Wren In Love

Wren Vane, newly 26, mauve in temperament, removed her soaked cunt from the cock it sheathed and knee-walked up the bed a short pace to position it above the face of the boy who had just, for the second time in less than an hour, emptied himself inside her. He was young. She liked that.

"Finish me with your mouth," she said, toggling his lower lip with her index finger until he opened enough for her to slip her finger between his fine white teeth.

"I just came," he said.

"Yes," she said, gripped her headboard with both hands and, looking down between her outstretched arms, eased her pussy to his face, gently pressed her mons to his chin and then moved it toward his mouth. She knew now that he'd never tasted his own semen, and everything suddenly quickened: her pulse, the zizzing on the surface of her sweaty skin, the throb in her cunt.

"Lick me," she said, "as if you loved me."

She really wasn't going to give him a choice. He took her ass in both hands and slipped his tongue between her labia, wagging it somewhat tentatively. She didn't want to grind down and suffocate him, but he was going to have to do better than that.

"Oh yeah," she breathed. "That's it. That's it."

It wasn't it, but she hoped that he would find inspiration and motivation in the suggestion of skill. Having laved a cum-filled pussy herself on occasion, she knew that the experience was less about taste right now than texture. Not that there was anything wrong with the taste. Thinking about that brought her closer. Her hanging hair curtained either side of his upthrusting head.

"Yeah. Almost. There. Yeah." She pressed down into him a bit more firmly and exactly, aligning her clitoris with his tongue tip. "Now stick your finger in my ass," she said, "and suck my clit."

The boy began to suck, making a soft squelching sound that did as much to hasten her along as the act itself. But her ass remained unchallenged. She reached behind her and grabbed one his hands that was clutching her ass cheek.

"Grease your finger in my cunt," she said firmly, "and stick it in. My. Ass."

He obeyed, tentatively at first, but then less so as her moans deepened and lengthened, sounded less voluntary. His ministrations improved under her obvious pleasure, though he was having a little trouble working both his tongue and his finger with any kind of unbroken rhythm, let alone synchronicity. She reached back again and grabbed his hand, eased it forward until his finger was second-knuckle deep in her asshole.

"Just hold it there," she whispered, her eyes closed, enjoying the wonderful, uncommon feeling of fullness and the now steadier, gentle sucking at her clit. There was a tingling, the mildest sort of pins and needles spreading over the inside of her thighs, then that rich, familiar tightening sensation in her core, her orgasm mounting, her ass strengthening its clench on the boy's finger. Wren threw her head back and opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling and saw nothing.

She came. She bent forward and her stomach muscles drew in tautly and her breath caught. She came, trying to control the bucking of her hips to keep in contact with the boy's smooth hot mouth, though the spasm inside her felt sharp, sinewy, and long, but not at all unpleasant. She cursed loud and smacked the headboard with her hand and cursed again. Her cunt throbbed like a second heart.

The boy was still sucking avidly at her labia, straining to bring his tongue-tip back up in contact with her clit, but she had shifted herself back just slightly, just beyond his reach. Then she sat back hard, causing the rest of his finger to penetrate her ass, and cried out. Grabbed the headboard with one hand to brace herself against the shuddering. Still panting, she put the other hand hard around his throat and looked him in the eye. Briefly scared the shit out of him.

In the mere moments it took her to pee and find her robe, the boy had fallen into a deadweight sleep, snoring lightly, arms thrown out and spanning the bed's real estate, his soft cock—ruddy from recent business—gerbiled against the pale tree trunk of his thigh. The young ones look scandalously young when they're asleep, she thought.

"Up, Simba," she said, shaking his leg, then harder. Finally she had to resort to drawing her fingertip up the bare sole of his foot and he spasmodically woke.

"Wha?"

"Sorry, you have to go," then added, after a beat, "sweetie."

"Why?" he breathed, eyes still closed.

"I can't have sleepovers, luv. They run a respectable boarding house here, and I need my bed."

"But I'm so tired."

"I know you are, and that's why you should go straight home and go to bed. No stopping at any bordellos to top off, now. Let's go."

