May 2022

by Ralph Benton

 

Gemma and I met in the fall of '88, my junior year at Tech, at a party where my buddy's girlfriend brought a friend. She had this smoky way of looking at you that turned your ankles to water. Funny thing is she always swore she had no idea what I was talking about when I asked her how she did it.

I don't know. Women are so complicated, everything they do has three or four meanings and intentions, only half of which they even know about themselves.

We tried to do the boyfriend girlfriend thing, but it was weird and awkward. I took her for burgers and Molly Hatchet concerts. She had been vegetarian for two years and took me to feminist lectures at the University Center.

The sex was amazing. It was like our minds were on different planets, but our bodies demanded we be together. I suppose we took out the frustrations of not connecting on each other's flesh.

She bit my bicep deep enough to leave full upper and lower bruises, and so I slapped her face hard enough to leave it warm and pink. She left dozens of bloody fingernail half-moons all over my back as I stretched and twisted her nipple more than all the way around. She spit in my face, and I choked her until her eyes rolled back. One night I took her anal cherry as the Best of Johnny Cash spun on my RCA turntable.

In the daylight she refused to discuss what we had done the night before, as if that was some person she didn't know. That she didn't want to know. I always thought that was kinda sad.

We were doomed from the start. Hell, I would've gone to a poetry slam every night for that kind of sex but if course she wanted more. She broke it off the Wednesday I picked her up and said we were going to a George Thorogood show. She missed out. It was a great show, and I went home alone.

Spring semester we'd see each other sometimes around campus. Say hi, nice enough, but nothing else. She hooked up with a guy named Phil, someone she knew from high school. Quiet guy, never had much to say, a literal wallflower at parties.

One warm Friday in May I’m in the kitchen at somebody’s house, maybe fifty people drinking, listening to music, smoking weed out back. Gemma and Phil walk in. I wave she waves, Phil doesn't do nothing. It's college, it's fine. She's wearing sandals, a denim skirt, and a tank top, nothing slutty. That's never been her thing, as I'm sure you could figure.

After a couple of beers I see them talking with some pressed jeans people, she's got her arm around his waist, like she's in charge. Maybe she likes it that way, whatever.

Later I head upstairs, looking for an empty bathroom. The door opens and out pops Gemma. I say, I don't know why, maybe something in her look, I say, "Hang on a sec, ok?" She doesn't say yes doesn't say no but she does stop walking. When I finish my business and open the door she's still there. I know, and she knows that I know, and I know that she knows that I know.

I open the door next to the bathroom and find a bedroom, a girl’s room by the look of it, a million Polaroids all over the walls, mirrors everywhere, a white desk and a white chair in the corner, and enough pillows to cushion a meteorite.

She walks into the room, I shut the door. She says, "Billy." I say, "Gemma." I reach out and grip the back of her neck, under her hair. She doesn't flinch, just stares at me with a saucy smile. I push her down to her knees, and she doesn't resist. I unzip my fly and she goes to work. Jesus she's good.

I taught her how to give good head, which in my book means face fucking. And not just willing to be face fucked, but eager, wanting it. Tonight she’s not eager, she’s voracious. In just a few strokes I'm going full length, hitting the back of her throat and beyond every time. She's got one hand on my thigh, and the other up under her tank top. She’s plunging into the experience, into the moment. I let out a wavering moan, and she settles right in.

The door clicks open, and Phil walks in. He looks confused, not angry. I don't miss a stroke and tell him, "Go sit in the chair, now." And he does. Later I knew why he did, but I still don’t know how I knew to say that. Maybe I was channeling some part of her.

Gemma doesn’t let up, except to put my hand on the back of her head. Don't have to tell me twice, and we double down. Then I get an idea, an idea that Phil might like, too. I’m sure Gemma will.

I stop with an inch of cock in her mouth. "Look at me," She looks up. "Tell me you love me." "Ah wuv oo." I press deeper, my cock half-in, half-out. "I said, tell me you love me." "Aah ugg uu." Is that a sigh from Phil? I inch the last inch down her throat and she's still gazing up at me. "Tell me you love me, goddamn it!" "Urg uhhu." The best part is she's smiling. Well, as best she can.

Now she's got a hand up under her skirt, her arm practically vibrating as she works on her pussy. Time to fuck. I pull her up and spin her around, then push her onto the bed, knees and elbows. I smack her thighs open, and she reaches back to pull up her skirt. All while facing Phil, mind you. She doesn't seem to see him, but he is locked on her.

I yank her panties to one side, point my cock at her hole, grab her hips, and shove. She squeals as the whole length drives in on the first thrust. She's dripping wet and I feel as long and hard as a baseball bat. We start to pound. Grunting and gasping with every thrust, moaning and drooling. I reached up under and snag a tit. She pulls my hand away like she doesn't want that, which would be strange, she always loved it before, and sure enough she sucks three fingers into her mouth. She fucks her mouth with my fingers and gets them all wet before she puts my hand back at her nipple.

