Impact 18: of the Bull

For those who pay attention to such things: When Sarah is alone the story is in the past tense. When Claire and Sarah are together the story is in present tense.

Thanks to HaltWhoGoesThere for copy editing.

Impact of The Bull

Claire and I are all guilty smiles and stifled giggles as we exit the bathroom, disheveled and flush, braced for a razzing. She had been so loud, had screamed that she was cumming in my mouth. Naked at her feet, I'd moaned and licked at her cunt while she swore and cursed, and then cooed and sang. As she pulled me to my feet she told me how good I was, how much I pleased her, how much she loved me - her voice rising and falling to some unheard melody.

'What will Kip think?' I wonder as I follow Claire out the door, hiding behind her, but she stops short. I blink, looking past her.

We're alone.

Kip and the Bobs have abandoned the living room. The kitchen island is a sticky mess, littered with bottles and fruit rinds. The coffee table is a psychopharmacopeia of illicit substances. The stereo is making the quiet electric hum of nothing playing at full volume. From down the hall we can hear the men's voices, low rumbling moans and surprisingly high pitched grunts.

Claire gives me a pleading look.

"They only just started-" she says, clearly relieved when I laugh.

"We can't just-"

"Kip and Booby said we totally should..." she blurts.

"You asked them?"

"I'm... not sure how it came up," she claims guiltily.

"Claire!" I tease with mock outrage. She

smiles, she knows she's won.

Holding our sandals we creep down the hall towards the front door where our beach bags are piled to one side on the floor, and on the other is Kip's bedroom.

The bedroom door is open, but the guys are still out of sight around the corner. We can hear the voices clearer now. Kip is swearing. It's Bobby who is speaking...

"...suck that cock pig! I want you to swallow all that fucking cum!"

Holding my hand Claire leads the way. Her hand squeezes mine as she turns the corner, and pulls me forward to see.

Bobby and Robert are on the bed, Kip is standing. All day I had imagined Kip and Robert fucking Bobby - because Bobby is the youngest? Because Robert is a cop and Bobby works at a liberal nonprofit?

Whatever, that's not

at all

what's happening. The high pitch moaning is Robert, the State Trooper. He is on his hands and knees being fucked from behind by Bobby, the environmental activist, and has the journalist's cock down his throat... or at least it sounds like it is, the way he's gagging.

Mercifully, Kip is turned away from us and I can only see the side of Robert's head. But I am watching Kip's bare ass - which is thrusting viciously hard. My mouth goes wet and I swallow, not out of excitement, but with a Pavlovian response. I know exactly how it feels to be at the receiving end of that kind of throat pounding. I've given that blowjob too many times to count and can't help but feel a pang of empathy for Robert, and hope for his sake Kip is close.

"Fuck!" Bobby barks, and I look up to see he is glaring at Claire.

Bobby is furious.

I startle back in real horror, jerking at Claire's hand, but she holds me tight, pulling me to her.

"Mad-" is all I can manage to squeak, but Claire stops me, pulls me to her, brings her mouth to my ear.

"That's his fucking-face," she husks. Her whole body is radiating heat. I am looking past her at Bobby and I see it now, see the way his eyes glitter, the flush of pleasure.

"We're scaring Sarah!" Bobby laughs, he's looking at me now, eyes flashing. And as if excited by the audience, or just showing off, he starts fucking poor Robert even harder and faster. Robert's erection is long and thin, tapering to a surprisingly small head. It looks almost like a sharp horn. And because he's supporting himself on his hands, it is swinging free under his belly, bouncing to the rhythm of Bobby's pounding; faster and faster.

"Claire, I can't..."

Kip turns smiling, his body twisting with him, bringing Robert's mouth and Kip's cock into view.

"Oh my Jesus KIPPEN!" I cry involuntarily.

"You showed me yours, Sarah Beth..." Kip laughs, wagging his cock for us.

"I CANNOT!!!" I shout, trying to back up. Robert is looking at us now too, at me. Bobby seems to bury himself deep enough in his ass to make him gasp and then... laugh.

Jaws opening wide, in a monstrously big smile that looks like something out of a Miyazaki movie, Robert rears up on his knees, his long thin erection waving as if it's reaching for Kip. The small swollen head of his cock leaps and bobs spraying a jet of cum across the bed.

