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Topography
by Marina Kris
by Marina Kris
“to·pog·ra·phy
təˈpäɡrəfē/
noun
noun: topography
the arrangement of the natural and artificial
physical features of an area.
"the topography of the island"
a detailed description or representation on a
map of the natural and artificial features of an area.
plural noun: topographies
AnatomyBiology
the distribution of parts or features on the
surface of or within an organ or organism.”
–online dictionary
The Writer collected maps. Aerial maps. Political maps. Road maps.
Atlas pages. Surveyors’ studies. Physical maps with green for lower elevations
and brown and orange for the heights.
“I thought they’d inspire me more if they surrounded me,” he said,
by way of explaining why he strung them up on his university office wall with
tiny pushpins. The ones with a navy pinprick head like floating worlds above
world close-ups. “Maybe it’s stupid,” he shrugged, his cheeks pinking.
I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “It’s brilliant,” I
said and was rewarded with relief flooding his grin. The Writer was then
working on a story whose protagonist was a cartographer.
“What kind’s this?” I asked. It was two in the afternoon. He
sat down at his desk. We’d just come from the writing group. My latest had gone
over so-so. I’d read the two pages, with shaking hands. The RN nurse had
clapped, but I knew this wasn’t the best I could do, that the best metaphors
and imagery was somehow still trapped inside me.
“It’s Topographical,” he said, looking up from his grade book. Two
students walked by, one laughing with a barking sound that soon drifted by the
open door.
“How can you tell?” I kicked off my heels, then rubbed at the sore
red gash the new shoes had opened on my Achilles's heel. The Writer’s eyes
licked at my skin, soothing with their unspoken desire.
“See the contour lines?” he asked. “The contour lines show
elevation and the shape of an area.”
Heavy footsteps, black combat boots, passed. Then the corridor
quiet again. My fingers found the latch.
I sat on his lap, tracing the line of his jaw with my index
finger. “Contours, like this?” I breathed into his ear. His pleasure shiver
shivered through me.
He closed his eyes, grinning. Then snapped them open, with a
thought: “Viktoria, a student could…need me.”
I nibbled his bottom lip, pulling it between my teeth, then
licking the pillowy bottom one. I realize there’s a class meeting next door.
That there could be a student knocking at any moment. My clit pulses.
“Shh…” I said, “Tell me more…about these.” I gestured to the map
above his desk, then dropped to my knees beneath his desk.
“Flat areas have far apart lines,” he gasped as I unzipped his
jeans and set his cock free.
“Mmm-hmm…More,” I coaxed, petting his pecker with my pretty nails
I’d just had French manicured.
“Steep terrain… has lines… close together,” his head tilted back
in a groan.
“Like these beautiful lines?” I asked, tongue-kissing the two
veins that ran vertical in his rock-hard member.
In the classroom next door, a burble of laughter. His
eyes still closed, his right hand caressing my hair, holding me closer to his
rigid ramrod flesh.
Above the desk and all around, the counties and cities and
kingdoms, the scales and legends and inaccuracies, the physical features
spelled out and suspended, as head thrown back, my mouth and his body ranged
new altitudes.
Reunion
by Marina Kris
“Andrew!” I call across the porch of the Student Center
where ten years ago we nursed hangovers and hunched over notebooks.
He turns and embraces me. Still a shy smiler, open-the-door
kind. He’s leaner if not happier.
“So good to see you,” he says, and the smile in his eyes
says he means it. “It’s crazy it’s been this long since college.”
We share quick catch-ups on raising children, our mutual
college buddies: Meghan’s in nursing school in Montana and Kelly’s with her
fiancée stationed in Germany; neither can get away to attend.
The last time I’d seen Andrew had been right before
graduation. Honeysuckle and tulips, bikinis bathing in the first spring sun to
grace the green. Andrew and Aubrey had broken up, yet again.
Kelly, Meghan, and I couldn’t stand the way she belittled
him, called to tell him he better drive the three hours to meet her later.
If you break up with her for good, we promise you the
fucking night of your life. All of us. Together. Anything you want.
He’d helped us fix our computers, bought us vodka cocktails
at the bar when we were stood up and then stayed to walk us safely home. Always
the gentleman, but not like a brother. He was built: muscular and cute but he
didn’t flaunt it, which made him even cuter. Which made Aubrey even meaner.
If he only got rid of her, he could have anyone he wanted.
He could have all of us.
For months, like a gentleman, he declined, a resigned look
in his eye.
Until that night of finals week. “It’s done, it’s really,
forever over.” We were on for that night.
