by Mimi Strong
The fairy appeared in the laundry room of my apartment building, floating over my basket of sheets, which were sitting on top of the row of washers. I was minding my own business, digging through my pockets for quarters.
The sparkling little fairy said, in a voice I must describe as tinkly, “Are you Becca Hodge?”
“Who wants to know?” I looked around for a projector, or puppet strings.
“I am your fairy mother, Rasidissi Miliorow Eerpert Sextiy.”
“Wuh… Rad-sexy?”
She smiled a teensy little fairy smile and fluttered down to my laundry, where she sat, cross-legged. “You may call me Rass, and I am your fairy mother.”
“You mean fairy godmother?”
“Whatever.” She waved her star-tipped wand in a circle and tapped the laundry beneath her. It shimmered and turned to a pile of neatly-folded sheets and towels. In fact, all my laundry did.
“Holy fuck.”
“I have a mission for you,” she said, her voice like bells floating on a babbling stream.
“Is it to kill people? Because, if so, I'm going straight to my doctor and having myself committed.” I blinked several times, checking my eyes. I get migraines, but I wasn't having one at the moment, unless it was one of those strange, painless migraines I'd heard about.
She reached into her tiny cleavage, digging around in her sparkling dress, and withdrew a piece of paper smaller than the fortune in a fortune cookie.
“You must seduce this man,” she said.
“What?” I put my hands on my hips. “I'm no call girl. I mean, yeah, I was a little friendly in college, with guys, and I kissed a girl once, but I've settled down. I'm twenty-six, Rass. I don't go around seducing men, okay?”
“Tonight,” she said.
“Or what?”
She laughed, a laugh that was much bigger than you'd expect from a seven-inch-tall fairy. She looked a bit evil, laughing like that. I wondered if she was a devil, in angelic disguise.
“Just do it,” she said. “And do a good job. Don't wait until the last minute like you do your work assignments, and then get help from your friend Deena.”
“How did you… ? Uh. What?”
The laundry room crackled with electricity, then something went BANG and the fairy was gone.
Someone, a guy, said, “Who were you talking to?”
I turned to find my hunky neighbor, Calvin. As in, Cute Calvin. He'd just walked into the laundry room and the bang could have been the door closing behind him.
“I have a vivid imagination,” I said. “Where's the boiler for this building? Do you smell gas? Is there a gas leak?”
He sniffed the air. “I don't smell gas, and I have a good sense of smell.” He was wearing a threadbare blue shirt that showed off his surfing muscles. With his tousled light hair and ocean-blue eyes, Calvin was California personified, but totally down to earth, because he'd move to LA from Idaho or some other potato-growing area.
“I feel kinda weird,” I said. “Do my pupils look normal to you?”
He laughed and set his laundry basket next to mine, getting closer to me than we'd ever been. I'd thought about getting this close to Cute Calvin, but not like this.
“Your pupils look fine to me, but wait.” He reached up and brushed at my cheek with his thumb. He held his thumb in front of me, with an eyelash on it. “Make a wish and blow.”
“Beg pardon?”
He chuckled. “Don't you know? You get a wish whenever you lose an eyelash like this. Now close your eyes, make a wish, and blow like you're blowing out candles on a birthday cake.”
I closed my eyes and wished: I wish fairies were real.
When I opened my eyes again, Calvin gave me a big surfer-boy grin and got to sorting his laundry.
I dug in my jeans for my quarters, then stopped. My clothes were all folded. I gave them a quick sniff and determined they were clean. In fact, they all looked brand-new. Even some moth-eaten spots on my lounge-around cardigan had been magically mended.
“You must have gotten up early,” Calvin said, nodding at my clean laundry.
“I must have,” I said, shrugging. I gathered up my clean baskets and headed toward the door.
Calvin said, “Becca, I think you dropped something.”
Him saying my name gave me a shiver. I didn't think he even knew my name, I was just the girl down the hall from him, or so I thought.