"ENNFUCKYES!" Robert bellows, making me jump straight up in the air.

"Ah putain!" Claire cries in delight, squeezing me tight. "J'hallucine!"

"Time to go!" I howl. But Claire is holding me in place.

"Sarah has never seen this many cocks at once," Kip laughs, stroking his cock with Robert's cum and spit, which is dripping from his fist as well as his stomach and chest.

"EEW KIPPEN! NO!!!" I scream, covering my face.

"Never mind all at once," Claire laughs. "This doubles the number of cocks my Young Sarah has seen in her entire life!"

"CLAIRE!" I cry.

They are all laughing now, I am pushing blindly backwards towards the door, my face still covered.

"...and on that note, it's time to go boys!" Claire announces. "Thank you so much for a marvelous day - and the show!"

But she's not moving. I break away, and once in the front hall, begin grabbing up our bags and towels. Overloaded, I have the door open and am struggling to get out without dropping everything. I finally have to scream to dislodge her.

"CLAIRRRR-RAHH!! NOW!!!"

She comes stumbling to my aid, flush, an expression of child-like joy on her face as she happily takes the bigger bag from me.

We manage to get an elevator without making

too

much more noise.

Besides some stifled giggles and frantic whispering we don't give Kip's neighbors anything to complain about. Claire desperately wants to discuss what we've seen as soon as the elevator doors shut, but I'm too paranoid about cameras that will record us.

"I've never seen a man cum that much-" is all she manages before I hush her. But she's right, the amount of cum Robert sprayed was incredible. More than Kwasi even - and much farther. Robert had cum all over Kip, even though he was half a bed away. If Kwasi could have cum like that he would have entirely missed Darci and sprayed me right in the face.

Clearly, I am just as impressed as Claire, but I keep all this to myself.

So, besides some back and forth hissing and giggling, we hold it together reasonably well until we get to the lobby, where the doorman insists on hailing us a cab. Holding hands, we stand on the street watching him jog down the block to hail a cab there, the two of us with all our things, no doubt looking silly in our cocktail dresses and sun hats. Claire's hand is cool in mine, and for a time she is too lost in her own thoughts to pester me.

I am struck by the sweetness of it, or that it

should

be sweet. There's nothing extraordinary about two girlfriends holding hands after all. But I'm not just a girlfriend, I am her baby and her whore. I am the one who kneels at Claire's feet and licks her cunt. I can still taste her cum on my tongue. Holding my free hand over my mouth and nose, taking a furtive sniff of my breath, wondering if it smells like pussy.

Guiltily, I drop my hand. Clare is oblivious to my inner turmoil. She intertwines her fingers with mine. We are broadcasting our relationship to the world. Not just that we are holding hands, it's the way we're standing - so close, turned towards each other, our breasts touching, her fingers playing absentmindedly with mine - as sweet as it is, even this feels transgressive. Of all our public displays of affection - the nudity and kissing, the lotion... and eating her out with Kip and his friends just outside the door - this one is so modest and chaste. But still, holding hands on the street makes me feel vulnerable, afraid even. Will I always feel this way?

'What does

always

even mean?' I wonder.

"What type of women do that?" Kip had asked me.

Looking over at her, she has an almost beatific look on her face - spoiled only by the decidedly non-angelic curls at the corners of her mouth. She notices me looking at her and turns to bring her mouth closer to my ear, pulls my hand down to bring my ear closer to her mouth.

"Tonight," she whispers, "I

am

going to fuck you like a girl."

My whole body thrills at this promise like a struck bell.

No part of me thinks Claire is going to fall asleep on the way home tonight. Her eyes glitter with unnatural energy, and behind that flashing drug-induced mania, a dark feral excitement. This isn't an idle threat. I see her dripping wet hand disappearing into me, my labia swollen and shining, her wrist coated in a froth of my cum.

The image makes my skin prickle with heat and my mouth fills with cool watery saliva - this is no conditioned reflex, this is excitement, my body opening to Claire. I am wet from head to toe for her. The visceral, almost hallucinatory, image of her fist pumping inside me is interrupted by the doorman's voice.

"Ladies!" he calls as he approaches us from the curb where a cab waits, door and trunk open.

