Closed-Door Prose is a sex-positive feminist erotica column. You may not wish to read it at work!
Take off your skirt, demanded the voice she invented. The voice was low. She didn’t have to decide whether it was male or female. Perhaps it was the voice of someone who had decided not to decide. Someone whose pronouns were female but who bound her breasts and could make her hands act like every other body part that God ever invented, someone who just wanted to do to Beryl what Beryl wanted done to Beryl.
Beryl took off her skirt.
Throw it over that hill, the voice said. The voice’s name was—she thought for a moment—Kent. Like Super-Man, but she/her/hers, with her breasts bound. Yes—both! No need to choose. I want to act like I’ve never seen that skirt. I want to believe that you came to me with your legs exposed. You came to me needing me to touch your legs.
Some people were able to channel their creativity into paintings, novels, musical scores. Things that could be shared. Beryl’s creativity was strictly private: Bring desire alive in her own mind, give herself exactly what she wanted. Hold herself in the high tower of her mind without missing out on anything.
“I need you to touch my legs,” Beryl said. She really spoke these words aloud. To make it seem more realistic. Her hands—white, mottled—could be Kent’s hands. Strong and soft. The hands moved up and down the outside of her thighs, up onto the knees, then down the front of the thighs, then up again along the outside, over the knees, then down the soft insides, stopping before she got too close to the center, Kent wouldn’t go so fast, Kent was respectful and knew that she liked to go slow.
Now your top, Kent said. I hate that top.
Beryl lifted the shirt up over her head. She let herself pause there. All she could see was the heather gray fabric against her face, feel a light wind on her nipples and armpits. She couldn’t see—anyone could be there with her. Kent was there. She could feel Kent’s presence. And who was to say it wasn’t so?
So she’d rather be kept in the dark, would she? Kent said. Kent made her blood multiply. She had a thousand times more blood with Kent here, and it rushed into all the places that felt so good to have Kent touch, if only Kent would.
“I need you to touch me,” Beryl said.
I’m going to do more than touch you, Kent said. I’m going to take you.
She put her hand at the edge of where her underwear touched her inner thigh. It was only her finger but it became Kent’s tongue. She would win the award for most superior imagination if only anyone else knew what it was like inside her head. Kent’s hot little wet mouth was at the mouth of Beryl’s pussy, she could literally feel its warm exhale into her. Kent paused, and then the pause had a pause in it, and that pause paused, too, till all the new blood was waiting right at the edge of the skin where Kent’s sweet wet tongue would meet it—Kent would give it to Beryl, and take Beryl away.
Robbie Freid is a writer in Virginia