Big Swiss(56)

“Are those… bite marks?” Greta asked.

“Bruises,” Big Swiss said.

Greta was reminded of Poland. The country. During high school, she’d accompanied a Polish friend to Kraków to visit relatives. At some point, they’d driven around the countryside in a borrowed car, sharing two-lane highways with horse-drawn carriages and huge semitrucks. There had been many kilometers between villages, and the highways were terrifyingly dark and narrow. One night, Greta noticed a woman walking. Since the highways had no shoulders, the woman walked directly in the road. Her ass cheeks, hanging out the bottom of her micro-mini, had been caught in their headlights, and her bare legs were covered in bruises. “Pull over!” Greta had shouted. “She needs help!”

She’d figured the woman had been raped, but she’d calmly leaned into the car, looked at their pimply teenage faces, scowled, and then kept walking. She’d been the first of many hookers Greta saw that night, trolling for truckers in the middle of nowhere.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Greta said now, “but you remind me of a Polish prostitute.”

“I’m a quarter Czech,” Big Swiss said. “On my mother’s side.”

Most women would’ve focused on the prostitute part.

“Some ground rules: I can penetrate you, but you can’t penetrate me.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” Greta asked.

“I’m married,” Big Swiss said. “So, no fingers, just to be clear.”

“Oral doesn’t count, I take it.”

“Ten minutes,” Big Swiss said. “No longer, and no kissing.”

“Should I pay you now or later?”

“Not funny,” Big Swiss said.



* * *



HER PUSSY LOOKED like advanced origami. A crisp pink lotus flower folded by a master. Greta briefly rearranged it with her mouth. The flower transformed into an acorn. Then a unicorn. Then back again. Greta dragged her tongue over it diagonally three dozen times. Now it resembled two dragonflies languidly mating on a lily pad. She reached for her phone.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Big Swiss said.

“Hold still,” Greta said.

Big Swiss lifted her head off the pillow.

“Just a quick pic,” Greta said.

“What for?”

“For me,” Greta said. “For later.”

Big Swiss covered it with her hand. Two fingers, rather. The thing was that pristine and tidy.

“Only if I can photograph yours,” Big Swiss said.

“Never mind,” Greta said, and dropped her phone.

“I should tell you something,” Big Swiss said.

“Now what,” Greta said.

“Until a month ago, I’d never had an orgasm, with myself or anyone else.”

Greta didn’t say anything.

“Did you hear me?” Big Swiss asked.

“Maybe you should turn over,” Greta suggested.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Big Swiss said. “Most people lose their minds when I tell them.”

Greta took a breath. “Your area seems very… Swiss.”

“Meaning what?”

“If it were a person, it might be an uptight perfectionist.”

“What’s yours?”

“A disorganized enthusiast.”

“Let me see,” Big Swiss said.

Greta’s pussy, still buried under her layers, was a clumsily wrapped Christmas present. Too much wrinkled, recycled paper, not enough tape. At the top, a crooked little bow. In Greta’s view, it was the last present anyone would want to open, but, apparently, according to a new study, badly wrapped gifts were better received.

Big Swiss pulled off Greta’s legwarmers, followed by her jeans, her fleece leggings, and now her nude pantyhose. She stared at Greta’s face.

“Something wrong?” Greta asked.

“Why are you wearing two pairs of pantyhose?”

“I like to be squeezed,” Greta said. “Plus, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s kind of chilly in here.”

Big Swiss peeled off the second pair, along with Greta’s black no-nonsense briefs. Now she looked mildly surprised.

“Merry Christmas,” Greta said.

“That’s okay.”

“Happy Holidays?”

“I don’t mind if you don’t.”

“What are you talking about?” Greta said.

“You have your period,” Big Swiss said.

Greta sat up and looked down at herself. Christmas, it appeared, was two weeks early. She lay back down and tried to smile. Big Swiss eyed Greta’s nightstand.

“Do you have any lube?”

“Coconut oil,” Greta said. “In the drawer.”

The coconut oil was cold and clumpy. Big Swiss’s fingers, also cold. The fucking felt clinical and slightly painful, not unlike a Pap smear, except the smell of coconut brought the tropics to mind.

“Your cervix might be tilted,” Big Swiss actually said. “And your uterus feels ever so slightly… enlarged.”

“Maybe you should be wearing latex gloves.”

Greta focused on a crack in the ceiling. If they were going to do this regularly, she might tack a picture up there. Something calming. The ocean? Although, Big Swiss herself seemed increasingly oceanic: vast, unknowable, capable of swallowing Greta whole. How long had it been since Greta had been with a woman? Years. Men never bothered with fingers, or never for long, and they often didn’t know where to put their thumb, what to do with their other hand, where and when to apply pressure, the necessary balance between stillness and movement. It was all coming back to her now. No matter how long a cock, how great its girth, you never felt as thoroughly fucked as you did with a woman. It went on forever, and a dick couldn’t do what fingers do. Fingers are flexible. Not to mention the other huge difference: the camaraderie of a female mind.