Made For Sex

by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

  Terry tipped her chin and looked at the statue’s face. The eyes were looking at her and appeared almost alive. The mouth didn’t move, yet the statue said, “Step on my pedestal and kiss my lips.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said aloud. “I’ll bet you guards have a lot of fun with this. It’s like one of those large rooms where you can whisper in one place and, although no one in between can hear, the voice is clear as a bell somewhere across the room.”

  “It’s not a joke or a trick,” the voice said. “Please. Do it for me, for us.”

  Again Terry’s eyes took in the entire room, every shadowed corner, everywhere where someone could hide and trick her. There was no loudspeaker for an audio system, no one lurking with camera in hand, waiting to snap an embarrassing photo. Nothing but her and Apollo.

  “Please,” the voice whispered.

  Hell, she said to herself. So I look like a fool. She stepped onto the pedestal and touched her lips to the lips of the statue. Funny, she thought, they feel like warm flesh. Then there were arms around her. His arms. How was this possible? But she didn’t care. Standing on the pedestal, she deepened the kiss and his mouth opened. A hand grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. His mouth devoured her throat, kissing and licking at the pulse that pounded in her neck. “Oh God,” she moaned.

  She felt herself lifted and carried down off the raised block, toward a bench at the side of the gallery. Hands quickly pulled off her blouse and bra and a mouth fastened onto her already tightly erect nipple. His mouth suckled and pulled at her. She reached around and grasped his well-developed shoulders, holding him against her. Her hands stroked his back, then the fronts of his thighs.

  He was moving, always moving. His mouth was on her neck, her breast, her belly, her palm. His hands were in her hair, on her ribs, on her hips. He pulled off the rest of her clothes, spread her legs and knelt on the floor beside the bench, his mouth finding her most intimate places. His tongue lashed and licked, driving her wild. Never had she been so hot so fast. Two fingers were inside of her and his mouth pulled gently on her clit. When a third finger joined the first two and filled her, she came, hard and hot. She screamed out as the waves of orgasm crashed over and over her.

  When she had caught her breath, she opened her eyes. It was too dim to see the man before her, but it was certainly no statue and the fig leaf was gone. Then his hard cock touched her pussy lips and slowly, so slowly slipped inside her soaked, slippery channel. The contrast between their previous wild movements and this slow filling of her passage drove Terry up again. Then, without a word, he slammed into her, pulled out and slammed again. The passion, the heat, the frantic movements. She came again, and a moment later he groaned and came inside of her.

  She must have passed out for a few moments. When she awoke, she was still lying on the bench, naked. The statue was back on its pedestal, white marble gleaming in the dim light.

  Not knowing what had really happened, she slowly picked up her clothes. As she pulled on her panties, the wetness between her legs was unmistakable and her bra covered the still-erect nipples. When she was fully dressed, she gazed at the statue, then walked over and touched Apollo’s leg. “Come another evening,” the voice whispered. “Come every evening.”

  Knowing she would be back, she left the gallery to look for someone to let her out of the museum.

  Fran took a deep breath. She realized she had written the entire story in only an hour and now she was exhausted and breathless. She moved to the top of the document and typed, Apollo by Nichole St. Michelle. She would proofread it and run the story through the spellcheck program another time. She turned off her laptop, undressed and, wearing an oversized tee shirt with a picture of Garfield on the front, walked back into the living room. She flipped on the light over the statue. She walked up to it, ran her hands over its hairless chest, then gave it a friendly pat on the buttocks. Then she turned off the lights and climbed into bed.

  When the phone rang at about ten the following morning, Fran was sitting in the kitchen drinking a cup of herb tea and wondering about how to spend her first full day in New York. “Hello,” she said.

  “Hi Fran, it’s Eileen. Did you settle in okay?”

  “Sure did,” Fran said. “I did some writing and then roamed the cable TV. It’s got more channels than I’ve ever seen. And I finally got to watch the Playboy channel. Holy cow. It’s like Sesame Street for grown-ups.”

