Monday, May 10, 2010

The Elites

by wiredwriter

He wanted her pussy. He wanted to eat her pussy but he knew he never would. She was one whose pussy was out of reach, whose pussy was for those of the pussy-eating elite, a small group to which he never would belong.
But he was good at it. He was good, in his view of things, at eating pussy. He had had no complaints, not even any pseudo-critical suggestions. Every pussy he had eaten, every owner, had not once told him anything that would make him believe he didn’t eat pussy well.
But her pussy was the one pussy he knew he couldn’t have. Not ever.
What made the other pussy eaters so fucking elite, anyway? Probably just their looks, not specifically their mouths or tongues, just the way they looked to her. They had this look about them he didn’t have. He guessed that when they ate her, she really didn’t think of them as good at pussy eating, just good looking, so it didn’t matter otherwise.
Well, fuck, he thought. What the fuck is that about.
One night he was at a party and she was over in a corner, talking to one of the elites. He watched her as she looked at him, the slick-haired elite, knowing in his heart that her pussy was wet and that she would let the elite lick her very soon, and maybe even request afterward that another elite come and lick her too, that maybe this night she wanted as many elites as were present, all of them willing to eat her pussy in the elitist way they always did.
For a moment she caught his stare. She turned her head slightly, setting her gaze upon him. He looked away then, knowing that if he lingered the elite would come over and start something that he, the non-elite, could not be finish.
Just then the music changed and the volume increased. It was a tune with a heavy beat and droning guitars. When he looked again at her she was moving seductively, the elite now joined by another, and now another. Others were watching as she danced in the corner, her eyes closed, her hands rubbing against her chest and hips, the music seeming to force her into another world all her own. The first elite started kissing her neck and another one moved behind her and pressed his crotch against her ass as the third elite dropped to his knees and rubbed his face under her loose-fitting shirt.
Within moments they all disappeared down the long hallway and into the room the elites always used with her. He knew that tonight they would eat her pussy out, each of them taking turns, just like she wanted them to do, and that he again would long to be a part but would never be granted inclusion.
Let me at her just once, he thought. Just once. She’d tell you elitist fucks to go the fuck away forever. He sipped his drink as the music faded, the night again giving up on itself, the moon just like his own absent face.


“What is it you want me to do?” he said, wrenching tight the nut. The sky was its usual azure and his forehead showed signs of wear. There were birds in the sky but they didn’t stay there for long.

The blonde just stood there. Her brain wasn’t working at all – unlike the Friday before when she told the cashier she wanted smokeless cigs. His repeating the question would do no good, so he didn’t. She still just stood there, watching his wrench do its wrenching in his hands.

He finished with the nut and set his eyes on her. She was standing directly above him, like a dumb goddess.

“Well,” he said, in effect changing the subject, “where do you want to go tonight?” He knew this one would shake her up, and shake it did. She finally spoke.

“Reggie’s.” Her voice was tinny from all the vodka.

He kept his gaze on her. “Reggie’s? Why Reggie’s? You got something for Reggie?” He knew she knew that he knew she knew what was meant by ‘something’, so there was nothing she could do but answer in truth.

“Yeah,” she said, “a lot. I got a lot for him.”

He looked from her face to her chest. “Agreed.”

It turned out that the whole thing was about sex and nothing else.

wiredwriter hails from Atlanta. His collection of short
fiction, Fighting Off The Sun: Stories, Tales, and Other Matters of
Opinion, is available on Amazon. If he could talk to an inanimate object, it would without doubt be his personal computer. One thing he is proud of doing this week is writing two pretty good poems.


  1. shallow pussy...
    maybe good looking guys are the opposite of "fat girls try harder"...?
    but don't let the night give up on itself again