Excerpted from "Five Stages of Grief" by Olivia Glass. Available through Fleshbot Fiction...
A bump. Lucy wakes, rolls her head toward me, eyes blinking in the late afternoon light.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I say.
She stretches. The motion is sinewy, feline. I bite my lip, fiddle with my necklace, clear my throat.
“Do you want to stop?”
“I’m okay for now,” she says. She smiles. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“Me neither. Christ.”
She laughs. “Oh my god, this is happening.”
The fields we roll past gleam orange and gold. The shadows lengthen.
Lucy breaks the silence again.
“This is embarrassing.”
“I’m…” She hesitates. “I’m really turned on right now.”
Involuntarily, I adjust in my seat. “Oh?”
She smiles. “I just—I was having a dream when I was sleeping just now. I was fucking you in the sky. We were up, I don’t know, in the clouds, and everything was sort of roiling, and you were riding my leg and everything was moving. Every atom, it felt like. Anyway. It was hot, and now I’m turned on.”
I don’t know what to say. I put both hands on the steering wheel.
Her voice lowers. It seems like she’s just talking to herself, now.
“The whole sky was alive,” she says. “The whole sky just fucking us and being fucked by us.”
“You can,” I clarify, “you can feel free to take care of yourself if you want.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and the next sound I am aware of is the gentle pop of a metal button sliding from a denim hole, the short, metallic drag of a zipper.
She slips her fingers into her pants, and her hips buck against her hand. Her voice is barely a suggestion, but it is a stream of soft words, I think it is oh oh oh oh oh but it could be uh uh uh uh, a sound of devouring, and whatever it is my body floods with wanting. The syllables elongate, and she is not just circling her clit anymore, she is tugging at it urgently.
“Oh my god.” Her voice solidifies into words, and her hand goes deeper. She looks like she is fucking herself with her fingers. She uses her other hand to touch her clit, and she begins to gasp. Her body begins to straighten, she strains against her seat belt.
“Oh fuck,” she says. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” and her voice thins to a point, and she lets out a shudder, final moan, and falls silent. Her arms relaxes, and her body folds back into the seat.
I realize that I have been holding my breath. I start again.
“Goddamn,” I say.
“I needed that,” she says. “I really did.”
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