X-RATED CONVERSATIONS
Becky Chapel

Baby, you ready?”

So ready. I’ve been waiting for this call, dressed in my pale-green silk negligee, my hair rustling in lustrous curls past my shoulders, my skin still warm and buffed from a day on the beach. I’ve been in bed with a fashion magazine open before me—not reading, not even looking at the pictures of silky, feline women—just turning the pages and waiting.

“Stefanie-girl…,” Giselle continues, “take your panties down, take them down to your ankles and bend over on the bed.”

I do it without thinking, ignoring the voice in my head that taunts me, She’s not here, not really, you can just pretend. That’s a lie. I do it because she is here, throwing me forward on the bed and bending on her knees to eat me from behind—thrusting her pink tongue between my porcelain thighs and drinking from the split of my body. She is here with me, commanding me to spread my legs wider, to bend over farther, and I do it, hands clutching the phone, breathing ragged, heartbeat exploding in my ears.

“Turn over,” she orders, and I’m with her, her hands gripping my waist, lifting me off the bed with each forward drive of her hips, each thrust impaling me with her strap-on cock. “That’s the girl,” she says, her voice urgent, “Oh, how beautiful you are.” Her fingers trail along my belly, up to my breasts, cupping them, teasing my nipples, brushing the tips. She anchors me with her weight, her body on top of mine, and she leans forward to kiss me, slow and long, her skin warm on my own, her lips smooth and dry. We’re so close together that I feel her heartbeat link with my own. It’s like music, the way we move, the rhythm of the dance. It’s like fire, the glow in her eyes, the heat of her skin.

It’s like she’s here with me.

“C’mon, Stefanie, kiss me, darling.”

My head tilts against the cool satin of my pillow, my lips part, as if I am kissing a demon lover, an incubus. My body rocks beneath the phantom, invisible, unreal, and then the currents work through me.

I can picture her in my mind, her pale curls, like an angel’s, her eyes shut tight, the blonde lashes against her tanned skin. Her mouth is tense, canine teeth biting into her bottom lip, the urgency creasing her sculptured face. She arches her head back as she moans aloud—the image of ecstasy. I bask in the sublime look that crosses her face as she reaches the climax. I own that look.

“Darling,” Giselle sighs, her breathing gone dark and heavy. “That was amazing.”

“Yes…”

“Call me tomorrow…,” she whispers, no talk of her day—of mine—of the work that separates us.

“Yes,” I say, with another sigh, filled with satisfaction. “Yes, Giselle. Tomorrow,” and I roll over and set the phone quietly into place on the bedside table. Cutting the cord.

For that is the bane of a long-distance lover, the knowing that three weeks have passed since I saw her last, and three more will come and go before I see her again.

Tomorrow and tomorrow, and tomorrow. And now it’s two weeks until I see her, two weeks until I climb on the plane and fly from sunny California to wintry New York City. We are having a December like no other, eighty-six degrees, too hot to wear jeans, too hot to wear anything but gauzy, summer-print dresses that skim my hips and thighs and flit and flirt when I walk.

Too hot to make love? Never.

“The kitchen,” I say when it’s my turn to call. “On the countertop.”

“The cool tile,” she says back, and I know she’s with me. “You can watch your reflection in the windows behind me.”

I can see it, my green eyes glimmering in the light from the city, while all the lights in the apartment are out. I can feel her arms, the muscles in them, the shift and slide of the muscles beneath her skin. She is holding me tight, and my legs are wrapped firmly around her waist. I’ve got the cock on this time, and I drive it in and out and hard, hard, my fingers digging into her arms, my teeth on the ridge of her shoulder, biting to stifle the scream. I work her without a break, like a machine, like a wonderful fucking machine, our parts well oiled, interlocking, caught in a groove with one destination in sight.

She lifts her hands to the back of my head, cradling me, losing her fingers in the gold foil of my hair. Her kiss is like water, sliding, cool. Her kiss is like the ocean, like I’ve brought the ocean with me. Her full cat-mouth on mine is like a dream that makes me sorry to wake up.

Her kiss is like she’s with me.

And, in a way, she is.

“Watch us,” Giselle says, “Watch the way we move.” I peer at our reflection, the black-and-white tile floor beneath her bare feet, the white marble counter beneath my ass—the reflection of our bodies moving, working, shimmering in the mirror-window.

“You’re perfect,” I tell her, “Just like that. Keep it going, now. Just like that.”

