Robin York - Deeper

I take a deep breath and let it out.

This is my family. My place.

These are my people, and this is where I belong.

If it doesn’t feel that way, I’m doing it wrong. Closing myself off. And I can’t do that, because if I lose this, who am I?

I thumb through a couple of screens on the phone and hand it back to my mom, whose expression softens at the peace offering. “The one on the right, or … ?”

“The pretty one,” I hear myself say. “Her name’s Caroline.”

What r you doing?

She texts back right away. Nothing.

What kind of nothing?

Laying on couch watching a movie.

What movie?

Breakfast Club. I’ve seen 400 Molly Ringwald movies today.

Why?

They were my mom’s. I watch them sometimes.

A pause. My dad’s at work. I’m bored. Break sucks.

Yeah.

Another pause. I’m calling you.

I’m on the couch, alone in the house. New Year’s has come and gone, and Franks is back in school. Bo’s on days again. He and Mom are both working, and the house is quiet for the first time since I got here.

I’m hard before she even picks up.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

Then silence, and she laughs this breathy sort of laugh. “This is weird.”

“Which part?”

I can imagine her biting her lip. Looking away from me.

I can imagine her throat turning red and blotchy. The way her breasts are rising with each quick intake of breath.

“You know the part of the movie where Judd Nelson is in the closet, and Molly Ringwald locks herself in there with him?” she asks.

“Which one’s Judd Nelson?”

“The guy with the long hair and the flannel shirt.”

“The bad boy.”

“Yeah. And Molly Ringwald’s the one—”

“I know who she is.”

Caroline laughs. Kind of nervous. “That part’s on right now.”

“And?”

“And that’s the best part. Molly’s got her pink silk shirt on and her hair all perfect, because she’s such a good girl, only now they’re in the closet together …”

I start to laugh, realizing where this is going. “I thought you’d be into that other guy.”

“Who? Anthony Michael Hall?”

“The wrestler one.”

“Emilio Estevez? Ew.”

“He looks like Nate, but not as blond.”

Silence for a few beats. “God. He does. You’re right.”

She sounds so horrified, I start to laugh.

“But I always liked Judd best,” she says. “Even when he spits in the air and swallows it.”

“Got kind of a bad-boy thing, don’t you?”

“No.”

I can hear the smile in her voice, though. “It’s all right. Maybe I’m into poor little rich girls.”

“Maybe you are.”

“What are you wearing, rich girl?”

She exhales a laugh again. There’s this shift I can almost feel, a click on the line, digital signals rearranging themselves from one stream to another. What are you wearing? The phone-sex starter pistol firing, and I’m on the block, ready for it. Jeans unzipped. Hand outside my briefs, because I can’t go inside until I know she’s playing along. Not this time.

“I’ve got my pink silk shirt on.” I can hear the shift in her voice, too. Saying yes.

I slip my hand inside my shorts.

“And that long, tight brown skirt,” she adds. “Brown boots.”

“You have boots?”

“Sure. Every girl in America has boots.”

A tight grip. A slow stroke. “You’ll have to wear them for me sometime.”

“Why?”

“I like boots.”

The strain. There’s nothing like it—so bad and so good. It’s in every muscle in my body.

“Oh.” The sound is a sigh.

“Hey, rich girl?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“Turn the volume off on the TV.”

I wait, working up a rhythm. The background noise fades to nothing. I can hear her breathing.

“What do you think they get up to in that closet?” I ask her. “You know, when the camera cuts away?”

There’s a pause. “I never really thought about it.”

“You wanna think about it now?”

“Maybe.”

“Where’s your hands?”

“Mmm. I’m not sure I’m saying.”

“Put one of them someplace interesting.”

She sniffs, a kind of laugh, and I wait a few seconds to make sure she’s doing it. Then I say, quiet and low, “I think they started off kissing.”

“Yeah.”

“And the kissing got hot, and he pushed her back down onto the bench.”

“I’m not sure there’s a bench.”

“There’s a bench. It’s long and flat, with no back on it, so he can lay her down and kneel next to her and push her skirt up past her knees.”

