Read Online Kissing Carrion by Gemma Files - Free Book Online Page A

firmly, skins you back. Her breath touches the exposed tip of your penis with condensation.
    Then you arch, unable to control you own response, as she takes you to the hilt: A cold scrape of uneven bottom teeth along the underside, a liquid plunge. Back and forth, lips pulling like mist. Nothing to hold onto. And you’re so hard now, your cock feels like it’s gone numb.
    Things are coming to a head, obviously; but it’s too soon. You rear up, pull her up as well, arms hooked under hers. (She comes easily, light and frail, a sex-doll stuffed with milkweed down.) Kiss her breasts as they go by, sucking hard, but provoking no visible response, not even the barest stippling of arousal along the inside of her cleavage. Nothing blooms in this garden—stone roses only, petals turned forever inward.
    Then you lie back, ready to return the favor.
    For a beat, she gazes down at you from this weird Picasso angle, cut off at the knees, the wishbone triangle of legs and pelvis bound together by that pale pubic knot. Seashell furls, secretively overlapped: Put your ear down there, mister, and see what you can hear. Sunken bells? A blood-beat tide, raw and roaring?
    Time to find out.
    Gently, you pry her apart with both hands—spread her wide. She doesn’t stop you.
    (But what
would
she stop you doing?)
    If her body has limits, she’s posted no signs to indicate them. So you stare up into her mystery, put out a hesitant tongue. Taste it. She’s waxy and redolent with some indefinite, interior scent: Liquorice, filtered through a watercress base. Narcotized. Her juices sting, slightly.
    Again, no visible response. No blush of mere physical pleasure to dampen that detached glow of hers. So you bite deeper, determined to prove you can make her come. All things being equal rights-oriented, they give prizes for that, don’t they? The Orgasm Cup. Best Multiple In A Given Session. It’s a matter of pride now, because this is beginning to remind you of Lisa—her way of absenting herself, without a spoken word or visible sign: Sure, I’ll play along, but this is your business, buddy, not mine. Just hurry up, finish up, shit or get off the pot.
    Fuck you, baby.
    Oh no, fuck
you
.
    â€œThat’s enough,” she says. Sliding back. And screws herself down onto you with a swiftness that seems to surprise you both equally. You hiss, in unison. Because she’s
tight
, hurtfully so. And dry, not slick—all friction, with a vague, talcum-powder stickiness. She churns her hips, frantically, digging around inside herself, trying to find the right button. At which point, part of you rebels.
    (I mean, whose fantasy
is
this, anyways?)
    So you heave yourself over, taking her with you, forcing yourself securely back in the saddle—sheet-wrapped, one of her knees jammed up against your ribcage. Deeper than you’d thought possible. She hums approval; you can feel it through your sternum, an interior caress. The sheets erase a different view of her face with every thrust. Grasping for her elusive wrists, you wind up just getting still more ells of fabric, looping yourself ever further inward: Bed of lies, bed of nails, bed of quicksand.
    â€œCall me,” she says, with barely a catch, between the bellows-rush of your own panting. “Like you used to. Call me—”
    â€œHoney—”
    â€œSlut.”
    A feather-touch at either palm, steering them inward. Another ripple of speech, intimate and infected, rising up your arms like an arthritic seizure.
    â€œNow hold me like you used to, baby.”
    As she makes a choker of your hands, centering your thumbs on her larynx.
    â€œHold me. Hard. Hold me. Tight.”
    (That black-lettered yellow streak of plastic banner drooping, snapped, by one side of the front door. That front hall carpeted with dead insects. The distinct lack of footprints, other than your own, in the dust beneath you as you mounted the rickety stairs.)
    And