He gathers up our things and loads them into the trunk. He smiles approvingly as Claire tosses our hats and towels in after our bags, and comes around to hold the door for us as we climb in. I thank him and hand him a tip while Claire gives the driver her address, the two of us dropping back against the seat together as the door closes.

The cab rounds the block onto Broadway and as we merge into the light traffic heading downtown I expect Claire to lean in and start whispering about what she's going to do to me, or maybe about the guys, or how I looked on the beach, but instead she wordlessly slides her arm behind me, circling my waist and pulling me forward, pressing us together. Her free hand takes me by the shoulder, twisting me further. I can feel the little cocktail dress riding up, the vinyl seat dragging against the side of my bare thigh. I throw my leg over hers. My hem is pulled tight, up over my ass, sliding up above my panties, which are stretching across my cheeks. Our breasts are mashed together, separated only by the silky lamina of our dresses.

She studies me, cheeks flush, lips wet and parted. Her kisses start slow, a peck on my lips and then another, longer. I am breathing hard, my mouth open - my heart is pounding from our hasty exit or maybe the drugs, or maybe just Claire looking at me this way in silence, holding me like this - pulling and twisting me, arranging my limbs. Her touch is gentle and liquid. She has all the strength of the tide.

Claire touches her lips to mine, a soft but inevitable forward momentum. Her lips slowly crushing mine, she pushes her tongue into my open mouth and I moan; overpowered. Her hand is pushing between my spreading thighs and I am ready for her to fuck me like a girl right here on the backseat. My whole world is the touch of her fingertips through the gauze of my panties until we are violently jerked forward to the scream of brakes.

The back of my head slams the cab's thick plexiglass divider with a sharp crack, and Claire's cheekbone bounces off mine like a fist. Tires screech as the cab fishtails and skids to a juddering stop. Horns blast and the headlights of an oncoming truck blind me as it stops just short of t-boning Claire's door.

As I drop back onto the seat I see the shocked look in the driver's eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. He lets go of the brake and cautiously eases the miraculously unscratched cab through the snarl of our near-accident.

He had run a red light, driven the cab straight into oncoming traffic crossing on Canal. Angry voices curse him and shocked faces look back at us from all around, but he doesn't shout anything back. He is stiff backed, eyes forward, as are we. Chastened, we move slowly down an otherwise empty Broadway before finally picking up speed again.

Too shocked by the near-disaster to even express relief, Claire, the driver, and I complete the ride together in a stunned silence, all of us watching the road ahead.

Claire is touching the spot on her cheekbone where it hit mine. I'm tugging at my dress, trying to cover my thighs with shaking hands, but my drug-fueled imagination is turning against me. I

see,

in gruesome detail, the truck smashing into the cab and tearing Claire and I into bloody bits. I

see

pale disembodied limbs flying through the air, a bare leg bouncing off a street light, an arm rolling to a stop on the pavement. I

see

the cab, an airborne wreck, our bashed in heads painting shattered windows with gory lumps of brains.

Unblinking, I pay the fare and we all exit the cab without saying a word. Walking to the back of the cab, the driver seems as dazed and embarrassed as us, avoiding our eyes as he unloads our things onto the curb. Neither of us move to gather our things until the cab disappears into the night. My ears are still ringing from the horns. I touch the back of my head, wondering if there will be a lump. It's only then that we turn to look at each other. Claire makes a comic grimace.

"No more kissing in cabs I think."

I snort in agreement.

My legs are still rubbery with fear, as we gather our things again and head in.

The ground floor of Claire's building is occupied by the storefront for a hipster Detroit watch brand and an architect's office. The entrance we take to reach the lofts above is off to one side. There is an elevator, a giant industrial thing with a cage instead of being an enclosed box and a gate that has to be pulled shut manually, but because the floor Claire lives on had been divided into two lofts, the only way up to her place was the stairs.

The stairs are evidently typical for the nineteenth century cast-iron industrial buildings downtown - which is to say, not at all typical of any building I'd ever been in before meeting Claire, residential or otherwise. Running straight up the side of the building, they are massive compared to normal stairwells. More than double-wide with very high ceilings and no switch-backs, just a straight even climb up through the building. Punctuated only by big landings at each floor, there is something alpine about them.

