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)]

Wisconsin

One summer in the late aughties, I found myself bumming around Madison, Wisconsin, trying to write a novel. As August rolled around, I'd worn out my welcome couch-surfing, and the friends I was staying with suggested I kick in something for rent. I scoured the State Journal for some kind of work. In the classifieds, I found a help wanted ad for a grip on a film crew.

I was surprised, as I had no idea that people made films in Wisconsin. I phoned the number listed and they called me in for an interview. I went down to a tiny office in some low-rent office space and met briefly with a proto-hipster in plaid with pointy glasses. He looked like an arthouse director. Once again, I was surprised. I didn't know Wisconsin had an arthouse scene. The director hired me on the spot.

The first shoot would be the very next day at a farm outside of town. I carpooled with the camera guy and the sound man, scruffy dudes in jean jackets who weren't conversationalists. In retrospect, I suppose nothing more needed to be said.

We pulled into the farmyard, and there were naked people walking around. They paraded through the shady yard proud as hippies, but you didn't need a zoom lens to tell they weren't hippies. The women were pneumatic and blond. The guy, a hotshot with sideburns and tanlines, still had on his backwards cap and his shades. A photographer, pretty in a much more traditional way, was taking pictures of them in suggestive poses.

I wasn't particularly surprised it was a porno movie. It explained why I'd been hired with no prior experience. I had no idea that Wisconsin had a porn industry, but it still made more sense than having an arthouse scene.

As soon as we got out of the car, the director started yelling at us for being late. I was tasked with unloading some camera equipment from the trunk. I helped the camera and sound guys unpack, and then they set everything up.

Meanwhile, the performers put their swimwear back on, the women their tiny, sequined bikinis, the male his dragon-print board shorts. The women chatted and picked lint off their coppery bodies as they waited around, looking mostly disinterested. The younger woman was thirty-something, strawberry blond with big heaving mortar shell breasts that were probably fake. The other was older, late thirties or perhaps even forty, and blonder with globular breasts that were definitely fake. From their conversation, I gleaned that they were dancers, the younger one in Eau Claire, the older one in Green Bay. They barely acknowledged the guy, who stood with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his shorts.

After he'd finished getting an exterior shot of a milk silo, the director called places and the women turned on beaming smiles. The director called action and the two women converged upon the hotshot guy, right there on the lawn. There was no dialogue, no setup, and no premise, only cooing and groping. The women stroked and caressed the front of the guy's pants, and the guy moved his hands between the four breasts covered in tiny swatches of sequined cloth.

"Okay," the director instructed. "Holly, take out your left tit. Heather, take out your right. Okay, now take out his dick."

Heather, who was the younger of the two women, pulled down the hotshot's shorts. Holly, who was the older one, pulled the guys gaining erection up from his testicles and admired it with a saucy smile betraying wizened mischief. She gave some indication of her age, but she wasn't without her charms. Her face looked as if it had sustained just enough surgical enhancement to delineate some legitimate appeal beneath those prim, near-white bangs. Heather, meanwhile, had at least a modicum of hale, good-natured prettiness. Both women pressed their smiles against the penis in front of them, and placed kisses along its lengthening span. At the very tip of the glans, they met in a kiss of their own.

"Okay great," the director said. "Now Jared, really sell the feel."

Jared nodded and then his mouth dropped open, his eyes went shut. He let his eyelids flutter in beatific rapture.

Holly enhaled his penis. She worked her mouth upon it, then drew back and passed it to Heather. Heather slid her mouth down the edges before putting her whole mouth over it. She couldn't get down all the way, though. Jared's length was estimable.

After the blowjob, the women stripped off their bikinis and shoved Jared back onto the grass. Holly held Jared's cock steady while Heather eased herself down atop it. Taking to her knees, prominent backside pressed toward his face, she gripped his calves and then began to thrust down on his cock. The cameraman hurried in to get the prime shot of her ass beating down on Jared's abdomen. Meanwhile, Holly caressed her back, smiling her wispy, seasoned grin. Heather shuddered, paused, and then began making out with Holly. Holly played with Heather's breasts, then eased her off. Holly squatted down on Jared, her long, tawny legs straining valiantly, and then plugged Jared's cock into herself. Up and down, her buttocks beat against his adomen, but she pulled up carefully, always careful to prolong the visual of the cock inset in her prim pussy. Soon enough, she knelt down on Jared as Heather had, circling that tawny, lean cylinder of abdomen, casting her face up to the sky.

