Nicholson Baker - The Fermata

“The other one,” I would breathe. “The other one’s looking left out.” Then I would have an inspiration. “Hang on, what am I thinking? I’ll get the other washcloth! Don’t move!” I would leap up and retrieve my washcloth from the bathroom. “It’s still a little wet from my shower,” I would tell her. “You won’t mind?”

She would shake her head. I would poke the washcloth through the door. She would drop it into the ice bucket, squeeze it, and, leaning forward again, cup her other breast with it. Two hands on two washcloths on two breasts. I would make sounds of wonder and praise.

“I bet they’ll stay on by themselves,” she would say. She would straighten and let her hands fall to her sides. The washcloths would indeed remain in place. She would pull at their corners, neatening away the wrinkles. They would look like oversized pockets on a very sheer shirt.

I would ask her what it would feel like to hold her nipples through them.

“Probably it would feel pretty good,” Adele would say. She would gently pinch her nipples through the wet plush. Still holding them, she would bow forward and shake her breasts so that the washcloths peeled off her skin and fell over her pinching fingers. Then she would drop both washcloths into the bucket. “You know how I might like to wash my breasts if I were by myself?” she would ask me, shaking the water from her fingers.

“How?” I would ask.

She would slide the ice bucket forward and lean her torso lower and lower over it, supporting some of her weight on one hand. She would allow one of her breasts to descend into the round opening of the bucket and then let it dip silently in the water. This would get me crazy. The chain on the door would start rattling.

“Oh, shit, that’s so fine,” I would say, thumping my fist up and down my gender-beam. “So efficient, so sensible. Can you do the other now? Can you dunk it for me?”

Adele would have both her hands on the rug now, and she would continue her wonderful alternating breast-dipping session: dipping one breast, lifting it, letting it drip a little, moving laterally, dipping the other breast. Watching her, I would get into such a froth of desire that I would find myself unable to say anything more than “Dunk that tit, dunk that tit, you’re so fucking sexy, dunk that tit!” which wouldn’t bother her. After a while she would bring her face close to the door-gap and look through at my jaction.

“It looks like that feels good,” she would say.

“It really, really does,” I would say.

“My nipples are all clean and hard,” she would say. “Would you like to touch one?”

She would hold her breast to the opening and I would kneel forward and let my richard nose into it. Though this would be the first time we had touched, aside from shaking hands, it wouldn’t feel wildly momentous, just part of the escalation. She would pull that breast away and would bring the other nipple close to the gap. The farther my yokel poked through the door, the more I would be able to feel the air of her room on it. The air would seem cooler. My dick, I would realize with surprise, was in her motel room! Her other hand would have found its way between her legs and would be unpretentiously polishing her Gummi Bear.

“I wish that I could give you a kiss,” I would say. “I don’t mean that you should unchain the door, I just mean I wish we could kiss.”

“Let’s see what we can do,” she would say. We would get our heads as close together as they could be and we would stick out our tongues. Their tips would touch; the sensation would flow crotchwards. The chain on the door would continue to make its audible presence known.

“I wish I could see your ass,” I would croak.

“Hmm.” She would tilt her head. “I don’t think our relationship is at a point where you can see my ass.”

“No?” I would say, surprised.

“No,” she would say. “Because you know what? Something tells me you want to see my asshole. Right?”

I would equivocate. “Not just your asshole. Ass and asshole together. In context.”

“Right,” she would say, “but I don’t really want you looking at my asshole tonight.”

I would not argue with this. I would say, “I accept that. An asshole is a very personal thing. I’d be perfectly happy just to see your ass. You could keep your cheeks together.”

But she wouldn’t go for that either. “I think not,” she would say. “I don’t trust myself. If I turned around and showed you my ass, my cheeks might fly open, and we wouldn’t want that. What if I washed my breasts some more?” She would brush some of her hair over one of her nipples for emphasis. “Hmm?”

I would say, “That would be fantastic, of course, but — here’s an idea. What if you took one of the washcloths and just placed it on your ass? Just placed it there. It would be a white square, a helicopter landing pad, but it would follow your shape.”

“You mean like this?” She would wring out a washcloth and hold it as a loincloth over her bottom, and she would turn with her back to me.

“Yes,” I would say, “in a way, but I guess I didn’t mean quite so free-hanging. I think it might need to be wetter, so that it really clings, just the way it clung to your breasts. The way you have it now it’s a little bit … centerfielderesque.”

“Ah.” Adele would dip her hands in the water and hold them on her ass to wet it, and then she would apply the washcloth to her skin and turn to show me.

“Perfect, perfect!” I would whisper-hiss. “Now I can see your sex-shape and yet your ass observes all the proprieties.” I would shuffle my way as close to the door-opening as possible and I would begin to jack frantically, my knuckles rapping smartly on the door. The lock’s chain would clank and rattle with every stroke of my fist. “Can you back up towards the door a little more?” I would ask.

On her knees, Adele would back the white square on her ass towards me. It would follow the seam of her open peach faithfully; it would look oddly like an open book.

“Just a little more!” I would say. I would tell her how close my cock was to her ass, and how fucking incredible her ass looked. Just below the edge of the washcloth, I would be able to see four of her fingers fretting against the flushed cowling of her clit. I would let go of my cock and extend my hand through the door-gap as far as it would go; I would almost be able to reach her with my middle finger. “Back up just a teensy bit more,” I would say. “I’m going to touch you.”

She would let her knees slide farther apart on the rug and would push back with her hands, bringing her ass right up against the edge of the door. My fingertips would make contact with the rough damp texture of the washcloth. I would pull on one of the upper corners, which would have slipped down a little.

“Is everything still in place?” she would ask, looking back over her shoulder. “You’re not seeing anything you shouldn’t be seeing?”

I would let my fingers brush lightly down into her terry-cloth vale. Then I would go up the opposite slope a little way, then back down, tracing parabolas of shape-appreciation. I would know more or less where things were underneath, but I wouldn’t be able to see them. “All is in order for the time being,” I would say. “I’ll keep a close eye on it, though.”

“Thanks,” she would say.

“Do you want to frig your pussy real fast?” I would inquire huskily.

Adele would answer that she was frigging her pussy real fast. We wouldn’t speak for some time, mewing antiphonally.

The washcloth would be looser now. I would essentially be holding it up for her with my finger. “It doesn’t seem to want to stay put entirely,” I would warn. “But I think I know a good way to keep it from falling. Shall I?”