“It’s kind of long and tight, though. I don’t think he could push it up.”

“He’s good with skirts. He doesn’t have to take it off. He just pushes it up and leaves it up, so she feels the air on her thighs and starts to worry they’re gonna get caught. It’s exciting, thinking that. Maybe someone will walk in on them, the good girl with her legs spread, the bad boy kneeling there on the floor, kissing her. Touching her.”

“Where’s he touching her?”

“Everywhere except where she really wants it the most.”

She inhales deep and her breath catches. I’ve heard her do that before. Seen her do that. The sound draws up a surge of heat from my balls, and I slick it over the head, draw it down. Slow and tight.

“What are you doing, Caro?”

“What do you want me to be doing?”

“I want you on your back with your skirt up and your legs spread.”

That gets me a muffled mmph.

“You’re there already, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s my girl.”

“What are you doing?”

“Honey, you know what I’m doing.”

“Like last time?” she asks. “Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah.”

She’s just breathing.

“He’s got her shirt pushed up now,” I tell her. “His mouth on her stomach. Moving down.”

“She’s nervous.”

“How come?”

“She’s never done this before. It’s exciting.”

“He likes the way she smells. How smooth her legs are, how pale she is. Like a secret. She’s wearing yellow panties under there, just plain ones. Are they wet, Caroline?”

She kind of squeaks, and my grip tightens. God, I love that squeak.

“Tell me.”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I thought so. Wet through her panties, and he’s going to go ahead and straddle that bench and get his nose right down there, pushing into the wet spot.”

“That’s crude.”

“He’s crude. That’s why she likes him.”

“That’s not the only reason.”

“It’s one, though. She thinks he’s exciting. She loves knowing he thinks about her when she’s not around. That she makes him hard. Makes him come in his bed, in his shower, but he’s never touched her.”

“God. That’s hot.”

I smile.

“Why’s he like her?” she asks.

I have to think about it—not the easiest thing to do with your hand on your dick, but I manage. “He likes that she doesn’t know all the things he knows. That she hasn’t seen the worst of life.”

“She’s seen more than he thinks.”

“Maybe, but she’s still got this air around her, like the bad things can never really touch her.”

“She’d hate that,” Caroline says. “If he told her that was why—she’d be disappointed.”

“But that’s not the only reason. It’s not even the main one.”

“What’s the main one?”

I try to focus on the movie. Not Caroline on her couch, spread open, touching herself. “That she’s there in the closet. She’s brave, once she’s made up her mind what she wants. Fierce.”

“He likes her when she’s fierce?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

Who are we talking about? I’m not sure. I’m starting to feel kind of drugged, dumb, like I might be saying more than I mean to, but I don’t really care.

“West?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s he do next?”

“He puts his tongue on her, right through her panties. Gets his hands underneath the elastic, holds her there on the bench and licks and licks her until her panties are soaked through and she’s just about dead from it.”

“Does he like that?”

“He fucking loves it. Making her feel good, making her give up control, shut her head off and just feel—it’s a trip. And he likes those panties, too. Those yellow panties. But he needs more, so instead of taking them off, he just eases them over a few inches. Enough to get his tongue in her slit, where she’s soft and swollen and so wet. He can’t get enough of her. He just buries his face in her, gets himself wet all over his chin and his mouth.”

“West.”

“She tastes incredible.”

“God, West, I can’t—”

I can’t, either. I’m thinking about her pussy, the way she felt under my fingers, under my tongue. Her thighs pressing against my head, her hands in my hair, on my dick—it’s too much. “I want you,” I say. “Fuck, I want you.”

“You’ve got me.”

“Right here, on this couch, here. I want you here, Caro. I want to taste you. Get my fingers inside you, tongue your clit. I want you naked.”

She’s panting.

“Use your hand,” I tell her. “Pretend it’s me. Come for me. I want to hear.”

“West.”

“Yeah.”

“You, too.”

“I’m close.”

And then it’s just breath. Noise. It’s just moaning, grunting.

It’s knowing what she’s doing, picturing her doing it, her tits, her pussy, her eyes closed and her mouth open and the way her face looks when I make her come.