  Eileen laughed. “How do you mean that? Have you been thinking of doing kinky things with the cookie monster?”

  “Not like that. But the Playboy channel is all short takes, bright colors, dancing popcorn bags and quick, very hot shots of beautiful women. Nothing lasts for more than thirty seconds. It’s like they don’t think the audience has the attention span of a gnat.”

  Eileen’s laugh echoed through the phone line. “Or a three-year-old.”

  “But it certainly was educational.”

  “So have you thought about what you want to do today?”

  “Not really. I’m a tourist so I guess I should do touristy things.”

  “Like?”

  Fran hesitated then grinned. “Like Bloomingdales?”

  “Ah, it’s shopping time. Ready to get into the New York mode?”

  “I think I’m ready for a lot of things.”

  “Whatever you decide is fine with me. Only you can decide. But for today, Don’s off with the kids and his brother and so we can shop till we drop. We can create Nicki from the ground up.”

  And they did. By the time the two women returned to Fran’s apartment, late that afternoon, Fran had happily put a major dent in her charge card. The two women, their arms loaded with boxes and bags, hurried into the bedroom and quickly unwrapped items and spread them out on the bed. There was a long black velvet skirt slit almost to the thigh that went with either of two revealing sequined tops for the various evening functions. There were two skirts that were so short that Fran thought they were indecent. But Nicki, the two women had concluded, would wear clothes like that. There were a few sheer blouses and a tight-fitting black leather vest. There were several pair of opera pumps and two pocketbooks. “Nicki can’t wander around New York with a backpack,” Eileen had said. Together they opened the remainder of the boxes, but the purchase that amazed Fran the most was in the last one.

  “I can’t imagine why you bought these,” she said to Eileen as she opened the box. “They’re so tight that they are almost indecent.”

  “I want you to have them. And eventually, you will feel comfortable enough to wear them,” Eileen said. “Or at least Nicki will.”

  Fran reached into the box and pulled out a pair of buttery-soft black leather pants. She laid them on the bed beside the black leather vest that matched perfectly. Will I ever have the courage to wear them?

  As they put their treasures in the closet the phone rang. “Fran, it’s Carla. I just have a minute before dinner and I thought I’d give you a call. How are you doing?”

  “I’m just great. Eileen and I spent the day creating a clothing persona for Nicki. I’m not sure about all of it, but I guess I’m willing to give some of it a try.”

  “I have a phone client tomorrow around eleven. Maybe we could get together before that, say around ten? I could drive in after I drop BJ at school. He’d rather die than take the bus these days. God bless teenaged boys.”

  A phone client? Fran wondered. She mentally shrugged. “I’d love to. Shall I meet you at your place?”

  “Let me pick you up. That way if I get stuck in traffic I’m not leaving you on a street corner. Is ten good for you?”

  “It’s just great.”

  Fran heard shouting in the background. “Sounds like the Knicks just tied the game,” Carla said. “I just get over football season when the boys move to basketball and hockey.” Fran could hear the other woman’s sigh. “But they have fun. I actually took them to a Knicks game a few months ago. We had a blast, although I’m not a sports fan at all.” There was
another cheer and Carla said, “Gotta run. See you in the morning.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Fran said and hung up.

  “So you’re getting together with Carla tomorrow?”

  “She’ll be here around ten. She’s got a phone client at eleven, whatever that is.”

  “You know all about Carla now, don’t you?”

  “I know what she does for a living if that’s what you mean.”

  Eileen raised an eyebrow. “Phone client. Phone sex.”

  “Of course,” Fran said, shaking her head. “I’m still thinking Omaha.”

  “Don’t be like that. I’m sure there are Carla-equivalents in Omaha, too. Sex is big business. It’s everywhere from truck stops to the Internet. Why do you think your book sells so well? It’s wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but lots of women, and probably men too, read it for the erotica.”