He handed me a tiny piece of paper. The note from the fairy, Rass-whatsername. Containing the name of the man I was supposed to seduce.
I hoped the name was Calvin.
It was not.
Back up in my apartment, I stared at the name on the tiny slip of paper.
Robert Lyle.
I actually knew the guy, or knew of him. He had gone to my high school, and I have a good memory for names. We didn't mix, socially, though, because he was beyond awkward and preferred computers to girls. I think my friend Deena thought he was cute at the time, or he would be without the glasses.
I called Deena and asked if she knew anything about Robert Lyle.
“Becca. Don't you keep up with people from school? He started that software company.”
I pulled out my laptop and started googling his name while we were talking. “I was planning to catch up with everyone next year, at the reunion.”
“With Facebook and stuff, who needs reunions?”
I changed the topic away from reunions, since ours was nearly a year away, and tried to pump her and google simultaneously for details about Robert Lyle.
His stupid name was so absurdly common that I couldn't find a photo. From what I remembered, he had dark hair and pale skin that never saw the light of day, plus thick glasses that were always dirty.
Deena, who was also typing away on her side, said, “Oh, what a coincidence. He's going to that party tonight. The art gallery thing for whatsername, you know, with the spikes in her face.”
“That's tonight?” I thought about the fairy I'd seen in the laundry. The laundry fairy. I could accept that I was crazy, but I couldn't accept I was psychic too. The fact that I'd be seeing the guy that night was what finally convinced me that fairies are real and magic is real.
I didn't have the highest of hopes for Mr. Robert Lyle, computer geek, but a little flirting wouldn't kill me. And, if he had filled out at all, I would probably have sex with him.
Don't think I'm a giant whore-bag. I'm not. Before I met Rass the fairy, I'd only had sex with three people, four if you count oral. For a young, healthy woman living in LA, that's not a high number. It had been six months since I'd split up with a long-term boyfriend, and to tell you the truth, I was more than willing to “shake out the cobwebs,” so to speak.
Also, it was three days before my period and I was feeling ultra frisky.
I wondered if Rass, my fairy mother, had sprinkled something on me, because just thinking about going to the party and bumping into Robert Lyle was making my labia swell up with excitement. With one hand, I reached up and squeezed one breast.
Deena, who was still with me on the phone, said, “What was that? Did you just moan?”
“Uh… no?”
“What's going on over there? Do you have a guy over? Don't TELL me you let douchebag stay over.”
“Nope. We're finished. I haven't seen him, I swear.”
My mouth watered with excitement, thinking about Robert Lyle. I could give him a blow job at the party. That counted as seduction, right? Plus it wasn't quite as slutty as fucking him in the washroom, my legs wrapped around him, panties not even pulled off, but slid aside. Him, entering me in such a rush he barely gets his trousers open. Banging, banging away, getting fucked hard while people wait on the other side of the door to use the bathroom.
My pussy started to ache, a dull pain that was as insistent as it was pleasant.
As though reading my thoughts, Deena said, “You need to get laid. Want me to set you up? My personal trainer is a sure thing.”
“I don't wa
nt your leftovers.” But I was considering it. I'd heard the personal trainer was very… demanding. Like, he gave orders, and made you sweaty. The sex practically counted as a workout, and Deena's abs had been looking great.
She said, “Just because I fucked him doesn't mean you can't. Best friends share their good things.”
She laughed at her wickedness, and I did too.
We spent a few more minutes discussing what we'd wear to the party that night, and then we ended the call.
I searched again for pictures of Robert, finding nothing. I resorted to the old standby, the hardcopy, pulling out our high school yearbook.
His photo was blurry.
That was odd. Nobody else's photo was blurry.
My pussy ached, and I reached into my yoga pants, trying to diminish the rising pressure. As my fingers slipped down into my crease, I got a jolt, almost electric, and not in the good way.
My phone buzzed with an incoming text message.
