Teddy

I met her on my way into the bathroom. She opened the door to leave in perfect time, like she knew I was coming.

“Teddy,” she said, sliding past me in the hallway. We were no longer flesh and blood and bone but metal and heat. I looked at my feet and answered with my name.

In the bathroom, I couldn’t look at myself—not without asking first—it would be too much like trying on someone else’s clothes. I belonged now to the gaze from the doorway, which was wet and heavy, like hot breath on the palm of my hand and down the insides of my thighs.

In the bathroom, I thought of the ways my body could be unwrapped; I wanted her to peel me open and wear my skin as her own. When I told her this later she laughed, a full-body activity that recalled the way infants cry. I put my tongue in the gap between her front teeth.

In the bathroom, she was everywhere: in the water running through the pipes and the warm, hungry scent from between my legs. Outside the bathroom, though, she was gone. I died a hundred deaths before my dinner companion (what was his place in this new world) passed me a note. “17 Elmer”, it said in thick blue lines.

I tiptoed to the apartment door, ensuring that the ground would not remember my feet more than her kitchen tiles and Casper mattress would. The door frame had a rusted mezuzah that rattled when I knocked.

B’Sherit.

“Hi,” she said, pulling me inside the apartment, pulling my tongue into her mouth. I licked its roof, her permanent retainer, the gap. My hands were behind my back—I was too scared to touch—but she unclasped them gently, bringing one to the empty space of her clavicle and the other to the waistband of her jeans. I tasted tears, mine. I hadn’t closed my eyes or blinked in minutes.

I unbuttoned her pants and slid my hand downwards, the shaking subsiding as instinct kicked in. Beneath the cotton and denim, her hair was neatly trimmed. I ran two fingers through it and twisted it into a tornado shape while she ran her tongue across the whole of my smile. I lightly traced my way around the wet cotton, spelling T-E-D-D-Y with the pad of my index finger. The bottom of the Y ended on her clit and it throbbed in time with mine. She mewed into my mouth and I felt it in my toes.

Her hands were in my hair. Then they were on my hips. And then they weren’t my hips at all but hers, grinding into my hand and her pussy with rhythmic force. I pushed the cotton away and finally touched the source of the wetness, both familiar and foreign on my fingers.

She suddenly pulled her lips away from mine and untangled our tongues. I stopped breathing: was it over already? I felt a rough bite on my shoulder and knew I was still alive. I still had purpose.

I pulled her down onto the fake wood that made up the living room floor, synthetic grooves etching their way into the skin of my knees. I tugged her jeans down further, taking the cotton panties with me. I wanted to dive into her; run playfully through her veins with the plasma and hormones. Instead I whispered her name onto her clit and basked in the scent of her arousal.

Without warning, she took over. In one swift motion I was on my back, the scrunchie on my left wrist also encasing my right, my light summer dress stuffed in my mouth to mute my moans. I melted into the hard floor like candle wax as my shoes and socks and lace thong were thrown across the room.

Two fingers entered my soaking pussy, grazing my g-spot as they moved in and out. A thumb circled my clit and, as pressure began to mount, a full symphony orchestra sat up straighter, their violins and oboes in ready position. She stopped, instruments down, and my legs jerked in pleasurable deprivation. She left me where I was, depositing a pool of spit into my bellybutton on her way to the bedroom. I said “Mmf”.

When she came back, she was naked save for a brown leather harness and a giant cock. I barely had time to look before she flipped me over again and pushed my ass up in the air. The bellybutton pool emptied below me, co-mingling with my wetness and sweat. She lightly tapped my begging cunt with her cock and I screamed. She laughed at the sound that came through the dress, that heave of a laugh that made my knees buckle further. Two piercing slaps came next, one after the other. My ass felt fire hot, like I had been branded.

Hadn’t I?

She moved the cock closer to me and began to enter, millimetre by millimetre. I felt pressure on my g-spot and bucked my hips back like a spooked farm animal. “Tsk tsk,” she said, or maybe she didn’t. Maybe I said it when I felt myself empty. Tsk tsk. Bad girl.

My ass was ready for her, handprints and all. My pussy ached and dripped and pleaded. My panting had soaked the makeshift gag and I was pulling in more hot spit with every breath. She moved her head closer. I could feel her devious, gap-toothed smile as she lightly ran her tongue around my pulsing asshole. She dragged her tongue with more force and used it to enter my ass, slowly at first, and then like she was trying to reach something specific that lived in the depths of my colon. Bad girl.

She took her time pulling her tongue out of me. I clenched and grunted, feeling the emotional weight of the lack of physical weight. I was right on the edge. I yelled into the dress until she finally obliged by pulling it over my head and locked arms.

“I want to hear you come,” she said. I wanted the whole neighbourhood or city or universe to hear me; to know that I was no longer human but a puddle of matter, beholden to her like tides to a moon. I whimpered my thanks as she rubbed lube across the length of her shaft.