It was very late when he'd finally gone his way, but Wren could never go immediately to sleep at such times. She peeled the bed, not wanting to roil in the clammy spill of their DNA, and made it up with a fresh set of flannel sheets. In the kitchen, she set her four-cup Krups to brew while she washed and took out her contacts. This, a nearly nightly ritual, was her most reliable comfort, and though it was now nearly 2 a.m., she crawled back into her fresh warm bed to have a bit of hot coffee and a couple cigarettes while she read, the space cozily contained by a narrow spray of yellow light from the incandescent cone on her nightstand, and she coughed and sipped and read and spilled ashes and read more until—like every night—she killed the light and lay there tripping down through shuddering layers of sleep, her brain half-mad from caffeine and someone else's words. Nurturing those murky clouds of hypnagogic make-believe, that someday the words might be hers, the madness some else's...

*

"What did you do last night?" said Tina, Wren's long-time friend and probably her best one these days, these recent years. Same girls, different paths, thinks Wren, when she thinks about it. Same age, same background, same interests. They even look alike: dark, slight, olive-skinned. Tina has a bit more weight and curve, fuller lips, but she's also been married for seven years and borne two children. Their respective lives include a vicarious slice of each other's, thought Wren. It's not exactly like having things both ways but the closest way she can think to do it.

"Nothing much. Stayed in."

"On a Friday night?" said Tina. "That's no fun. I could do that. Shit, I did do that."

"Not the way I did, I'll bet," said Wren. She was sitting on Tina's kitchen counter. The women were eating strawberries and smoking Wren's Camel Filters, blowing the smoke in the general direction of the range hood, the fan on low. Tina's kids, Jack Jr. and Jewel, were downstairs in the family room watching "Finding Nemo" for the second hundredth time.

"Ah, so that's the way it is," said Tina. "Don't taunt me."

"I'm not taunting you, sweetie. I'm sorry Jack's still out of town. But I'm sure if he was home last night, he'd have fucked you into a coma. Then you'd have been doing better than me," said Wren, tapping ash into Tina's In-Sink-Erator.

"Hmm. I somehow doubt that. Yours was no good?"

"Oh, he was fine," said Wren.

"That's it? Just fine?"

"Yeah. He was a boy. I mean, really. Like 19."

"I see. Yes, it sounds awful."

"No, it wasn't awful," said Wren.

Tina ran her cigarette butt under the tap, dropped it in the trash, and lit another. She only smoked when Wren was around.

"Are you going to make me ask," said Tina.

"Ask?"

"For details. Jeez. Jack's out of town all the time. I feel like I haven't had any adult interaction since the '90s. It might just have been another ho-hum night of fluid swapping for you, but I'm withering here."

"He was nice," said Wren. "He had a nice mouth, nice hands."

"Did he have a nice--?"

"Cock?" said Wren. "You can say it, Tina. It's easy. Cock. Go on."

"I like it when you say it."

"He had a nice cock," she whispered. "And a very persistent one. I mean, that's definitely the upside of the young ones. They recover so fast, it's almost magical. So you can get plenty. But they don't... Well, they don't really know what to do, exactly. I mean, they know, but they don't know. They're very... deferential. I had to keep telling him things. 'Do this, do that.' Sometimes that's okay, but other times it's kind of tedious. If I have to keep stage managing the whole thing, I can't get lost it as much."

"What did you have to tell him to do?" said Tina.

"Everything," said Wren. "'Lick it, suck it, put your fingers in me, fuck me harder.' I mean, I enjoy saying those things, but not when I have to." She hopped down from the counter and dropped her butt into the disposal with a hiss, then took a big strawberry from the bowl.

"He's fucking me from behind, okay," said Wren. "And it was pretty good, though he could have put a bit more ass into it and I wouldn't have minded. And I tell him that I want him to come in my mouth."

"Oh my," said Tina. "What, um... what did you say exactly? I mean, did you just matter-of-factly say, 'Oh, by the way, when you're ready to ejaculate, do it in my mouth.' Or did you, you know, say it... dirty?"

"Oh, dirty, definitely. Filthy. Though I can't remember exactly. I think I was saying, like, you know, 'That's it, fuck me. I want you to shoot your cum in mouth. Fill my mouth with that hot load.' Something like that."

"I'm sweating," said Tina.

