Little Claw

  The garden party had thinned out until there was only Steve and I left on the backyard gazebo. We were finishing the last of our beers when Carmella, the hostess, drifted out into the backyard, rolling a post-party joint.

  “Do you want us to head out so you can call it a night?” I asked.

 Carmella shook her head. “No,” she said, heading up the gazebo steps, gaze fixed on the twister forming in her hands. “I’m not going to hurry you out. Besides, you’re not going to let me smoke this doobie alone, are you?”

  With her joint-free hand she drew up the hem of her sundress and plopped down on one of the deck chairs opposite us. She was a pretty girl, with reddish-brown hair and weed-green eyes. She crossed her smooth, contoured legs.

  “Phew,” she said. “I’m bushed. But I don’t want to go to call it a night quite yet.”
  She flicked the lighter, sparking the end of the joint. She inhaled, held, and then exhaled a plume of smoke.

  “Truth is,” she said, “I’ve been having some really weird dreams. I don’t know if I want to step back into that world quite yet.”

  She slumped forward, elbow on her knee, to offer the joint to me.

  “Not for me,” I said. “What kind of weird dreams?” I asked.

  “Sex?” Steve asked, plucking the joint from Carmella’s pinched fingers.
  “There’s that, yes,” Carmella said. “That’s not weird in and of itself. It’s more the kind of sex that’s bothersome.”

   “S&M?” Steve tendered. “Incest?”

  “No and no,” Carmella said matter-of-factly. “Though I suppose it’s bestiality, technically. If you count giant monstrosities.”

  “That’s a good question,” I said. “Do monsters count as bestiality?”

  “Well it’s further complicated,” Carmella said, taking the joint back from Steve, “by the fact that it’s not so much a monster but a monstrously oversized member of a terrestrial species – oceanic, actually.”

   “Oh wow,” I said. “Now I’m really curious.”

  “I might as well tell you now,” Carmella said, pausing to toke. As she held in the smoke, she rolled the ankle of her topmost leg and her high heel shoe, dangerously steep and vivid red, dangled off her toes.

  “So I’m on a beach in my bikini,” she started. “And the tides are really rough, just crashing up against the rocks on the outcroppings beside me. Then this giant form begins to emerge from deep in the ocean water. It’s covered in fog, but I can see that it’s huge. But it doesn’t really spook me, because the closer it gets, the calmer the waters become. It is as if it controls the tides. It actually has a comforting effect as it comes closer, as it is bringing the entire beachfront to a calm. By the time it emerges from the fog, I’m not scared at all to meet it. Turns out it’s a giant crab.”

  “Wild,” Steve said, taking back the joint.
 “Yeah,” Carmella said. “Its claws are up but I just know that it’s a friendly presence. It approaches me very slowly and tenderly, and it gives off a really sweet, almost cloying, vibe. It bridges the distance between us with its claw. It is reaching out to me, I see, and its claw caresses my leg. Its eyes look down on me so intently. So many lovers I’ve had have never looked at me like that. Using both its bigger claw and its little claw, it begins to pull off my bikini. The big claw takes the bottoms and the little claw whisks away the top. And I’m just not minding it one bit. The breeze and the ocean mist feels nice on me. Then the crab slips into me. First the big claw goes very gently into my pussy. It is not at all painful. In fact, it feels very agreeable. I let my legs yawn apart as it moves the big claw more rapidly into my vadge. I quiver and moan. Then I become aware of its little claw. It’s easing the little claw into my ass. This also feels good, and the claw is helpful because, as it moves in deeper, it can actually sort of ease the very tight flesh apart. This is the nicest sensation I’ve ever known in terms of my, well, starfish. Both claws incrementally pick up their pace and soon I’m writhing and squirming into the towel, because this double-fisting—this double-clawing, if you will—is taking me to magnificent, hella-tingly heights. I'm about to come, with this massive crab looking down on me protectively. I woke up with two hands pawing at myself. I came swimmingly. Under my blankets it was humid, tropical. Don’t Bogart that spliff, Steven.”

  She leaned forward, breasts and thighs all folded together in sundress for a second as she wrested the joint from Steve. She toked, eyelashes aflutter as she exhaled.

  “I guess it’s just random base-brain activity. Still, you find yourself wondering what it all means. Especially when you come rainbows.”

  “Maybe,” Steve said, “you’re afraid if you fuck too much you’ll get crabs.”

  Carmella sat back in her chair. “I guess that could be it,” she said, “but the crab was not a fearful figure in my dream.”

 “Perhaps,” I said, “the dream has a deeper sexual meaning, if you’ll indulge me.”

  “By all means,” Carmella said. “Indulge.”

  “Might it be,” I said, “that the crab embodies your sexual ambition?”

  “How so?”

  “Apart from its claws, the crab walks on six legs. That’s two sets of three. That means two three-legged beings, or two tripods. That is, two well-endowed men. Maybe your dream is telling you that you want to have sex with two guys.”

  “That,” Carmella said, using her joint-free hand to fluff up her hair, “is pretty wild. I guess that’s as good an explanation as any.”

  She stretched her arm down, blotting the twister on the gazebo’s floorboards.

