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What Would Aristippus Think

By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)

Goodbye Roger

by Huck Pilgrim


erotic fictionJoanie Salinger grins into the camera, her face filling the entire frame: hazel eyes, head tilted to the left, a hesitant smile that reveals a delicate overbite.

“Does this work?” she asks. “Is it on?”

She's got a smatter of freckles across her nose. She laughs, places the camera on something, her hands momentarily covering the lens. Blackness.

Seconds later she removes her hands.

The camera is resting somewhere at about the height of Joanie’s waist, canted low, toward the floor. Moving across the room, she sits on the floor in front of a couch. A slim body. Thin dark-blue hair cut just above her shoulders. She is wearing a too small grey T-shirt with the name of the local high school stenciled in red letters across the chest, CARNAL HIGH.

To keep her bangs out of her eyes, she constantly flicks her head, or uses her hand. Barefoot, her midriff exposed, she crosses her legs Indian-style, and then rubs her hands on her denim thighs.

She is chewing gum and talking to someone, but you can't see who else is in the room or make out much of what she is saying. The audio is bad. A radio, tuned to a Top 40 station, plays in the background.

She reaches into the front pocket of her pants and retrieves a cell phone. Head bent, she punches buttons on the phone’s keypad. Whoever else is in the room protests at the interruption. She raises her head and grins.

What a great smile.

“Hold on,” she says. “This is Roger. This is text from Roger fucking Bones.”

More protests from the other person in the room. She stops grinning. Tossing the phone onto the couch, she slips onto her knees.

“C’mere,” she says.

She scoots forward on her knees, reaches for something just out of the camera’s view. A young man appears, tugged into the frame by the girl. His head is out of the frame. Shirtless, a muscled torso. You can tell by the hairless, unblemished skin that he is young. Just a boy, really.

She tugs him toward her by the waistband of his sweatpants.

She places her hand on the front of his pants, rubbing the bulge growing there. “I already told you,” she says, “Roger and I are done.”

Tugging the boy’s pants off his hips, she watches his thick cock spring out.

Looking up, she says, “Finished.”

She smiles, tilts her head. He strokes his dick with his hand. Leaning forward, she takes him in her mouth.

The young man puts his hands on his hips.

All you can see is the back of her head and his strong chest and flat, hairless tummy. She uses both her hands to stroke him. He moans. Her little bottom bobs on her heels as she twists her back and works her head.

Grunting, he thrusts his hips forward. Takes her head in his hands.

She stops, kneels back. Her bottom rests on her heels, his hands go to his hips. Fishing her fingers into her mouth, she pulls out gum.

“Hold on,” she says.

She stretches her lithe body to toss the gum into an ashtray on an end table near the couch. Her phone starts to flash. Scooping the phone off the couch, she starts working the keypad. The boy protests, his hand now lazily stroking his thick cock.

“Wait, wait—” she tells him.

She settles onto the floor in front of the couch. Stretching out her arms, she points the phone at the boy’s crotch, a big grin on her face.

The young man laughs, shakes his wet dick.

She snaps a picture, then punches a few more keys on the phone.

“Where did you send that,” he asks.

An impish grin lights her face.

“Roger,” she says.

“Bitch,” he laughs. “Turn that thing off.”

Getting up from the floor, she clicks off the phone, tosses it on the couch and walks toward the camera. The frame zeroes in on her waist.

More blackness.

Seconds later, the camera rests on a table and she is bent over, looking right into the lens, adjusting its angle. Satisfied, she stands. The camera points at her exposed navel, a small tattoo of a flower peeking from the waistband of her jeans.

She pops the button on her pants, slides them off her hips and down her legs.

When she stands, you can see a dark patch of wispy hair between her legs, a gap between her slim thighs. She steps out of her pants. Leaning over, she crosses her forearms in front of herself and then rests her weight on the table. Filling the frame with her face, she turns to the young man. “C’mere,” she says.

He stands behind her, his face still out of the frame.

She reaches between her legs to help him mount her. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she licks three of her fingers, and then reaches down between her legs again. You can tell by the look on her face when he finally penetrates her. Joanie gasps. Her mouth falls open. She turns her head, places her hands on either side of the table to brace herself. The young man has his hands on her hips. He rocks his torso, her brows knit together.

A phone rings, the familiar jangling of a land line.

She bites her lower lip. You can hear the soft slap of skin on skin: his pelvis against her bottom. The phone rings again. She closes her eyes and sets her chin. The phone rings twice more.

From a telephone answering machine, you hear her voice —a sweet chirp of a greeting, in sharp contrast to the sweaty, contorted face of the girl in the camera right now— and then you hear a long beep.

Finally, this: “Baby, it’s Roger—I said I was sorry. Baby, I meant it. She meant nothing to me. I swear. Fucking nothing.”

She pitches her head to the side and groans.

The boy increases the rhythm and intensity of his thrusts. The picture begins to shake. You hear something crash and then the radio goes silent. She lets go the sides of the table to steady the camera, even as she pitches her head.

“Who is this in the picture you sent me? Who are you with?”

With the radio off, her moans seem to grow louder. Roger is also raising his voice, but it’s hard to make out his words.

Finally she takes a deep breath, raises her head almost out of the frame, stretches behind herself to grasp for the boy, and then holds her body very still. The boy grinds himself into her. His hands go from her hips to her shoulders, seemingly impaling her onto his cock.

You fucking bitch, you fucking bitch!” Roger shrieks. “Don’t fucking do this!”

She exhales loudly and collapses onto the table. Her face fills the frame once again. Her cobalt blue hair falls into her eyes, sticking to her moist forehead. Behind her, the boy resumes a slow driving rhythm. As he methodically pumps, she begins to match his thrusts with loud breathy exhales.

I’m sorry,” Roger says. His voice is intense, but much lower now, more contrite.

The boy stops. He dismounts and steps out of the frame.

She looks over her shoulder. Wipes the hair from her eyes. She follows the boy with her head as he takes a position closer to the camera, but just out of its field of view.

Please,” Roger says.

The boy’s wet cock suddenly looms hard and large into the frame. Without saying a word or even looking up, she takes him into her mouth.

 “So sorry,” Roger says. “Please. . .

The top of her head fills the frame. Surely this was the very act she had hoped to capture on video all along. The boy places one of his hands on the back of her head and holds her face to his groin.

The picture fails. Blackness.

For the last few seconds of runtime, there are only these sounds: her contented nuzzling; eventually a low moan of relief from the boy; and, of course, the pitiful sounds of Roger whimpering softly in the background.

© 2013 Huck Pilgrim. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Huck Pilgrim is the pseudonym of a minor author, who craves readers, and doesn't mind working hard on his books. He is a father and a husband, enjoys his family, writing, and watching movies. Find out more about Huck Pilgrim on the Pilgrim Press blog:


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