Delicious
by Chip Friday
Once the rest of the students had packed their things and left the room, the sylph asked for extra help with a story she was writing. We walked to my office, about 20 feet from the classroom and at the end of the hall. It was to be our first conference. I’d sensed the girl was a little libertine, and so I was just as excited as she was about our meeting.
“What would you think,” I asked her as we stepped into my office, “if I told you I was thinking of changing my name, that I want to make my first name and surname identical, one to the other? How would that feel in the mouth?”
She’d taken workshops with me before, so she was used to my carefree approach to conversation.
“What did you have in mind?” she asked, sitting down and crossing her sandaled feet at the ankles. I sat in my recliner and flung my feet up on the desk.
“Something with alliteration, with lots of el and sh sounds.”
“Chanel Chanel,” she offered. She kept her eyebrows raised, waiting for my approval.
“Delicious. I wish I could manipulate words after I utter them. For example, I wish I could make them do physical things—like, say a word and then make it press upon the other’s tongue, and I’d like to feel what the word feels when it does this, as though I’d taken my own finger and pressed upon the tongue, all wet and warm and tender.” I took my feet off the desk and leaned toward her, my chin cupped in my hands, my elbows now on the desk.
“Like a tongue depressor!”
“Yes, but maybe she could collapse her lips around it like one does at the dentist’s when they put that suction tube in your mouth, how the lips collapse and a little drool seeps from the corners of the mouth. So intimate, yes?”
“Here’s a better one,” she said, warming to her libertinage. Sitting very erect on the edge of her chair and leaning toward me slightly she continued: “After a rectal exam, when the doctor withdraws her finger and you feel the jelly on your rectum when you climb down from the exam table, and you’re disappointed the doctor has left you alone to wipe—you want her to watch. Better yet, you want her to watch while she pretends not to watch.”
I sat back and put my hands together with only the fingertips touching.
“What about the exam room?” I asked. “Warm, or cold.”
“Cold. You want to feel the cold air on your bare skin because it reminds you that you’re naked.”
“This is good.”
It was a gorgeous afternoon outside and the sunlight was a quiet gold on the wood paneling of my office. I could hear the air conditioning blowing from the ceiling vents and as it blew it lifted, over and over again, the nymphet’s hair away from her head like the bacterial flagella I’d once seen in a high school biology lab.
“I have this idea about you,” I said, wanting to get her to open up a little. “You have hardwood floors at home and you walk on them barefoot all summer, and when you walk you walk hard, you thump, you charge from one room to the other, heels first. And you have cats, and by the end of the day the soles of your feet are black and you have a cat hair or two between your toes. Yes?”
She looked down at her feet; she arched her left foot, pointing the toes. “No. Dogs. What are your floors like, Chanel Chanel?”
“Hardwood. I like the creaking sound—it reminds me of literature. And I have rugs all over the house, the kind kids nap on in elementary school, the kind you always picture when someone says ‘magic carpet ride’.”
She smiled sweetly, and just at that moment I decided I wanted to live forever, or for as long as women are beautiful.
“Can I put my finger in your mouth?” I asked. “And press your tongue?” I leaned forward and gave her what I thought to be a supplicating look - all innocence and summer.
“Okay.” She looked nervous, but not enough to make me nervous.
“But I want you to resist with your lips - make me force my finger through your closed lips. But if I have too much trouble, let me through.”
“How do you want to do this?”
“Here, let’s clear off that bookshelf on the wall and you can lie in there on your side, facing out. Lie like you’re sleeping, with your hands tucked under your chin.”
Neither of us spoke while we transferred the books to my desk. When we finished with the books, she stood in front of the appointed shelf and looked over her shoulder at me.
“Can you help me up,” she said, kicking off her sandals.
“Sure.” I walked toward her until my belly was flush with her back. “I like the word ‘belly’,” I said. “It feels so full and lush in the mouth. Try it.”
“Belly,” she said, giggling. I hooked my chin over her shoulder and put my face in her neck. She was stiff like a statue. Her body odor was ever so slight, and sweet.
“Delicious,” I said.
“Delicious,” she said.
“Girlish,” I said.
“Girlish,” she said.
