Midnight Robber
and
Brown Girl in the Ring
, and the short story collection
Skin Folk
. She has also edited or co-edited various anthologies, including
Mojo: Conjure Stories
,
So Long Been Dreaming: Post-Colonial Science Fiction Stories
and
Whispers from the Cotton Root Tree: Caribbean Fabulist Fiction
.