Vanilla Erotica
"Rachel, You Remember," a sexy story by Leon Chase
You remember black vinyl... The T-bird's bench seat, metallic in its slickness. Fake wood on the doors, the thigh-rattling rumble of that fat 350 and, at night, a green light seeping up from the dashboard dials. The thin numerals of the speedometer, glowing with possibilities.
You remember that radio, the old pushbutton kind, stopped on some all-night psycho jazz station. Something distant, from Detroit, fading in and out through the static. The screech of saxophones, like stomped brakes.
You remember the rawness of Rachel's voice spilling into your ear in frantic, unglamorous moans. You with one hand on the wheel and the other yanking up her dress. It was a short yellow thing with black daisies. You pulled the bunched fabric up past the tops of her hips, pale as streetlights. Panties exposed and white, pulled tight across her. The tiniest dark hairs emerging at the edges. The warm places where her thighs began.
She had her fingers on your throat, the palm pressed flat and hard against the stubble of your neck, and the nails digging in just above the collarbone, pulling at your T-shirt, stretching it. The breathing got louder. Or maybe the song got quieter. You remember the way she smiled and shoved your hand down between her legs. But you edged away, teasing, let your fingers linger just before the faint rise in her underwear. Barely you brushed against it, just enough pressure to sense the soft displacement of flesh beneath. Heat rising from the spot in sudden small surges and you felt the cotton dampen. The rubber-tight muscles on the inside of her thighs contracted, and you heard a new sound rising from deep in the back of her throat--or was it from yours, maybe. So hard to tell at that moment, so blurry, and the wind so loud in the windows, the air cold on your ears.
You remember Rachel's body so hot inside you could feel it seeping out to surround your fingers, even before you touched it. Before the moment when you fumbled, one-handed, to pull the top of her panties open, the elastic band scratching tight across the back of your hand. You remember the softest part of her against your rough palm, your fingers enveloped first by the heat and then by the wet running down around them. You felt lower, slow but certain, wandering--then flicked the wheel and swerved suddenly into the next lane. The fast lane. A calculated move, or at least you like to think it was. You, staring sternly ahead, trying to fake interest in the road, as if anything could look sweeter than the sight of Rachel squirming on the dark vinyl next to you. Hips bucking now, slowly, in time to the bumps in the road.
With one hand you guided the wheel, and with the other you found the delicate flatness just above her ass, stroked it until you felt her pulling hard at the collar of your shirt. Whimpering. You thought this is the smoothest road I've ever been on. You remember the way you dragged a finger up, parting. Opening her. You found the place where the heat was and hesitated, waited until, yes, you felt the contractions sucking you inward and you indulged them for a moment, slid deep, then drifted out again. You remember listening, above the mess of the radio, waiting for the telltale change in her pitch. Your foot heavy on the gas, searching out that spot, gliding just below her swollen clit again, again, again, until all at once her hips rose and her teeth clenched tight and you rode that place, steadying yourself on the bumps, not too hard, never too hard, and you stroked her until her back went rigid and her hand tightened across your throat and you felt the slice of a fingernail digging quick and deep into the soft skin below your Adam's apple. You thought you felt blood but you didn't stop, even with the pavement a faraway headlight ghost, even when she clenched tighter and you knew then that she was ripping into you, bleeding you. Perfect red circles on a pristine white shirt. She moaned, loud and animal, the way a worked-up woman moans when she knows no one else will hear. You remember the way she shivering around your stiffened arm, the way the music buzzed out against the blown speakers, the air around your head too hot even with the wind from the window. She stiffened and screamed and clenched her hand so hard and painful against your throat that you got dizzy and swerved out of your lane onto the shoulder, then back again with a scrape of gravel and gears, not quite able to see but not stopping, racing too fast too hot too hard too fast, faster, thinking I will not stop and jamming your foot down hard, accelerating, lost in the throaty wail of the engine and Rachel's insane crying pleasure, thinking to yourself anything is worth hearing that sound. Anything.
Originally published November 2007 - "Lust"