My belly was so firm against her back; my face was so firm against her neck.
“Digital,” I said.
“Digital,” she said.
“Can you shit standing up?” I asked.
“Not with my legs so close together. I’d have to spread my legs apart.”
“Here, I’ll lift you by the waist.”
I put my hands around her waist and lifted her. Using her hands, she crawled into the shelf and assumed the fetal position. She adjusted her long black hair so that it was in front of her shoulders. I took her wrists and tucked her hands under her chin.
“Delicious,” I said.
“Delicious,” she said. “Chanel Chanel, you dork.” She smiled.
I cut off her smile by pressing against her closed lips with my index finger. She resisted until my fingernail started cutting into her skin, at which point my finger stiffly broke through her dry lips and entered the warm tenderness of her mouth. When the full length of my finger was inside her, I pressed down on her tongue, hoping to stimulate her gag reflex.
“Is gagging sexy?” I asked. “Making people gag?”
“It’s vulnerable like the rectal exam,” she mumbled, her mouth opening and her tongue pressing up against my finger. Of course, her speech was garbled. I liked it this way.
“Do mine,” I said and untucked one of her hands for her. She promptly put her finger deep in my mouth and stimulated my gag reflex. My gagging caused my mouth to open, but as soon as the dry heave passed, I collapsed my lips around her finger again.
We remained this way for several minutes, each sucking the other’s finger.
“This is nice,” I mumbled around her finger, moving closer. I put my free hand on her head and stroked her hair as though she were a child.
I took her finger from my mouth and dried it on her forehead, slowly. Then, she took my finger from her mouth and held it like a microphone. “We have to make this unweird by admitting it’s weird,” she said. “Okay?”
“Sure.”
“I see you sometimes when you get into your car after workshop. The passenger’s seat is really far back, too far for a woman. Sometimes you put boxes there. I think you’re very alone and lonely and I flirt with you because I think you need it. By the way, how’s my writing?”
“Dreadful.” I smiled, removed my finger from her fist, and put my hand to my nose so I could smell her saliva. I was a little disappointed that it smelled like everyone else’s saliva. “But your pieces are short, so that redeems you. It’s no secret I’m single, but I have women. Have had.”
“What about friends?”
“I have people I talk to regularly. People think I’m charming. In a figurative sense, I rock them back and forth.”
“Yes,” she said, “but you think you’re invisible. You’re so conspicuous.”
I put my hand on her shoulder and jostled her gently.
“I’m going to tell all my friends, Chanel Chanel,” she said, laughing.
I removed my hands from her shoulder and walked to the tall, floor-to-ceiling window. “Come here,” I said, “to the window.”
She frowned, hesitant. When I didn’t elaborate, she jumped down from the shelf and walked to where I was standing.
“Okay,” I continued, putting a hand on her shoulder to reassure her, “let’s try something. I’m going to face the window and put my palms against the glass. You’re going to come up behind me and put your belly against my back, the palms of your hands against the backs of my hands. Once we’re in this position, I’ll give further instructions.”
I turned toward the window and placed my hands flat against the glass. The glass was warm and soothing. Exhilarating. I pressed harder, trying to get as much of the warmth as possible.
She came up behind me and stood on her toes to reach my hands.
The feeling was delicious, her body and my body pressed together, her hands on my hands; it seemed for the moment that we could never be apart.
The light coming in the window was hot and my face warmed in an intense blush.
“Are you blushing?” I said.
“No.”
“There’s still time, right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Here,” I said, “put your cheek against my cheek.”
And so she did.
“Now are you blushing?” I said.
“No.”
“I want you to blush. I know that it may not happen right now, on command. But promise me that someday we’ll blush at the same time. Or that it’s likely to happen someday when we’re not trying too hard.”
“Sure.”
“I’m going to slide down the window now,” I said. “And I want you to stay with me. My hands are going to remain against the glass—keep pressing. We’re going to squeak to the floor together.”
And so we slowly slid down the glass; my skin squeaked loudly as she pressed my hands firmly against the glass. When we came to a squatting position, I stood up and she rolled forward on the balls of her feet and pressed her forehead against the window. I squatted behind her and held her around the waist, my lips against her neck.
I held her, just held her like that.
