Here's another fantastic story from my pal, and frequent Frequently Felt contributor, Mykola Dementiuk. Enjoy!
All she wanted was a hickey, a sucked-up brown spot on her throat and neck to show everyone she had a lover, a boyfriend, someone who lusted after her; that, or show up a boyfriend she had another on the side.
It was nothing but a cheap attempt at making someone jealous --He don’t pay me no attention, she had said-- yet she insisted I keep my hands off her --I’m not that kind of girl!-- though she agreed to do it leaning against the river railing so I could at least press and rub against her, which was more then good enough for me; hell, it’s not every day I got my body on a fleshy teenager, and this one willing for a dry hump and throat sucking at that.
And she was definitely a fleshy kid, large and overweight, her face and breasts and belly bloated in a pubescent baby-fat tease that in a few years, if it didn’t settle into a boned tone of mature smoothness and softness, would only keep her in a haunting allure of slutty promises and horny come-ons, of love expressed in handjobs, blowjobs, quickie fuckings, too many, too-often hurried abortions and pregnancies.
This was nothing more than the start (or continuation, if she hadn’t already started) of prostitution: getting from a stranger what a friend or lover could’ve or should’ve satisfied as well; showing up one male, a boyfriend, that he was expendable and replaceable with another, willing to barter her young girlhood for the stupidity of acting and appearing an adult, with an adult too overly-ready and eager to use her cheap girlishness for his own woman-hating vindictive pleasure and lust and abuse…
I pressed myself to her, raising my knee and thigh into her loose-jeaned crotch, my hardon pressing her belly, my hands stroking her back, my mouth sucking and slathering her neck.
But the problem with hickeys, though they may take weeks to lighten and dissolve and meld back into the natural fleshy tint around them, take only an instant or two to develop and stand out. And I barely had a moment of seizing and tasting her perfume, her sweat, her hairspray, her aroma, her neck and throat before she pushed me off, flicked open a compact mirror, and said, Wow! My eyes said it too…
Yet what kind of branding is a hickey meant to represent if not a skewed teenage marking of possession and ownership? And what does a show-off flaunting of that hickey prove if not a boasting of being possessed and owned by another? Why such eager willingness and desire to flaunt that?
We gaped at the hickey --actually three of them, two small scratch marks where my tooth bit into her flesh and one elongated sucking where my tongue and lips gorged on her meaty throat-- and she seemed very pleased with my mouth’s work. I was too (Did this mean I now possessed her? I wish...). I wanted more; dipping my open mouth back to her throat but she pulled away, shoving me off, and darted from the railing, my pants- trapped hardon a frustrating lurch stiffening wildly after her.
But she was gone, her loose-jeaned ass weaving quickly up the promenade, not even looking back to see me contorted and doubled over at the railing, my hardon shrinking into a disappointing letdown of blue-ball limpness and uselessness…
Two days later I saw her again, this time with a boy her age, a boy tough- and angry- looking, his hands in his pockets, one step ahead of her as she trailed behind, her arms at her sides, her head lowered, her book bag/knapsack hanging forlornly down her back.
She raised her head and our eyes met; I sighed, and though a black turtleneck -- impressively flaunting her knapsack-pulled-back baby-fat tits-- covered her neck and hid my hickeys, a large purplish splotch covered her left eye and cheek, her fat fleshy face now more bloated and fatter, the black eye a more powerful marking of jealous possession and ownership than any meager hickey of mine could have competed or vied against.
We looked at each other, then lowered our heads. When I next looked up she trailed contritely after her boyfriend, as if led by an invisible leash of possession, love, and belonging.
I masturbated behind a tree, the fantasy of a hard fist striking a fat girl face an even greater erotic stimulus than the actual memory of my body against hers…
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