Sexual Solstice

by Bradley, Tracey B.

  Slowly Gillian inserted and partially withdrew the club, then in and out, in and out. She remembered Randy mentioning the prostate, behind the penis, and gently worked the club up and down in a pumping motion hoping to find the sweet spot. “Oh dear God,” the Sergeant moaned, “You’ve done this before. Ooooh. Ooooh. Right there, oh yeah right there mama!” Gillian left the stick in the Sergeant’s arse. “I hope you don’t mind but I’m going to climb on the other end,” and she let the handle slip between her legs and pulled herself close to the Sergeant. It was something she had never experienced before: a sensation of giving a man extreme pleasure while deriving the same, being so close to him, with his back to her.

  “Oooh, now I can fuck you. Oh shit. Is it working? Is it in you? Am I fucking you?”

  Gillian pressed her body close, sensing her breasts, stomach and thighs coming in contact with the hairy, massive body of the Sergeant. Soon Gillian was in the fog of her own kind of pleasure, riding the stick that was up the Sergeants ass. Gillian too, had no trouble finding her g-spot within. “I-I-I’m cumming, cried the Sergeant. OH FUCK YEAH! But Gillian was in her bliss. She could barely speak, let alone breathe. The Sergeant thrust his hips against the bars, his cock squeezing between them, and his ass contracting and releasing providing Gillian with a rhythm of her own. “I’m cumming too. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.” But the truth was that she had been quietly in a heightened state of orgasm for some minutes. Her face was flushed, as a fever passed through it like a sunny spot shining in from the clouds.

  Finally Gillian stood back in exhaustion. She noticed semen still dripping from the Sergeant’s cock. She was spent, and his bent body slumped. She reached down and unlatched the cuffs at his ankles and then rose and reached to undo his wrists. He fell to the floor, on his knees, and turned to Gillian, still standing, and placed his face square into her crotch. “Mmmmm,” he said, “You can’t have everything. Not being able to do this was the real torture. How sweet this is.” He kissed her there and then kissed all the way up to her belly button.

  They made their way back to the alcove where they collapsed into each other, and onto the bed fashioned from the pillows and blankets. The precinct office remained quiet for the remainder of the night. Gillian and the Sergeant had made their dreams come true.

  Chapter Eight – Waylaid in Old Westbury

  On Christmas day it was business as usual at the precinct office; people had gotten into family arguments over money, love, how to slice a turkey, the past, the present, the future, too much, too little. Usually someone showed up with a bandaged hand, black eye or a bloody nose, handcuffed, possibly swearing. The Sergeant told Gillian that for her own good he would move her to the lunchroom but that she had to play fair and not distract him. Slowly the women’s quarters were being populated by stray hookers.

  Gillian sat in the lunchroom, leafed through her salvaged magazines and slowly and gradually started to sink into a funk. She thought of how far away from any kind of Christmas she had gotten. When she and Edgar spent it in England, either in London or Cherry Hill, they would entertain the relatives and Gillian would spend the better part of a day just on her own presentation. She always wore something that harkened to the silver or gold of the season, or, her favourite, copper, and emerald which complemented her hair and complexion.

  Other Christmases were spent in the tropics, but frequently seemed empty because of the company she had to keep––Edgar. Now she was without friends or family, granted she had had a fun time with a kinky Sergeant who made her feel indispensable. She kept telling herself they’d had a dirty time, but it was a time built on trust and a definite sense of fun. And he was so big. There was something absolutely arousing about bringing a giant to his knees like that. Even so, she was trapped and somehow being accused of the disappearance of her husband. It just didn’t make sense. Edgar had taken everything from her––her dignity, her womanhood, and almost her zest for life. She stared out the window. Would she ever see the palms blowing in the balmy tropical breeze or was it not to be?

  Midday the Sergeant hung up the phone, he looked dishevelled as anyone who worked the night shift would, but he had a softness about him. Gillian had seen through the glass partition, and what she saw was a big softie. He rubbed his eyes, and stood, which was always a monumental affair to see him rise, like Jack wondering if the beanstalk would ever stop growing. She watched him come to the lunchroom, one corner of his mouth turned up, in a kind of grin. He stuck his head in. “Bail’s been posted.”

  “What? By whom? Edgar? He’s been kidnapped, or vanished.”

  “No, but the benefactor is on his way through those doors.”