In and out and HARD. Can you feel it? Hard, like a piston, well oiled, moving up and down, sliding in and out. Too good. Too right. I can taste it, oh god, I can taste it, my hips sliding on the counter, my body working against hers, my hips snapping against hers, too good, too right…“Ohhhh!” It’s a shriek, louder than I expected, louder than I planned, “Ohhh, my sweet…,” and she echoes it back to me, calling out my name, “Stefanie!” as we come together, three thousand miles apart, as we come together and explode.

“Tomorrow,” I tell her.

“Tomorrow,” she promises.

And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

It’s a week until I see her, and my suitcase is already on the floor, silk skirts and velvet dresses, high heels, jeans and leather boots. My jacket is back from the cleaners, hanging in plastic from the hook on my door. My lingerie is new, packed in its little compartment, ribbons and lace and fancy things to make her moan. My hair is longer, I think, and it looks different than before, the bangs hanging low over my forehead, the rest a tousled mane that falls past my shoulder blades. I inspect myself as I hope she will—as I know she will—turning in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the lines in my calves, the tone of my thighs, the sleek curves of my waist and breasts.

I imagine her hands on me, her fingers exploring, parting, dipping. I imagine myself through her eyes, and I feel a longing steal over me that is impossible to shake. I lie down on the bed, holding the phone to my chest, wanting to call—but it’s too early—wanting her voice to wrap me up and carry me to her.

I press the buttons slowly, the glowing green buttons that mock me somehow, and she answers immediately.

“I want,” I start, “Giselle, I want…”

“Slower, this time,” she says, her voice a lesson in control. “Slower, girl, don’t rush it.”

“Slower,” I breathe back to her, “Okay, all right.” Steady now, my fingers probing, steady now, through the soft curtain of my panties. But I can’t. “On the floor,” I order, my voice strong, my passion winning. “On the floor, Giselle.”

And I hear the laugh in her voice, the surprise in her voice, as she says. “Yes, all right. The living room floor.”

“I’m on top.”

She knows it.

“I’m on top and I’m holding you down.”

Oh, yes. She knows it. My hands flat against her shoulders, pinning her to the plush carpet, my knees spread wide at her hips, my body in charge, my will in charge. Faster, I need it faster, and I’m controlling the speed, I’m running this machine.

She arches her fine hips to help me, to give me some leverage. Her hands find my waist and she keeps me steady, keeps that steady, raging beat. Her synthetic cock is a part of me, the hard, throbbing rod a part of my body. I never release it entirely. I hold it within me and ride it, squeezing it, the contractions running through my body into her, tight and hard, release, tight and hard, release; her breathing sounds like sobbing to me, her face is flushed with the effort of it, the effort to hold back. She can’t, though, because I’m in charge and I don’t want her to hold back.

I work her harder, watching her face change. Her curls are matted, her cheeks are covered in a thin sheen of sweat. She’s biting her bottom lip as she always does before she comes, and she’s moaning, repeating, like a mantra, over and over, “Yes, baby, yes, baby, yes…”

I feel it happen inside me, the change inside me, and her fingers dig deeper into my waist, needing to capture me, to hold me to her. I go forward against her, onto her chest, never stopping the pounding rhythm of my hips, faster than ever, faster than anything. She lifts me forward with her hips and we’re slamming into each other, slamming like two trains meeting, the crash reverberating through both of our bodies. The crash and then the aftermath of the sparks and fires that shoot through us, every nerve ending tingling, every fiber burning.

She closes her eyes and wraps me in her arms. She holds me to her beating heart and wraps me in her arms. Her voice caresses me, her fingertips soothe me. And it’s as if she’s here, with me, and not three thousand miles away.

“Tomorrow,” she says, the catch still in her voice.

“Tomorrow,” I sigh.

And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

The plane lands at 6:05. I’m the first one up, the first pushy passenger to the door, and the flight attendant gives me a little “schoolteacher” frown, as if I should be made to sit down until everyone else has left. But we’re grownups here, aren’t we? And she can only glower at me while I slide past her with my carry-on suitcase and fly up the enclosed hallway to the gate.

She’s right at the front of the greeters. And she has a placard that says STEFANIE in bold black pen and I LOVE YOU beneath it in red. She’s wearing a long navy trench coat still dusted with snow, and she’s holding a bouquet of white roses. I’m in her arms before they’re fully open to me, snuggling against her chest and bear-hugging her.

