Shall I Eat You Nikita Mirzani 3

She couldn’t feel him then. But the thick K-Y Jelly provided some traction and he did just fine. She didn’t like how she looked anymore, either. Her breasts and waist were not bad, maybe better than that, if you ignored the yearning her breasts seemed to have developed for her waist.

But tiny, bright-red raised spots had appeared here and there on her torso—she recalled her father had had them in old age. And her ass and thighs were bony, the flesh hanging a little. And while her pubic hair was still blondish brown, you could see the skin beneath. Where was that thick bush of yesteryear?

He moved in next to her under the duvet. It was winter and, mercifully, the whole episode might take place under cover. Although once she got into it, she got into it, and also she kept her eyes and her critical faculties shut, at least mostly.

She moved into a spoon position with her back up against his chest and her ass against his penis. She felt him grow hard. He tried to turn her toward him and she resisted for a moment, then yielded. “Talk to me,” she said. “Tell me something intimate.”

He laughed. “You first.”

She said, “I’m afraid I’ll die without ever making another movie I’m proud of.” After being a social worker for years, in an act of bravery or foolishness, she had trained as a documentary filmmaker. But she had trouble raising money—her first husband had underwritten her two best films—and since he died, she’d shot mostly commercials.

Xander said, “I have three faculty members coming up for tenure and I have to read their books. And I’ve put it off and off.”

“That’s not intimate. That’s something you’d tell anyone. Tell me something you’d tell only me, your wife.”

“You want me to share some misery with you. I don’t have any. I’m a contented man. I love my work.” He paused. “And I love my wife.”

She kissed him hard. He began rubbing her nipples. “Not like that, sweetie. You’re doing it mechanically. Pull on them. Bite them a little. Pay some concentrated attention.”

He obliged. She lay back and after a moment felt the sensations start high up, way back in her vagina. Higher. What was higher than that? The cervix, the uterus—her first husband, a doctor, had drawn her diagrams she vaguely remembered. The cunt.

Too soon he said, “Shall I eat you?”

“Not yet. Don’t stop doing what you’re doing.”

“I can do both at the same time.”

“Always multitasking, aren’t you.”

He grinned and took a pillow from the bed and laid it on the floor, then went down on his knees on the pillow and she moved to the edge of the bed and opened her legs wide. She ran her hands through his hair that was still sticking up. He needed a haircut.

He often needed a haircut and a beard trim—he let white stubble grow on his cheeks sometimes for days, and on his neck; he just didn’t notice. Evidently nobody else noticed, either, at least no one commented to him about it, but it offended her aesthetic sensibilities. And in bed it scratched her face, and occasionally the skin on the inside of her thighs.

She would sometimes shave him herself, although she wasn’t into cutting his hair. Now he opened the tube of K-Y Jelly and smeared some on her nipples, then pulled at them while he ran his tongue over her clitoris.

She found herself thinking about her strawberry-blond-haired granddaughter, Jeanine, age four, who had smeared bright-orange finger paints all over her legs and face, laughing delightedly. She had smeared them on her grandma as well, and they ended up taking a bubble bath together in the master bathroom.

Would it be more difficult to see her granddaughter, now that her son was getting divorced? Not if Billy got joint custody or at least decent visiting rights—he might even bring Jeanine around more, for what was a single man to do by himself with a small child?

Well, she supposed these were unliberated thoughts as well, for there were many men now who helped bring up the children. Her deceased husband, Zack, had been pretty good with Billy, even sewing up rips in his clothes, although Zack had been the busiest of orthopedic surgeons.

How witty and playful he was, once painting flowers on her ass in bed; another time he had constructed a man with a fuse box for a chest and a papier-mâché face and put pajamas on him and had the creature waiting under the covers for her when she came in expecting to make love.

Now she thought she couldn’t let herself think about Zack. She’d get sad and wonder why she had to be with Xander instead of with Zack, why did Zack have to have a heart attack at fifty-two and die?

Lean and light-boned Zack, who’d run six marathons, pale skin shiny with suntan lotion, bush of black hair sweat-slicked to his scalp. She could still see him in his signature red shorts and black T-shirt reaching out to take the paper cup of water someone offered him, barely breaking his stride.

Death had come out of nowhere. Zack was playing a fathers-and-grown-up-sons ball game with Billy, Billy who had the same fair, eager-to-burn skin, the same perspicacious hazel eyes.