  Gillian turned to see a trim clean cut, very New York looking lawyer coming down the aisle. He had a familiar, and slightly mad look in his eyes. “Gillian Pritchard? Gillian Sheridan?”

  “That’s me. Accused of making my husband disappear. I’ve done worse, I’m sure. Who the heck are you.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “A friend of Edgar’s? Did we meet somewhere? The Maldives? The Caribbean? South America? Dubai?”

  “Keep guessing. This is fun.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “Alright. How about not as far away as the Caribbean, or even Southampton.”

  “ ––even Southampton. Now you are trying to tell me something.” She studied the clean shaven face, the kind that is splashed with expensive cologne, perhaps subject to a facial once a month. Hair, perfect. Eyebrows, shaped. Cashmere coat, broad shoulders, though his figure dwarfed by the Sergeant. Everything perfect, and perfectly trimmed.

  He spoke again, “does this help?” He held his arm up to block the lower half of his face, “and this,” he took his scarf and threw it over his hair so it hung down either side.

  “It’s all in the eyes, is that what you’re telling me?”

  “You’re getting warm.”

  All at once Gillian squealed, “Oh my God. Those green eyes! Well I never. If it isn’t! Holy Father Christmas! Don’t you clean up nice. Cliff! Cliff Vanderveldt!”

  “The third.”

  “The third! That part I forgot. Oh my God. Cliff, is it really you? No facial hair, a hair cut, no beads, flowers, patchouli.”

  “Tiffany––for men.”

  “You smell, and look, exquisite.”

  “As do you.”

  “I am a bit worse for wear, having spent the night in lock up. But Sergeant McMullon made me feel very comfortable.” Gillian nodded towards the Sergeant. Cliff looked at the Sergeant and back at Gillian. “I’m sure he did. Naughty girl. Are you still?”

  “Moi? Naughty? How dare you. Actually I’ve been absolutely almost celibate to a fault for about the past two decades.” Then Gillian lowered her voice. “I thought I’d celebrate by getting my brains fucked out, before I went back in the closet. How about you?”

  “Well, speaking of closets––“

  “No way!

  “Yes way, with a hunk of guy who makes me feel like a man, I can tell you.”

  “Cliff? You? You had such a way with, well, with me.”

  “I’ve always loved sex, what can I say. I just love it more this way.”

  “Well good for you. And the lucky guy!”

  “Lucky all around.”

  “That reminds me, let me say good bye to the Sergeant and then let’s go somewhere for a decent Cappuccino and get caught up.”

  The Sergeant handed Gillian her things, and then she embraced him, “two ships passing.”

  “Two ships passing. You are a supreme goddess. Thanks for indulging me.”

  “Anytime I’m back through the precinct office and we have the place to ourselves.”

  “You’re on.”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “You too.”

  Gillian called her mom and, as luck would have it, she invited Cliff, Chad and Gillian all to dinner that night. Randy and Val were going to drop by too. Gillian would stay with Cliff and Chad out on Long Is
land, so a stop in Brooklyn wasn’t out of the way.

  “Oh,” Gillian sighed. “It’s starting to feel a little more like Christmas now.”

  They met hunky Chad idling in a brand new shiny Mercedes Sedan, said their “hellos” and “I can’t believe it” and “what a score” and took off to the Sea Grill at Rockefeller Plaza for more than just a cappuccino. The three looked out at the rink and the Plaza. “God, I can’t believe this. As if my mother could come up with bail. She’d have to mortgage the house in Brooklyn.”

  “The way prices are, she’d have something left over. It’s up and coming.”

  “So how did you two meet? Cliff can fill you in on my miserable news. I’m sure yours is much more exciting.”

  Cliff started, “Well, when the beard got tired and––

  “Oh just skip to the chase.”

  “Well, part way through my transformation, I asked Chad to be my personal trainer. That’s it. Short and sweet.”

  “Too short, give me some sweet.”

  “Um, I was straight at the time. Chad helped me see the light, in the sun-bed at the club as a matter of fact. Lots of light!”

  “So you’re a trainer.”

  “Not anymore. He owns a string of clubs, mostly into the bigger law firms, banks, private clubs. He got in at the right time with the right idea. Didn’t you darling.”

  Chad’s grin lit up the room, with dimples you could get lost in and never find your way out until he stopped smiling.

  “Well whatever happens between you two must be scorching, I can feel it from here.”

  “It’s been fifteen years and still feels like the first week, or month at least.”

