Hard Measures

—Oh gosh! Fuck! she yelled, half-crazed with pleasure and pain. Please not so deep! It hurts!

Quinn lowered his chest onto her back, his cool sweat sealing them together, and groaned into her ear. He pushed agonizingly deep inside her again in this final position, his tight ball sack burying her slick and swollen little folds below it, and held himself still. Denise fancied she could feel his organ throbbing against her stomach from within, and then—all at once—something else: a new warmth and wetness, obvious to her panicked mind as a flood of fresh semen plastering the deepest recesses of her sex. She kicked her legs feebly, feeling trapped beneath him as she was inseminated by his copious seed. Despite herself she loved the sensation (and the idea too), cooing against the sheets of her bed while Quinn held her there, pinned to the mattress by his enormous, spurting male sex.

Slowly, he withdrew himself. She lay motionless on her belly, breathing deep, uneven breaths.

—Denny, he said, you are unquestioningly the best tutor I have ever had.

She remained in bed, lying on her aching belly (which had never before been aching after intercourse), and snuggled her face into the soft sheets as she listened to him dress. When the door closed behind him, she rolled over and slid a hand in between her legs, dipping a furtive finger inside her sex. Gosh, was she loose and sore! The glutinous leftovers of her student's orgasm leaked out of her slackened opening, coating her fingers.

Now that Quinn had been accepted to a university, did that mean they were done? Had she been victorious after all?

The warm, bubbly exit of fluids from her stretched interior suggested that perhaps they had only just begun.

Denise inspected her labia, which she had always found cute, all rosy and petite; now they were densely swollen (the left one, curiously, even more so) and extremely tender to the touch. She gave her enflamed clitoris a gentle stir, smearing it with his abundant semen, but could elicit only a little stinging pleasure.

—What if I'm pregnant? she asked herself. Will he still fuck me like that again?  . . . Maybe always?

Basel 2014
Budapest 2019

What you have just read is my rewrite of a discarded story draft by a fellow LIT writer who, for reasons, may preferably stay anonymous. He found the original idea lacking in too many aspects to be worth his working and your reading time; I tended to disagree and thus, after recognizing its potential, started freely rewriting it all, of which, after untold hours of assembling words into sentences and scrupulously polishing them, the present text is the result. Since English is not my first language, I apologize for any linguistic crimes I may have committed in the process against the medium of choice of such great artists as William Shakespeare, Laurence Stern, Herman Melville, James Joyce, and Vladimir Nabokov; for any complaints you may nonetheless harbor about the issue, I kindly ask you to please bring them to the immediate attention of my most gracious editors inkyscandal and MlledeLaPlumeBleu (who, by the way, are far more accomplished writers than I—and you too, probably). What I do not apologize for, however, is, with regard to direct speech, my use of quotation dashes instead of quotation marks; about the latter, James Joyce (who is such a great writer that—see!—I feel obliged to name him twice already in this absurdly intricate and long-winded afterword), I think, said it best when he designated them "perverted commas."

Anyway, I need to get back to the real thing, but I commend you for your patience to bear with me to the end. Thanks! (No dick pics, please.)