That was odd, I thought, and I wondered if the buzz had given me the jolt.
The text message read:
No touching yourself. Love, Rass, your fairy mother.
Holy shit.
Now my pussy was practically on fire with desire. I reached down hesitantly and got another shock.
That fucking fairy.
I ran to my bedroom, opened my special drawer and located my toy under my winter sweaters. I turned it on to low and gently brought it toward my crotch, through my pants, not even making skin contact, and I felt the snap again, the punishing jolt. Not enjoyable.
Next, I cursed out Rass, calling her every bad name I could think of, and then I took a cold shower.
The shower helped chill me down and dialed the hot desire in my pussy down to an almost bearable level. I took some headache pills as well, just because they are recommended for reducing fevers, and I sorta had a fever.
Robert Lyle.
Thinking his name made my lips swell up and my juicy areas water.
Oh, man. I had it bad.
And I could think of only one thing that would make me feel better.
Robert's big, hard cock, pumping inside me, sliding in and out. His hands on my ass, holding me steady as he nailed me. Anywhere. Any time. Preferably immediately.
Even if he didn't have a big cock, I still wanted him. In the mouth, in the vag, heck, I'd even go ass for him. My ass tingled with desire as soon as the thought crossed my mind.
I had it real bad.
Deena and I shared a cab so we could arrive together. We pulled up in front of the art gallery, in a dodgy part of town, at 7:15. I love Deena, and I do trust her, but I didn't tell her about the fairy. I would tell her, eventually, but not that night.
The cab driver didn't give us change, and I felt thirteen dollars was a bit much to tip on our low fare, but Deena gave me a look and made me feel cheap, so I climbed out of the cab and tried to shake it off. I'm not rich. There's a reason I live in a run-down apartment building and have to save up quarters to do my laundry. I'd been working at a casting agency, as the office administrator and quasi-Human Resources person for the last couple of years, but I was barely getting receptionist-level pay. Still, the work was interesting. All the cute guys, the actors who came to see us, were gay pretending not to be, so that was a downer, but there was never a dull day.
At least the rip-off cabbie took my mind off the lusty feelings waving out from my vagina. I felt like everyone could see me, everyone was looking at me, and they knew my private lips were slick with desire, hungry to be touched.
As Deena and I opened the door to the art gallery, something sparkled at the edge of my vision. I turned, looking for the fairy, my fairy mother Rass, but she wasn't there. Still, I felt her presence. She had known when I was touching myself earlier that day, so she could obviously see me even when I couldn't see her. That perverted little fairy. I'd be angry at her, if I wasn't enjoying the feeling in my loins, the excitement, just a little bit.
I'd never been so turned-on before. Lucky for me, I am a girl, and with my rock-hard nipples hidden under a padded bra, nobody would be the wiser that I was basically in post-foreplay mode, ready to get reamed. No way could a guy walk around the way I was, with a big, throbbing, heavy hard-on.
Oh, the throbbing!
Unfortunately, I was so distracted my lusty thoughts that I walked right into a girl dressed in black and white, and she dropped what she was carrying. Champagne glasses smashed spectacularly to the concrete floor, shattering and spraying everyone with liquid. A few people screamed, including me.
The poor server, who must have been new at this, reached down and grabbed for a broken piece of glass.
I yelled, “Don't!” at the same time as a man came rushing over.
The server didn't take heed, though, and grabbed the glass. I didn't see the cut happen, because it was so fast, but I saw the blood begin to flow from her hand. The silly girl shrieked and shook her hand, spraying the area with blood. If you thought a bunch of people in fancy art gallery dress freaked when champagne hit them, you should see them get sprayed with blood.
I grabbed her by the wrist to get her to hold still. I'd worked as a lifeguard several summers, and was used to treating people cut with broken bottles (it happens more frequently than you'd expect).
“It's okay,” I said soothingly. “Let's just hold this for a moment and see if we can't stop the bleeding.”
She nodded and whimpered.