  “Well here’s to many more. Thank you for coming to my rescue, especially today.” They killed two bottles of Perrier-Jouet fleur de Champagne, 2004, while nibbling on tuna carpaccio and fried oysters. Gillian marveled at the happy coincidence, and wondered if, somehow, despite the fact she was suspected of murder or kidnapping, her fortunes had changed. Was it somehow in some way payback time?

  The three finished lunch with a warm Irish hot chocolate while watching the skaters, and then bundled into the car. “You travel lightly?” mused Chad, noticing her large carryall.

  “I was hoping this would be a short stop on the way to a hot spot.” Gillian joked. “It’s all wash and wear. As long as I can keep the pounds off then it’s pretty easy. You should know that, having been a trainer.”

  “After dinner at your mom’s we’re going to a hot spot. Cliff’s folks are hosting their famous big Christmas night bash.”

  “To think that after all these years, I finally get to rub shoulders with some Long Island Hoy Paloy! And you guys get to rough it in Brooklyn style, just to keep you humble.”

  The car sped through the now melting snow of the previous days, over the bridge and finally pulled up in front of Gillian’s family home. “Well we don’t ever have to worry about gentrification hitting this street, as you can see.” But far from the array of small automotive repair and other questionable businesses lining one side of the street was an atmosphere inside that was soaked in Christmas cheer. Gillian’s mother, as described by the boys, was an absolute bombshell, and it was easy to see where Gillian got her looks from. Her mother, long suffering to raise six kids in a three bedroom house, was the father and mother, the breadwinner and the bread-maker, the inspiration and the voice of reason, the disciplinarian and the one to indulge, showed less signs of aging than of wisdom. Her thick hair was a rich white, her smooth skin fine and translucent, and she was tall. She hugged Gillian and the men and then left them to their own devices, Gillian introduced them to the brothers who had managed to make it, and to the in-laws and friends she still recognised. There were the usual jokes about no Edgar, no children and no time for Brooklyn, which served to remind Gillian why she had avoided spending too much time at these types of gatherings. Still, in the mayhem and emotional storms that swirled there was always Val and Randy, who had rarely missed a Sheridan Christmas and weren’t about to. Gillian saw them by the buffet and made a b-line, even if it meant knocking unfamiliar nephews and nieces from her path.

  “Well what the hell happened to you?” Val looked Gillian head to toe, trying to put together a story.

  “When?”

  “Sometime after the Upper Westside and before getting arrested.”

  “You can read about it in my memoir.”

  “And how was jail?”

  “Jail on Christmas Eve. I’ll let you feel sorry for me for a little longer. Memorable is all I can say. Wouldn’t want to do it again, unless of course the circumstances were similar. Otherwise count me out.”

  “And Edgar? Where’s Edgar? What did you do with him?”

  “I have a sneaking feeling he’s actually been kidnapped, but forces greater than I are trying to track him down, and not doing a very good job of it, if they arrested me.”

  “And who are your friends?”

  “Here’s where it gets interesting. Do you remember when I worked at Nathan’s, and had that thing across the road.”

  Val snapped her fingers, trying to get hold of a memory. “The guy with the um––the hippie guy, that was suspiciously clean? That guy?”

  That’s him, over there, Clifton Vanderveldt, the third, no less, and his guy, and I emphasize guy, the lovely ex-trainer, now entrepreneur of fabulous fitness clubs in the city, the humpy Chad. Randy, I’m surprised you’ve never met them.”

  “We move in different circles obviously. I may have read about them though, in New York, or the Advocate. You know, power couples and all that crap.”

  “Do I detect a note of jealousy?”

  “Nope.”

  The beefy dimpled face of Chad interrupted, “Gillian, Cliff says that if you’d like to invite your pals up to Old Westbury that would be loads of fun.”

  “We couldn’t,” popped out of Randy’s mouth before he had even turned from swallowing a devilled egg to change his mind, which he did, on closer inspection of Chad, “well we could. Val? Don’t argue, it would be nice. A visit to Old Westbury? Why not.”

  The trip up to Old Westbury involved Randy and Val following Gillian and the men on the highway, then off again, for about an hour, to roads that Gillian said reminded her of Cherry Hill, and houses that were cleverly secluded behind groves of birch, maple and at the ends of long curving driveways.