  “I mean, it’s worth a shot,” she said. “You guys want to stand up?”

  I stood up, glancing over at Steve as he did the same.

  “Take your pants down,” Carmella said.

  I looked away from Steve and unspooled my belt. Steve’s board shorts hit the floor and puddled there. My belt dropped from my quivering hand, the buckle landing with a thump.

  Carmella inched forward on her chair, the back-legs braying as they scraped along the floor. Once she came within comfortable reaching distance, she sat back down and took hold of our cocks. Her palm was soft as a baby’s—not that a baby has ever touched me where she was touching me.

   With her right hand on Steve and her left on me, she yanked us erect and then pushed back.

  “Well,” Carmella said, glancing back and forth between Steven and myself. “What are the odds?”

  She seemed impressed with the fruits of her efforts. I too was impressed with the kind of muscle I was raising. But Steve, I could see peripherally, was harder than me. Perhaps Carmella wasn’t ambidextrous. 

  

 As if to make up for her off hand, she took me in her mouth first, languidly jacking Steve off for balance while her lips moved down towards my pubic bone. Then she switched her mouth to Steve and jerked me off. Steve, I couldn’t help but note, had the edge on me in both girth and length. It wouldn’t have been an inch in total, had we measured and added the values, but it was an advantage nonetheless.

 But disadvantages can turn. Carmella stood up and pulled her dress up over her head. She was wearing a leopard print bra and skimpy black lace panties. Her skin was alabaster, faintly pinkish. She tugged off the bra and pulled down the panties, baring her high, heavy breasts and freshly razored mons. Smirking, she did a nonchalant twirl, giving a glimpse of her trim, supple buttocks.

 Wordlessly, she directed Steve to the gazebo floor, where he lay down on his back. She squatted down on top of him, plugging his glans into her pussy and then easing down atop him. She turned her friendly smirk to me, beckoning me with her free hand, the one that wasn't feeding the length of Steve into her. Her mouth was hot but not exactly wet on my cock, probably on account of the cottonmouth. Still, it was sultry, tropical—the kind of sensation you could savour. I didn't get much chance to savour, though. Soon Carmella was bouncing on Steve's cock, and lapping fleetingly at my cock on the way up and down. Her breasts swayed in loose circles, the bottoms beating against her ribcage. 
  She put on the brakes and took the length of my cock in her mouth. She gagged on it, her glottis churning sweetly on my glans. Wrenching back off my cock, she turned around in a crab-walk on her lobster-red heels, then arched her backside. In profile, she nodded down toward her ass.

  Here her fingernails worked deep into either cheek, pulling them apart to bare the puckering socket in the centre. Kneeling overtop Steve’s hirsute calves, I guided my glans towards that pinprick with the crinkled nimbus. I pressed forward, and once I was snugly ensconced therein, Carmella wriggled her butt as if to give the go. Steve began pistoning up into her. I went easy on her anus, drawing out tenderly and then moving back in while Steve hammered from below.

  “Slowly, Stevie,” Carmella said. “Fuck me sweetly, like the crab.”

  Steve slowed and we made our way through her like twin sea breezes, leisurely fucking her ass and pussy in synchrony. She looked back, smiling, and I tried to look upon her tenderly. At last, the two breezy sensations converged to stir a tempest in her, and she shook like a galleon ported in a storm. Her emission was hot and tropical. Looking down, I could see Steve’s leg hairs matted down by her outpouring.

 “Great,” Carmella said, after she pushed up and off us both. “Even more cleanup.”

 She clapped her hands clean and sat back down in the chair. Smiling, she gripped her tits in spite of herself and gave them a squeeze, leaving ruddy handprints. She grabbed us by our cocks and pulled us over to her.

  As she started to jack off Steve, she pressed her free hand into her plump mons and pulled upward, stretching her vulva. I squatted and inserted myself. It was an awkward, deep-lunge stance, but I didn’t mind, offering a few thrusts, getting a feel for the sopping, muggy interior of her vadge. Steve groaned and came on her alabaster breasts, come streaking the puffy, pink aureoles. When Carmella had squeezed the last bead out of the big claw, I pulled my little claw out of her and came on her long, lissome abdomen.

    “Can a giant crab do that?” I said, breathless, and all at once felt lame.

  “No,” Carmella said, sighing. “It can’t. But it doesn’t need to. It has its instinctive, unadulterated tenderness which it, like, embodies.”

   She stood up. “I’m not so sure about your theory,” she said to me. She bent over to pick up an empty beer can, breasts pleasingly pendulous.

   “I mean, a crab has eight legs, I’m pretty sure, claws notwithstanding. So it’s not really representing two tripods at all, at least as I understand it. And it was my dream.”

    She put the roach clip in the empty beer can and picked it up.

    “Still,” I said, “it was a hypothesis worth testing.”

   “I guess,” she said. “I am going to need help picking all this shit up after all. There’s an ass-load of empties if you guys don’t mind sticking around. Now I’ve got to have a shower or something. I’m fading hard here from all this dream analysis.”

   She scuttled away from the gazebo and into the house.

   “I’ll get the bottles,” Steve said. “You take the cans, Little Claw.”

Image Credits: Elmo Love [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)]