"Switch!" the director yelled.

After that, all three stood up, Jared brushing off his back, the girls wiping their knees. The girls steadied each other with an embrace, and Heather pressed out her shapely ass. Jared slid into her from behind. Holly stood with legs at full span, kissing Heather's breasts passionately, but also bracing her at the same time. Jared pistoned manically into her. He fucked with his top lip tucked. On more than one ocassion, Heather stumbled. Holly was quick to grip her firmly, keeping her on her feet.

You had to hand it to Jared. He looked like a bit of a choch, but the man could fuck. His pace seemed only to gain, and soon the spirit moved Heather to lower herself to the grass. On all fours, she kept her ass pressed out pronouncedly, and Holly followed suit. From a deep lunge position, Jared kept pounding at Heather, then moved to Holly. All the while, the two women made out. It was very busy, but very erotic, a beautiful, pastoral fuck scene.

And then it just wasn't. Jared pulled out and pulled back, dick slipping out after him and slapping against his thigh. There it lay, heavy but not hard.

"Fuck!" he called out.

"Oh Jesus," the director muttered. "Cut, cut, cut. You told me this wasn't going to be a problem again, Jared. Now get it back. It's getting dark out here."

Jared began pulling at his genitals. The women looked back over their shoulders, bored again. Jared yanked, tugged, pounded and pulled, but he couldn't get hard. There are fewer things I have seen that are more steeped in pathos than a man furiously jacking off his own flaccid cock. The women were sitting now. They exchanged impatient glances. 

"Okay," the director said. "We'll roll again. Girls, get in close. When you get hard, Jared, we'll do the pop shot right then and there, okay. Closer, girls. Help him."

Holly and Heather kissed at Jared's cock. They too yanked, tugged, pounded and pulled, but Jared just wouldn't firm up.

"Goddamit!" the director said. "We're losing the light. Jared, get the fuck out of the shot."

Jared looked wounded. He pushed away from the girls, grabbing his limp dick. He kicked at the dirt as he walked away, fist resuming it's pumping action almost involuntarily.

"Okay," the director said, standing up. "Billy, come over here." He was looking at the camera guy. He turned to the sound guy. "Steve, you too." He skipped over the pretty photographer, and then he looked at me. "And you," he said. "All of you. Take off your pants."

"What?" I asked. Steve and Billy looked less surprised. Steve was even unbuckling his belt.

"Take off your pants."

"N-no way," I said.

"You want your paycheck? Take off your pants."

He wasn't looking at me, though. He was looking at Steve, who was taking down his shorts. He nodded.

"My compliments," he said to Steve. "Just about the right size, but too little manscaping. Now Billy?"

"Just a second," Billy said, tugging down his underwear, which was almost as white as his shapeless thighs. "Here."

Out dangled a very impressive dick.

"Congratulations," the director said. "But that's too big. I can only imagine how big it is when it's fully hard. Now that leaves you."

He was looking at me again.

"Take off your pants, bud."

I did what the director told me to do. He nodded.

"This," he said, "is what I'm looking for. You're a dead ringer for Jared here...when he can actually keep it up."

This last part was directed at Jared for his benefit. Jared didn't look over. The director turned back to me.

"And you look like you're more than ready to go. This is great."

"What?"

"Do you watch baseball, bud?"

"Yeah."

"Then you know the merits of a good pinch hitter."

"Y-yeah."

"Then this is your call," the director said. He pointed out to the women, who were standing now, arms crossed below their implants, shifting weight from foot to foot, looking out into the distance. "You're going in."

"I-I..."

"You're gonna say no? This is the American dream, buddy, pinch hitting in the World Series, on the biggest stage. Now go do it. There's fifty bucks extra in it for you. Or nothing. NOW TAKE OFF YOUR GLASSES, TAKE OFF YOUR FUCKING CLOTHES AND GET IN BEFORE WE LOSE ALL THE LIGHT!"