"Yeah, so anyway, I say that, and he stops fucking me and says, 'Oh, aren't you on the pill?' Like, everything stops so we can have a discussion about contraception. Total buzz kill. I said Yes I'm on the pill, but it turns me on when a guy shoots his load in my mouth. 'Oh, um... okay,' he says, and goes back to sawing away."

"So, did he?"

"What, come in mouth? Oh yeah."

"A lot?"

"Gallons. I mean, it was his first load of the night and all, but he just kept pumping it out. I reached up and starting fondling balls so I could count them. Thought maybe he had an extra one."

"I could really go for a drink," said Tina, fanning herself.

*

Wren Vane's office on the fifth floor of Regency Hall was commensurate with her untenured status in the English Department: small, at the far end of the corridor, and both too hot and too cold in alternating interludes during the winter months. The building was once a grand hotel in the early years of the 20th century and the university had made only ad hoc changes to it over the decades. Many of the less desirable spaces, like Wren's, still bore old hotel features like smallish closets, capped off pipes for old gaslight fixtures, and—as in Wren's case, against the wall just adjacent to her old steel desk—a pedestal sink that worked. She'd adorned it with a pillar candle, a pump soap dispenser, and a small vase of dried flowers that she occasionally substituted with fresh when she thought about it.

Since it was Saturday, the floor was quiet. She retrieved a fistful of late compositions that some of her freshman had left in her pigeonhole mailbox. A wall of stifling hot air assaulted her when she unlocked and opened her office door. It was late October, her favorite time of year, and a chill had descended overnight. The radiator beneath the window behind her desk was pinging softly and throwing tides of heat. She cranked the old casement window open a crack to let in some of the crisp air, leafy smelling, along with the traffic sounds and the voices attending the Frisbee and football throwing going on in the quad down below in the golden slants October sunlight. Set her cell next to her keyboard. Booted up her department computer. Thought about that boy she fucked the night before and felt that hunger.

She wished that she hadn't gone into details with Tina, not because she minded sharing, but because telling it had made her slightly horny—God, she hated that word, wished she could come up with a better colloquialism. Poor Tina. The only man she could fuck was always on the road. Wren felt pretty confident that she'd probably left Tina with no choice that morning but to restart "Finding Nemo" and lock herself in the bedroom to buzz one out.

Maybe... Nah. She had work to do and if she didn't do it now she'd have to do it later. She didn't want to spend her entire Saturday afternoon reading godawful freshman compositions. The notion persisted, however, in all its details. She locks her office door, she pulls down her jeans, she hooks her legs over either arm of the desk chair...

The ding of the arriving elevator echoed down the corridor. She was pretty sure she knew who it was, coming in on a Saturday morning to spend a few hours, as she, catching up, and the excitement registered in her loins...

"Why is it," she once asked Tina, "that the ones you shouldn't fuck or can't fuck are the ones you want to fuck you into another dimension?"

"It's the anticipation, right?" said Tina. "The anticipation is always better than the reality."

"I guess," said Wren. "But there's really no anticipation. I do not anticipate that he will fuck me someday, or at least not in any near-time, because he won't. Maybe it's the impossibility"

"Wrennie, married men have sex with other women all the time."

Does Jack? she wanted to ask Tina, but didn't.

"Not all of them do, you know that," she said instead.

"So what is it about this guy? Is it a conquest thing for you or what? Are you in love with him?"

"What? No. That's not... Seriously, I'm not interested in a monogamous relationship yet. My wandering eye has not yet completed its journey. I just find him very appealing. Maybe his being married does have something to do with it, but not because I want to fuck a married guy—I've done that plenty. It's because he is married, I think, that he doesn't treat me like he wants to fuck me. Because in his mind, it's not an option. I'm speculating, of course, but that's the way I read it. He's fifteen years older than me but he treats me like an equal. Which is more than I can say than just about every other pompous ass in that department."

"I bet he'd treat you differently if he knew he had a chance with you," said Tina.

"No," said Wren. "He does know."

"You're kidding?"

"No. I told him once. About a year ago. At some faculty thingy. He and I had been talking for almost an hour: about books, about writing, about teaching, about a bunch of stuff. I'd had a couple glasses of wine, but you know me, I'd don't need liquid courage for something like that."

"What did you say to him?" said Tina.

