Typical Slut: The Shack

They are my hands. Or, his hands. Or, my hands. His...we are messy at the bar and leave in a stumble. I feel windswept on sex. His hands are on my body, my hands...his hands. I lean on him, into the crisp night air. My mouth’s whiskey-pink. Crisp air—the taste.

I taste the night. His eyes are darkness.

"I wanna show you The Shack," he says and leads me with his eyes down towards Going Street. I follow, hungry. It is harvest time and the sky’s smoky breath clings to us with the resolve of embers burning, remembering, burning...

The yellowy maples are like a holy crown for the stars.

The summer’s done. And, I am drunk. Stompin’ in my stompin’ boots.

Leaves crunch under my feet. Fuck-me boots. Stompin’ boots. The heels, like spears, pierce hearts. My feet, the destroyers...crushing souls. Midnight leaves.

It is dark and nighttime and I always feel slutty when it’s dark. I always feel alive and sexy—ready, when it’s dark. My soul is tempered and my pussy pounds. Nighttime is for hunting.

And, I found him...

I stride in the garden, with his hands under my skirt, fingers caressing. And, in the dark garden, I look up to the full moon. We are lit, like actors on a stage—the theater of the stars!

He motions beyond me, to his old home— the one he mentioned at the bar. The Shack stands at the back of the garden, far beyond the ears of corn (that stand taller than me), beyond the artichoke plants and rows of drying beans, the paths of irrepressible mint and lemon balm and beyond the late-fall Russian kale, spindly and gone to seed, with its dark, frilly, violet leaves...

The tiny flowers.

Nasturtiums climb and each flower is like an open pussy—a moon for the moonflower. God, I love nighttime sex and nighttime love and the velvetness of everything. And, I smell rosemary on the wind, when I’m here. I taste the night under drying sunflowers; their massive heads bow to the dirt. I know the love and contemplation that goes into a place like this. The work, the sweat...gardening hands.

I imagine him, when he lived in The Shack. His delicate but strong hands dug and seeded and weeded. He wore Levis, played records, made beans and rice. Planted seeds, so many seeds. He washed the dishes, both at home and at work. I think of his life before me— before tonight. I look at his clapboarded past— I think of my life. My head spins...

And? His hands are upon me again. His hands, my hands. In the blooms, I acquiesce. At first I suck him. On my knees, I kneel below him and the constellations. I suck him, because I have to taste the universe. Holding his hips and rocking him into me, gripping his backside and pulling him all the way down...my throat opens.

But, he needs me, he needs me so bad he can’t take it, he can’t wait, and he pushes me down by the lavender bush. And? I laugh. I’m dirty now. Yes, a dirty girl in the beautiful garden under the lull of the full harvest moon, full of sweet cock. The taste still on my lips...

I’m on my hands and knees, rocking, rocking him. Rocking him after the punk rock show, after the whiskey shots, after the shit talk and the sweet talk. All of it. I’m on my knees and feeling it. Feeling so good. Feeling so full.

The full moon intoxicates my skin, and light reflects and resounds within me. Waves of energy move through me as he fucks me and I am absorbing all the moonlight—taking all of his cock. Taking all the moonlight, too. The shine of the stars...

And when I cum, my voice makes the stars fall. Or I am just so dizzy the stars fall from pleasure. I cannot take anymore and I bite down, my mouth had cried out so! And, when I bite down, strands of lavender enter my mouth. My mouth is full of the astringent, potent herb: lavender flowers. The luxurious bridle of lavender is in my mouth and I feel like I am a beast, riding the stars, and he continues to fuck me, ride me. And, I open, needing even more.

Biting on the lavender, the stems are in my mouth. I look to the sky, moon, moon, moon: full. Oh-so-full. And the shudders of my body move me beyond, even further. Further.

...fuck, that felt good.

And so we walk—real drunk now. I lost my panties. The breeze caresses my wet innerthighs, and under the overgrown ivy, I squat to piss.

The liquid clears me, steamy. My clit still pulsates from pleasure. Splashed and cleansed, I am made new again. As I stand, he moves up against me from behind, and his hand reaches down—I can feel his cock’s hard warmth through the half-buttoned denim, he bends down and licks and licks and...

Soon, I am on my knees again.