"I can feel your balls, baby," she cries out as they bounce against her wet and swollen cunt. She reaches back to fondle them.

Phil takes this declaration without a word, not even blinking. Doesn't touch himself, doesn't move. I don't think he's even got a hard-on.

Gemma's going wild. After awhile I'm not even moving, she's bouncing back and forth, fucking herself on my cock. Somehow we both pull back at the same time and my dick slips out. You know how that goes. She frantically tries to stuff me back inside her, but I spy fresh prey.

Her pretty little butthole is open, maybe a half inch. Sure seems like an invitation to me. "Time for a little Orange Blossom Special, eh, baby?" and I lodge the head of my dick in her ass.

"Gah!" she explodes. "Fuck you, you loser piece of shit!" but she doesn't move away. I grab a handful of hair at the base of her skull, just to let her know I care, and push her face into the lilac paisley bedspread. I start to move. She reaches back with both hands and spreads her ass cheeks to open herself. I give another little shove that makes her grunt, and she spreads herself wider. I pull back on her hair and push into her hips, and I'm all the way in. I let it sit in there, twitching. The urge to thrust is close to overwhelming.

She says something, low and guttural.

"What was that, Gemma?" I ask. I pulse my cock, twice.

"Fuck me," she grunts.

"What did you say, dear?" I start tiny little strokes, less than an inch. "What do you want?" I looked over at Phil and grin, like can you believe this crazy bitch? He doesn't respond, his eyes are wide, unblinking, and his mouth is open a little. At least he’s not drooling, that would really kill the mood.

"Fuck me in my fucking ASS," she demands, in a voice I've never heard from a girl before or since. "I want to feel it in my fucking belly, you fucking asshole!"

Who am I to disappoint a lady? I pull out till just the tip nestles in her sphincter, then let go all restraint. She actually screams, in some mix of pleasure and pain I can't fathom, and away we go.

I've never seen so much froth and sweat. Her ass is as slippery as any cunt I've ever fucked. Her face is buried in the quilt, and both hands between her legs. I look down and see her fingers scrabbling all over her hole, pinching fingering rubbing stretching - - - this is it.

"I'm gonna come, you fucking slut, I'm gonna fucking fill you, bitch!" This one's gonna be huge, I can feel it building from my toes. Gemma must feel it, too.

Quick as a flash she spins around. All I see is a wide-open mouth and a long pink tongue as she grabs my butt with both hands and drives my cock all the way down her throat until her nose mushes against my belly.

I spasm two three four times. Maybe five I don't know, I'm lost, groaning, gasping, twitching, holding her head while I nut straight down into her stomach. She holds herself clenched tight to me and I hear the gulping and swallowing noises, feel her mouth and throat squeezing me dry.

After a moment that lasts forever and not nearly long enough she pulls back, finally letting herself choke and gag and pull desperate breaths into her lungs. We stay that way for a minute or two, my dick lolling around her face. Then she takes a full deep breath. She wipes her face on the paisley bedspread.

She eyes my dick, now shiny, shrunken and droopy, and gives herself a quick nod, an atta girl, Gemma.

She probably had me finish that way not for my benefit but for hers, so she didn’t have a mess to deal with later on. Women can be so practical about these things.

She stands up, reaching under her skirt to adjust her underwear. I tuck myself back in my jeans as she tugs her bra and tank top into place. She pulls a tissue out of her purse to blot up some of the spit stains, but she’s not too concerned.

She says, "Good to see you, Billy." "Good to see you, Gemma. Maybe I'll see you around sometime." She smiles, neither yes nor no, but a real smile. Without looking or speaking she holds out her hand to Phil. He stands and they walk out.

I stuck around the party for a while and saw the two of them in the same spot, talking to the same Future Farmers of America. Her arm around his waist again. Either I left first or they did, but we didn't say goodbye.

I never saw Gemma again. My buddy's girlfriend, now his fiancé, told me that she left school that summer and married Phil. They moved to Odessa so he could work at his dad's oil supply business while she raised a couple of kids. Last I heard she got divorced and moved to Dallas, or maybe Denver. Someplace with more tempeh, I guess.

Did she know he would come to the room that night? Did she plan the whole thing? Who knows. Did they ever talk about it? I'm sure not.

I ended up as a high school teacher, of all things. Turns out I've got a knack for reaching those knucklehead kids. I married a Home Ec teacher who taught me to enjoy meatless meals, but we never did have any kids ourselves. We split up a few years ago. More boredom than anything else, I suppose.

I've never been much for Facebook and that kind of stuff. Seems kind of narcissistic, but that probably says more about me than I care to admit. But I'm gonna make a profile and see if I can find Gemma. I think she might remember me. Maybe we could get together for a veggie burger or something.