Very gingerly, I took off everything I had on. I couldn't look at the girls. I didn't know if they were looking at me. I had my glasses off. I walked over toward the flesh-colored blur, following my erection. It was weird to feel the onrushing air on my erect dick as I walked. When I got close enough to bring the women's faces into focus, they proved to be expressionless.

"Relax, kid," the director yelled. "All I need is a money shot. No one's gonna see your face. Billy, go in close on his dick and their faces. We don't want that ugly hint of gut to get in the way. Okay, action!"

The smiles reappeared on the women's faces, and they grabbed for my dick. Heather seized my free hand and placed it on her left breast. Holly smiled up at me, eyes intent, snarling sexual provocations under her breath.

"Give us that come you fucking stud. Right on our faces. Right on our big tits."

Heather enveloped my cock with her mouth, hammered down hard on the shaft, her mop of blond hair shimmying, her pushed-up sunglasses quivering atop. The movement of her mouth and tongue, all of it was professional. I felt enraptured, breakers of pleasure surging down into my legs, up into my torso. I had to fight my erection free, lest I come into the depths of her mouth and out of the camera's hungry eye. But before the string of saliva between her lips and my glans could break, Holly caught my cock between in her lips, and, with impressive neck strength, began to bear down on it. Her tongue work was even better. And her eyes met mine. They were an unyielding green, and they seared through me with their eros and their expectation. I had to pull my glance away, shifting it to Heather whose blue eyes were looking up at me the same expectant way. I could hold it no more. I gasped, gripped the base of my cock, and freed it from Holly's hot mouth.

"I'm gonna come!" I declared, rather predictably.

With one defintive pump of my fist, the come surged down and out onto Holly's pink lips and sharpened nose, onto Heather closed eyes and eyelids and red lips, onto Holly's white, choppy bangs and onto Heather's hairline and sunglasses and pearly smile, and it kept coming, onto Holly's chin and onto her big round breasts, dotting the puffy areola, and onto Heather's sharp nipples, one bead dissected precisely by the left nip into two drops running down either side.

My knees weakened and my body sank. I slumped forward, and the women kissed at my bared thighs.

"And cut!" The director said. "That's a wrap."

The girls smiles collapsed. They pulled back from my thighs in unison and headed directly over to the pretty photographer, who was brandishing towels. Meanwhile, I was frozen where I stood, yet on the verge of collapse, gripping my wet, wilting cock.

"Great work, bud!" The director was saying. "You hit it out of the park, you hit the mother lode. That was amazing. So amazing I'm almost curious to see how you fuck."

I looked over at him.

"But not that curious. You'd have to lose the gut and get some tone in the thighs. Not everybody can be a slugger."

Eventually, the photographer was kind enough to bring me my clothes. I wanted to say something to Jared, because it sort of felt like I'd sandbagged him, but then he was slamming the driver's door of his Celica and spinning out of the yard. I wanted to say something to Holly and Heather, too, something like thank you or sorry or maybe both, but the photographer told me they'd already gone into the house to have a shower.

Steve and Billy needed me to help them with the camera cases. On rubbery legs, I managed to get everything into the trunk. The car ride home was even quieter than on the way up.

I got my check in the mail a couple days later. I cashed it and then I quit. I'd spent enough time and effort in the Wisconsin porn scene. I didn't want anything more to do with it.

I never saw the DVD I helped make at the farm on that warm Wisconsin afternoon. I never wanted to, at least not for about ten years. But times change, and nostalgia is a weird thing. Now porn isn't on DVDs so much anymore. It's on streaming sites, and all kinds of people do it. It's a grassroots thing. Doing porn still might not exactly be on par with rehabilitating the homeless or doing ALS research, but it's no longer something a person can't come back from. Between jacking off and girlfriends who were into it, I've watched so many people do sexual things on camera, I sort of want to see what I look like doing it. So once the urge is purged, either hers or mine, I keep sifting through the streaming sites, seeing what I can find. Maybe at the end of the search, buried deep in all the porn, there'll be an old, grainy DVD rip with an 16:9 aspect ratio where a hotshot choch gives it to two weatherbeaten blond Wisconsin strippers in a farmyard before finally turning into me, or a least my pinch-hitting stunt cock. 
     The search continues.