This story can only be found bundled with the Erotic Novella “First Taste”
The editor’s life: this is the final manuscript of the night, one of a large stack of fiction submissions I’ve taken to bed to read. The last, and by far the worst. Adam is stretched out beside me, quietly reading his weekly dissident rag. For the past two hours, he’s endured my inane commentary, sighs of appreciation and snorts of disbelief, his only reaction an occasional sidelong glance of amusement or, less frequently, a peek over my shoulder to read for himself. But now, as I toss the pages aside with a groan, he lowers his magazine to make room for conversation.
“That bad, huh?”
“It isn’t even a story, just a fuck scene. Big Throbbing Cock and Tight Juicy Pussy, nothing inventive. And Oh God! this and Oh God! that, over and over. I finally had to count them, because I couldn’t believe anyone could write such lousy dialogue. Oh God!, eleven times. No one says Oh God! that much when they’re fucking, unless they suffer a deplorable lack of imagination.”
With a dramatic sigh, I shove the litter of papers off the bed and snuggle under the blankets to wait for him.
He tsks in my direction, chiding me for my arrogance. “That’s not true. You say it pretty often.” He’s smiling, playfully, and I’m not sure whether it’s a joke or a challenge. But I am sure that he’s mistaken, and my mouth gapes in protest as he discards his magazine and turns off the bedside lamp. “I wasn’t counting,” he adds, sliding beneath the bed covers to curl his arms around me, “but I’d bet you said Oh God! a lot more than eleven times last night.”
“I most certainly did not,” I retort icily, resisting his embrace. I’m offended at the accusation and, even worse, aghast at the possibility that he might be telling the truth. I’d always imagined myself more eloquent than that, even in the throes of passion.
“Elisabeth, you say Oh God! all the time when we’re making love,” he insists, amused and undaunted by my reaction. “Why not just admit it?”
“Yeah, okay… maybe it slips out sometimes, once or twice, in the heat of the moment. But it’s just a noise, a sound effect. Oh God! Like when you stub your toe or discover you’ve bounced a check. You make it sound like I’m praying for an orgasm or something,” I complain.
“It does seem like a prayer sometimes. Especially when you’re on your knees.”
“Pffft,” I say, missing the point of his humor. “I’m an atheist. I don’t do that.”
I consider the matter closed, and assume I’ve made whatever point I intended. Ready to forgive his minor transgression, I shift in bed and begin to move closer, but he’s not finished yet. He’s still having a laugh, too loudly, at my expense.
“I’m an atheist, too,” he reminds me, “but I never say Oh God! And, definitely, never during sex.”
This may be true, because I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say it. But there’s no way I’ll admit that now. “Of course you do,” I say, frustrated. “Even if you don’t realize, it just pops out. The God blurt.”
He’s too confident, and I’m not. And there’s some quirk of my personality that gets the best of me in situations like this. I never know when to shut up, even when I might be wrong.
“Okay, wise ass,” I challenge. “So, what do you say when you drop something heavy on your foot?”
He ponders this for only a second, grinning at me. “Ouch,” he says, and his hand drifts over my bare thigh, settling comfortably between the argument. I pull my legs together, immobilizing his wrist, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he explores whatever he can still reach. One fingertip wiggles free to trace the satin-smooth cleft beneath his hand. I toss him a dirty look and he smiles back, unrepentant.
“You’re running late for an appointment and your car has a flat tire.”
“‘Shit.’ And I kick the tire, because that’s what real men do.” His hand is deliberate between my thighs, that roaming finger teasing the lips of my cunt, idly stroking. He finds my clit and taps it gently, as if trying to get my attention. I do my best to ignore him and resume my interrogation with prosecutorial zeal.
“You’ve overdrawn your checking account.”
“Fuck me,” he answers, his smile spreading into a sardonic grin.