"We were talking about things we do in our spare time. I told him, I spend a lot of time reading, writing, cooking, going to movies, and fucking."

"Seriously?"

"Well, yeah, Tina. I mean, that's pretty much what I do."

"I know, but—"

"Look, I just told him, I have a very high sex drive, I'm not into serious relationships and the effort involved in those. I like to have my time to myself, but I'm not interested in being a nun."

"And what did he say?" said Tina.

"That he thought that was a pretty healthy attitude. He said he believed that most people get married too young and miss out on the opportunity to meet a variety of others and have different experiences. That a person's twenties should be a time of experimentation. It makes them better partners in the long run, when they finally get around to mating up. Not that I needed his validation, of course."

"But you didn't come out and say, 'And I would love to have sex with you sometime.'"

"No," said Wren. "I thought about it, but right then it didn't seem appropriate. He sort of defused things with that response. I was flirting, but it definitely seemed to me that he wasn't flirting back necessarily. I didn't want to make a fool of myself. Or offend him, jeez. He's the only person I like in that fucking department."

Maybe more than like, thought Wren. "Like" wasn't the right word. She couldn't characterize it as "love," she thought, though it was certainly a gradation of love, a kind of cherishing borne of their familiarity and respect, but not romantic love. Or maybe it was a precursor to romantic love; she didn't want to spend the rest of her life with him—she didn't want to spend the rest of her life with anyone right now—but when she got around to choosing someone to spend the rest of her life with, the married professor in question would certainly serve as one of her templates.

Thereby making him all the more desirable to her. While she could certainly find a particular kind of satisfaction fucking the odd handsome stranger, the barroom pickup (on rare occasions; she didn't do bars much except for the girls' night out with Tina), or the ripe, erection-happy late-teen townie like last night, there was a different kind of sensual thrill in finally bedding someone you had grown to know something about and who also knows something about you—as well as someone for whom you've had plenty of time to cultivate a long, elaborate lust. You imagine them, long and hard. You see them and feel that persistent little throb. And then when you fuck them, you look at them pounding away at you and think, "I can't believe I'm actually fucking him."

Her chin in her hand, Wren tried to focus on the composition in front of her, her notes already filling most of the margins, now having to flip the page over and write on the back. And this was one of her better students. Still, her attention was unraveling with the thought of Mark just down the hall—his name was Mark—and she decided to make her presence known.

She made as much noise as possible before heading down the hall: picking up her knapsack and dropping it back down on the floor, firmly pulling shut the window behind her desk. She didn't want him to be caught completely unawares when she appeared in his doorway and scare the shit out of him. Although the thought of walking in on him jerking off or something did strike her as delightful—she understood how the Internet has occasioned a steep rise in office masturbation.

He was in a most uncompromising position, same as hers, actually: chin in one hand, pen in the other, having a staring contest with a stack of papers. He was flanked on either side by more stacks of books and papers. His laptop was open on his desk's secretary, next to a couple small framed photographs she knew to be his wife and his mostly grown children from a previous marriage. The office smelled faintly of coffee, library books, the mild October air.

He looked up and smiled when she stuck her head in the door. She tapped on it anyway.

"Are you decent, Professor Park?" she said.

"To a fault, Ms. Vane."

I'm not going to touch that one, she thought. He sat back in his chair—a beckoning gesture—so she stepped in and dropped casually into the chair across from him, slouched.

"What brings you here on a Saturday?" he asked.

"Freshmen," she said. "The insatiable needs of freshmen."

"Surely you're equal to that."

"We'll never know, will we?" she said. "I can only look. Not allowed to touch."

"Perhaps you can touch them intellectually," said Mark. "That's what we're here for, after all."

"Yes," she sighed and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "Intellectually."

"You know what I've noticed?" he said. "I've noticed that every time you and I have a private conversation anymore, your half of the exchange is full of suggestiveness and double-entendre."

"Yes, you're right," she said, looking at him evenly. "And you don't how difficult that is for me. I'm not one for beating around the bush. Though I do understand that being direct is not always the best approach."

"Maybe you should try it anyway. Clear the air."

"I've thought about it," said Wren. "But I'm fearful that it'll just make for a very short conversation. And I wouldn't like that. I like conversing with you. After all, it's all we have."