  “Well, the adventure continues,” Gillian said, getting out of the car. “I feel like I am in a kind of relaxed custody here with you two. I suppose I am. Am I complaining? Certainly not! Although I would like a quick freshen up. What a beautiful place!”

  “There should be a room. There are ten. One or two should be empty. I’ll check.”

  There were indeed rooms above the carriage house where Gillian, Val, and Randy were invited to leave their things, freshen up and if necessary crash at the end of the evening. “Things will be underway within the hour. Do whatever you need to freshen up. I’ll send up a couple of bottles of Veuve. Sorry, it has to be the pink stuff. It is Christmas after all.”

  Within minutes the fireplace was ablaze in their room and the three were happily sipping bubbly and bouncing on the bed. “Champagne tastes so good when someone else is paying for it,” said Randy as he popped open the bottle. “And I do love being in a home I don’t have to try to sell for a stinking commission. Can’t wait to try the bed.”

  “I get the bed,” Gillian said.

  “No.” Val said, “I get the bed.”

  “I didn’t say which bed now, did I?”

  The bathroom was a steamy cave of perfume and talcum as the three took turns in the original Milewshki multi-headed shower-spa that they admitted almost brought each of them to their own private orgasm. “I could marry that thing,” Gillian said. “Oh darn, I guess I am still technically married, as far as I know.”

  The three, feeling quite refreshed from several glasses of Veuve, and the implied decision to not worry about a designated driver, because
in fact no one would have to drive, made their way to the foyer to be responsible and help Chad and Cliff greet guests until frivolity pulled them into more fun parts of the house.

  “Other than the beer and Chinese we ate in jail last night I think I’ve had Champagne and some sort of sea food for every meal. I feel like the Little Mermaid for God’s sake. Anyway Christmas, what the hell, and it’s not as if Edgar ever looked at me. I could have been in a muumuu just as easily as a bikini.”

  “You know,” Randy said, “ I have always wanted to swat your ass for staying with that guy. I mean what does that do to a person’s confidence? Look at you, the Queen of the Amazons and you act like you don’t deserve a damn thing.”

  “Well, you are sweet, but––oh you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’m a woman. First of all. I don’t feel like an Amazon. Look at me, honestly. Can you really say that?”

  “I can.”

  “Then you’re a liar, or very sweet.”

  “I’m neither.”

  “Then you’re very, very sweet. Let’s get some sushi.”

  Val shouldered up to Gillian at the buffet, “So,” she said, “are you going to tell us what happened while you were incarcerated?”

  “I’ll say one thing: he was big. Massive. Randy he would have had you for an appetizer. I had to tie him up just to control him.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Of course I did. Hancuffs. He struggled too. But he took his punishment well. Took the billyclub like a man.”

  “Now you’re lying.”

  “I am not. Go and ask Cliff.”

  “He was there?”

  “No. But he saw him. He can give you a blow by blow description of the Sergeant, and Randy, I don’t care how you feel about these two, I want you to be an immaculate guest. After all, Cliff sprung me, or sprang me, or whatever.” But when Gillian looked up, Val, working her black Michael Kors party dress that, with her new black haircut made her look like a Russian spy (at a cocktail party), had moved to the other side of the table and was chatting up a square jawed, square toothed WASP from Southhampton. She obviously saw this as a challenge, thought Gillian, given Val’s preference for mutli-culti encounters. When in Old Westbury, do as the Old Westburians do. Randy had taken off to hit up Cliff for information about the Sergeant, and hit up Chad just for the hell of it. And soon Gillian found herself chattering away once again about her weakness for sushi and bubbly, especially when back in the States. She had been cornered by a young couple, Cecil and Ashley who found her adventure intriguing, drank lots and laughed a bit too heartily. The man, about Gillian’s age didn’t seem cut out for the toffee nosed set, yet was doing his best to keep up, was darkly sexy, kind of rough, as if bred on the wrong side of the tracks, with the wrong first name––could he have been the tradesman’s son? And his girlfriend, a trophy?––reminded Gillian, but for the huge breasts, of herself so long ago. Smart, but willing to compromise her potential for a sure thing. It wasn’t so much wanting the high life, as just not being able to have faith that things would work out as planned and groceries and rent would be paid on time. A sexy guy, whether self-made or born rich, was a huge distraction. “Are you staying the night,” the man asked, and added quickly, “We are.” We hiked in from Water Mill. Cliff and I are buddies from way back. Seems he finally met his match. How do you know him?”