“Luggage?” she asks.

“This is it…I didn’t want to wait.”

She grins and takes my hand, leading me to the car park, kissing me while we walk. “Missed you,” she sighs, stopping us again and staring into my face. “Missed you so much, Stefanie-girl.”

My eyes are wide open, seeing her, and yet I can’t really see her. I need to touch her, need the feel of her skin beneath my hands. And I grab her arm and pull her forward. “Giselle,” I say, “I want…”

She drives too fast to get me home. She takes all the shortcuts, weaving in and out of traffic, and she drives much too fast. But not fast enough. I snake my hand into her lap while we cruise, I stroke her strap-on firmly through her slacks, longing making my fingers work harder than they should, pressing the molded dildo back against her body—but she sighs and in my mind the bulge there grows.

I lean against her, unbuckling and unzipping and revealing, lean down to take her in my mouth, to take this rigid cock into my mouth and bathe it in sweet, velvety warmth. Her juices have dampened the cock and it tastes of summer, even in this wintery city, she tastes of sinning and heat, like summer, and her cock seems to grow even larger in my throat as I stroke it with my tongue, work it between my lips—though I know this is only an illusion. It seems as if she grows and presses against the back of my throat, and her hand presses against the back of my head, twining her fingers in my hair.

Then she quickly pulls me back and says, “Wait, Stefanie. Wait this time. Go slower this time.”

She wants to savor it, and I shiver, regaining my control, and move back in my seat. I stare at her as we drive, memorizing her features, matching them with the image of her in my head. Her golden curls are longer, too, a bit shaggy to the top of her jacket collar. Her eyes are the dark blue of a winter sky at dusk, the clear blue of the water outside my Malibu tower.

I want to devour her, want to dine on her, but I lean back in my seat, set my hand on her thigh, and close my eyes. My heart races, and I mentally try to slow it down. My heart races, and I listen to it beat in my ears. Slow down, I whisper, Slow down.

We’re there: in the garage, in the elevator, in the hallway, in her apartment. We’re there: in the living room, in the kitchen, down the hallway, to her bedroom. We’re there: stripping—too quickly, slow it down—stripping off layers of clothing, watching each other but not helping each other—off, off, off—I lose buttons in the process, tearing through my traveling suit, she swears at her shoes, at the knot in the laces of her leather oxfords, and then yanks them off without untying.

On the bed, in her arms, fast, I need her fast. I need her now and hard and fast.

“Shh, baby, slow.” Giselle says it, I hear it, but I can’t do it.

“I need,” I tell her, “I need.”

And she needs it too, we’ll go slow later, we’ll go slow after. She turns me on my side and plunges forward, driving inside me, bucking inside me, her eyes open and staring down at me, blue eyes as clear as a midnight sky. Her lips are parted, her teeth clenched, her jaw tight. There’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead and the rise of her cheekbones. Her curls are matted, her smell is all around me, her body is all around me. I lose myself in the feeling of her fingers on my breasts, of her warm open mouth on my neck, of her skin against mine. I arch forward, capturing her to me, meeting her lips with my own, drinking in her kisses, drinking in her love.

Our hips snap together, and I open up and take her inside me, draining her with my muscles. She is everywhere at once, pulling out and going down between my legs to taste me there, licking me, lapping at my flood of juices. She turns and I am suckling from her, drinking her as I did in the car, lapping all of my juices away. I work steadier—“keep that rhythm”—then quickly she is up and positioning me on the bed and she is in me from behind, working me, and I arch and rock her back. And when I feel it, feel the tremors build inside her, the shudders that work through the muscles of her thighs, I pull away and order her, with just a flick of my hair, with just a look in my eyes, “On the bed—on your back.”

And I’m on her, on top of her, riding, driving, taking her so deep inside me and making that connection happen. Our hearts connecting, our blood rushing at the same beat, at that same crazy beat. Her eyes lock on mine, her hands are in my hair, on my waist, cupping my breasts. Her mouth says, “Kiss me,” and I do. Her eyes say, “Love me,” and I do. And I do: Love her, kiss her, work her, devour her, savor her. Until there is nothing left. Until those waves of power roll over us both and there is nothing left.

In her arms, her smell around me, in her arms with my hair over her shoulders and over my breasts, she says, softly, joking with me, teasing me, “Tomorrow…”

And I smile, and I kiss her gently, and I say, “Tonight.”