Fueled by Jim Beam, giggly strip poker, and giddy goodbye
Aubrey fervor, Whatever you want, we told him, kissing him, nibbling his bottom
lip, his chin, kissing each other, undressing him, slipping out of what was
left of lacy-cupped bras and low-rise panties.
What he’d requested
surprised—to lick the freckle beside my nipple, for Meghan to spank him until
he begged, to suckle our brightly-painted toes. Andrew gave me my first
toe-sucking orgasm.
“You broke Aubrey’s evil clutches. She doesn’t own me!” he’s
yelled, exultant and more than a little drunk, and we’d fallen arm in arm in
arm in arm onto the feathery duvet. He cried with relief and pleasure; we’d
done him this service. We cried with him, in happiness, “Say it again! Again!”
The windows open, the lick of breeze cool across our bare,
enfolded bodies. The chill melting over the sweat produced a succulent shiver.
I remember the stars bright as pinpricks as I gazed out at them, thinking, now
anything can happen.
Now Aubrey calls his name. “Babe, we’ve got to unload the
car.” She carries a little girl with peach hair bows that I coo over,
compulsory. The baby resembles her mother. Aubrey curls her free hand, with a
princess-cut two-carat diamond, serpentine-ing into Andrew’s side, drawing him
away from me.
Oh, Andrew, why didn’t it last? What more could we have done
than paradise?
As Aubrey leads him away from me, I wonder what Andrew
recalls from that night we serviced his every want. How often he has to go back there, to
fiddling my nipples as we French kissed, to Kelly and Meghan on their knees
tenderly lapping his head, to survive living with her.
Tell Me about Jenny. And Avery.
by Marina Kris
“Was that your first threesome?”
The boudoir door is locked. I’ve got my phone propped
against several writing manuals I’ve been reading before our call. The boys
were tucked in an hour ago.
“Not my first. My third.”
I reach around, pop the clasp on my black bra, his favorite. Wriggle out
of the lace cups to maximize his view.
He swallows.
“Your third?” I love that little catch in his voice. The
hunger. His eyes are tired from the 6 AM flight; he’s wearing his wire frames,
his spare pair of contacts beside me in his drawer. I know exactly how
delicious and prickly his scruff would feel between my breasts.
“The first two were with high school friends. Avery and
Jenny. Then Craig and Heather.”
My fingertips prickle. If only I could rub my palms against
his hairy pecs. The sweaty, wiry firmness that he works so hard for at the gym.
He’s already nude, sprawled across the ivory hotel sheets. I
can visualize the black case I got for him that he has propped near the foot of
the bed.
“Which did you like more? With the girls? Or with the dude,
Greg?” He knows all of this. His palm
massages along the length of his dick in rhythmic, firm strokes. It turns him
on to re-ask it. About as much as I get hot telling him.
“Craig. His name was Craig,” I say, letting my fingers
soothe circles into the soft skin above my clit. I have the tingly lube open on
the dresser. I reach over, dab a dollop and smooth it in.
“The girls,” I say, “definitely the one with Avery and
Jenny. It was during the junior camp-out at Jones Woods. We drug our sleeping
bags out under the stars, but it got cold, so Jenny wanted to climb into mine.”
His cock grows gorgeous and greedy under his hypnotizing
tugs. The head begins to pinken to a luscious raspberry. I swallow.
“Tell me about Jenny. And Avery. Her tits. Were they…?” he
gasps, and I know without needing to ask that he’s close.
I rub harder, allowing my fingers to feather my clit, then
dip back to my hood. Thigh to thigh, a tickling meant to mimic his mouth nips,
but not quite. “Her tits were amazing,” I draw out. “Soft nipples. Big. Almost
double mine. The right one was pierced.”
Physical distance cannot keep him from frothing over at my
voice, my syllables sizzling over the ether and entering him.
His growl is low and guttural. His neck thrown back onto the flat pillows,
my memories quenching this need inside him.
Stoking my own fires, I reach for my vibe, go from zero to full-throttle.
My belly aches to lean over, to lick off the first bead of
pre-cum, to take in his salty-sweet seed, to have his hands all over me,
pulling my nipples as he spanks into me.
My breasts tremor for the slither of his spilled seed.
His seed fountains onto his hotel sheets.
“Damn, baby doll.”
His breath is ragged. I’m this close to a shattering orgasm, but decide
to edge it, draw it out for delectation after we’ve logged off.
“I miss you, babe.”
“Friday can’t get here soon enough, hon.”
I fall asleep to the churn of: 35 hours, two planes, a
train, pickup in my new silver dress. No panties underneath. The last thing
he’ll ask for is a receipt.
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