Whenever I make the climb to her door, I usually imagine men in leather aprons, garters on their sleeves and handlebar mustaches moving heavy wood toolboxes and raw materials up and down the massive sloped corridor. A painted over plaque with raised letters, to one side of the entrance, says the building was originally a coachworks. Claire has told me that the upper stories were manufacturing, and that the ground floor would have been a showroom, that before it was converted into artists lofts in the seventies, all kinds of things had been made here.

Tonight the alpine slope of the steps feels especially daunting. We are drunk and high and stoned and Claire's handsy mania in the cab has turned warm and soft and maybe apologetic, but still very clingy.

Perhaps primed by the near disaster in the cab, rather than imagining men in leather aprons, my mind's eye is showing me, in gruesome detail, the two of us tumbling backwards, crashing and rolling unimpeded down the long slope of the stairs. Again the images of gruesomely broken and unnaturally bent limbs, of sharp bloody bones piercing flesh and shattered skulls - all shockingly graphic and near hallucinatory.

I try my best to stay focused on the task at hand, guiding us to my side of the steps as we climb so I can hold onto the railing. My other arm is around Claire's waist, holding her tight. Her arms encircle me lightly, her hands massaging my flank and stomach.

I just want to get up to Claire's landing without incident, but what little momentum we had at the bottom of the steps slows immediately. Claire's only priority is to maintain as much contact with my body as possible. She isn't even looking where we are going. Instead she is kissing and nibbling my ear.

The weight of our overloaded beach bags and damp towels threatens to drag me back. Claire's passion for my ear is the only thing distracting me from my gruesome visions of our inevitable death by stairwell.

Her loft is on the third floor, the only landing with two massive industrial doors instead of one giant one. I have no native fear of heights, beyond a commonsense desire not to fall off high things, but my fear soaked imagination is cruel. I am deeply relieved to move away from the steps.

I guide Claire, who is exploring the depths of my ear canal with her tongue, towards her door where she drops her things and turns to me. I'm still breathing hard, and blink in confusion as she takes my bags from me, drops them and my towel and hat in a pile with hers and backs me against her door.

"I am going to fuck you like a girl," she tells me again. But this time her voice is clear and low - not at all quiet. She makes no move to open the door.

'Claire gets what she wants...' I think - a bloom of heat rising through me, making me flush.

I've run into the couple who live in the loft behind Claire a couple of times. They rent from Claire's stepfather, who owns the whole floor. He divided it, Claire has explained, in order to create a "pied-à-terre" for himself, while still having a rental property to cover the taxes and maintenance fees. The tenants are in their fifties and friendly, but keep to themselves. Claire says they sometimes have dinner parties, but I've never seen them have guests. I often worry that they can hear Claire and I having sex, taking comfort from the fact that I've never heard any sound of any kind from their apartment.

Claire's eyes are hooded, but jumpy from the coke. Her cheeks are flush and she's breathing hard, but not from the climb. I give the neighbors' door another nervous glance, they could easily see us through their peephole.

I think of what Claire told me in Kip's bathroom.

"I love looking down on your ass when you kneel for me, your narrow waist, the flair of your hips..." she had told me as she pulled me up off my knees. I was still weak from my orgasm, my face wet with her cum. Her orgasm had been powerful. She'd seemed as dazed as me, but she wanted me standing right away, to kiss, to taste me.

"But it's even sexier when you're naked and I'm not," she admitted. My tired mouth was slack and passive. My tongue ached as she kissed my parted lips over and over, tasting herself from my open mouth and licking her cum off my chin with her tongue. "It's like you're even

more

naked for me," she had whispered.

My hands are shaking as I put my thumbs under the straps of the dress and make a show of pulling them off my shoulders and down my arms, peeling the silk down over my breasts, exposing myself to her, to whoever might be watching, whoever might stumble on us.

"They have been so hard all day," she wonders, looking at my nipples.

"Whose fault is that?" I murmur, lowering the little dress to my waist, pushing and shimmying it down my hips, letting her see my sun kissed belly, the smooth pale skin of my mons. "You wouldn't stop playing with them..."

"Lotion is not a game, Sarah," she says with mock seriousness, but her focus shifts to her fingertips, touching my nipples. I've distracted her from the teasing.

"You like your bathing suit," she smiles, not looking up.

"I do," I admit. "A lot..."

She's looking at my body, my breasts, the soft oval of my belly, pleased with me as I push the little dress and my panties off my hips and down my thighs, letting them fall to the floor.