Deena, who was standing with her mouth open and her hands on her cheeks, was no help at all. With one hand on the girl's wrist, I used my other hand to pull at the drawstring of her mini-apron, planning to use the black fabric to stop the bleeding.
As I pulled at the string, her pulse throbbing beneath my fingers, her heaving, gasping breaths fanning my cheek, I got the sensation I was undressing her and we were going to make love. The weird thing is I'm totally hetero. I don't even find Angelina Jolie that attractive. And yet, holding the wrist of this mousy young woman in distress, I wanted to jam my tongue down her throat. I wanted to pin her against something and press my body to hers. Take her free hand and guide it into my panties. Moan into her mouth and rub up against her as she stroked my clit, fingered my opening, sucked on my nipples, and…
A man was there, crouching next to us, helping me get the black fabric apron up to the girl's bleeding palm, staunching the bleeding.
I looked into his eyes, dark green and captivating, and we both froze.
He was turned on. I could see it in his eyes, that look of desire. His eyelids were drowsy, his pupils large, his look focused and also unfocused.
I wondered, Are you as turned on as me? Because if you are, I want you to fuck me. Right now. Any way you like it. I live to serve you.
He blinked and looked away, his cheeks reddening. I wondered with horror if I'd said that aloud, but the girl was only sniffing and staring at her hand, not reacting.
An older woman who was not dressed in a server's outfit appeared with a broom. She handed the broom to me, the dustpan to the man, and then whisked away the whimpering girl.
Come back, I thought as I stared at the girl's round, delicious-looking bottom.
“We're a team,” the man said, his voice strong and sexy, confident and smart. Of course I didn't get all that from his voice alone, but from his smile, his good looks, and his body language. “Did she spray you?”
I checked my pink dress for blood and found none, but my legs were a little damp from champagne.
He had one tiny red dot on his tie, but his light-hued shirt and suit jacket appeared unharmed.
We were both standing now, up from the crouched position we'd been in to help the girl.
He nodded at the broom in my hand and said, “Are you going to sweep, or should we switch positions?”
Positions. I imagined him taking me from behind as I leaned over, touching my toes with my fingertips.
My pussy set off a five-alarm warning and began flooding my g-string panties wit
h so much moisture, I worried about spills. Holding my knees and thighs together, I began to sweep up the glass, sweeping from muscle memory more than anything, because my higher cognitive functions were not happening, not with all the blood flow diverted.
He moved around gracefully, positioning the pan for me to sweep into it.
Deena watched us for a moment, then got distracted by someone she knew and disappeared, off to talk to some people.
There were people milling about, admiring the photographs on the gallery walls. There was even a demonstration happening in one corner, with the artist and his assistant “painting with light” or some nonsense. A trio of little white dogs ran about, begging for treats, and people were feeding them bits of cracker and appetizers. A woman with plastic fruit in her hair was dancing.
All of these things I was only dimly aware of, as though watching them happen from inside a fish tank, through glass.
Within my zone of interest, there was only this man, this sexy stranger. He took the broom from my hands, and his casual touch was like a trail of hot kisses across my hands.
He met my eyes again, and I knew he felt it too.
I struggled to find my voice and said, “I should go get cleaned up. I have champagne on my legs. Do you know where the washroom is?”
Without taking his eyes off me, he said, “At the back, but there's a line.”
“I don't want to wait.”
“Me neither,” he said. “Come, I think there's another room with a sink.”
I smiled at this as he led me away from the crowd. “A room with a sink? Don't you mean the kitchen?”
“Yes, but not the main kitchen.”
“Two kitchens,” I mused. “Will wonders never cease?”
He set the broom and dustpan next to a garbage bin. “This way.” He gave me a twisted smile and I realized he was holding my hand. How did that happen?
We moved down a hall, away from the buzz of the crowd.
My hand was still in his as we rounded a corner and found a pantry-like room. There was no sink, but there were linens, and pitchers of ice water.