  Fran took a deep breath. “You’re right, of course.” She looked at her watch. “Hey, it’s almost six. Aren’t you due home?”

  “Holy shit, I didn’t realize how late it’s gotten. I do have to run. Will you be okay fending for yourself tonight?”

  “Of course. The pantry’s well stocked and I’ve got about a hundred TV channels to choose from.”

  “Okay,” Eileen said, grabbing her coat, “I’ll call you tomorrow. If you’re not around, I’ll leave a message.”

  “It’s been a great day. Thanks.” The two women hugged and, with her usual long stride, Eileen headed for the door. “Say hello to your husband for me,” Fran called.

  “I sure will.” And she was gone.

  After a dinner of peanut butter sandwiches and herb tea, Fran decided that she needed to broaden her outlook a little bit, learn more about the kinky side of sex. Her Internet service provider had a local number so, knowing that she wouldn’t be incurring any charges for the Devlins, she spent several hours looking at Internet sites devoted to everything from foot worship to hypnosis. She read several stories about unusual activities, most of which were poorly written, filled with typos and misplaced punctuation. Some were so offbeat that she couldn’t believe that people actually got pleasure from the described activities. Some, though, were so riveting that she could overlook all the editing problems the stupid story lines and, in a few cases, the non-consentuality. Those excited her so much that when she finally logged off she was really aroused.

  She wandered into the living room and turned on the spotlight over the statue. Then she took off all of her clothes, spread a towel on the sofa and stretched out on it. With her head on the arm of the couch, she could gaze at the incredibly sexy body of the man in the statue. She positioned herself so that he seemed to be watching her. Then she slid her hands over her ribs and belly, slowly moving her fingers to her already-erect nipples. She pinched, enjoying the tightening in her groin.

  “Are you watching me?” she asked the bronze man.

  Oh yes, she imagined him saying. Show me.

  She caressed her belly, worked her fingers slowly toward her sopping pussy. Pinching her nipple with one hand, she rubbed her clit with the other. She shifted so the statue could have the best view of her hands as she rubbed and stroked. “Watch me when I come,” she whispered.

  Oh yes, he said in her mind. Come for me, baby.

  And she did. Her orgasm was tight, hot and very powerful. When she calmed, she blew the statue a kiss, then returned the towel to the bathroom and went to bed.

  At ten o’clock the following morning, the doorbell rang. Carla, dressed in perfectly fitting designer jeans and a silk blouse with a paisley scarf inside the neck greeted Fran with a kiss on each cheek. “Multiple cheek kissing’s very European,” she said, “and something Nicki should learn to do.”

  The two women walked into the living room and Carla was captivated by the statue. She put her purse and shopping bag down and said, “God, he’s gorgeous. How can someone make bronze look like that?”

  “AnneMarie Devlin’s a very talented woman.”

  “I’ll say. I want to meet him,” Carla said, running a finger lightly over the statue’s chest.

  “Eileen said that it’s her husband.”

  “I’ll bet they have some sex life.” Carla put her pocketbook on a table.

  “Coffee? Herb tea?”

  “Coffee sounds wonderful. I had breakfast with the kids around seven and I really need a pick-me-up.”

  The two women puttered around in the kitchen and talked about unimportant things. Finally, cups in hand, they returned to the living room. Carla settled on the sofa and tucked her legs underneath her. “Fran, tell me about Nicki.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “If we’re going to create her, we need to know everything there is about her.”

  “There’s not much.”

  “Where did the name come from?”

  Fran’s grin was immediate. “I had just finished my first erotic short story and I was feeling brave enough to submit it to a magazine. But I couldn’t have Pussy Willow written by Fran Caputo, and I certainly couldn’t let anyone know that I was the writer.”

  Carla laughed. “Pussy Willow?”

  “Yeah. It was about a couple who made it in a field on a blanket. Actually I reread it recently. It isn’t half bad. Anyway, I had to find a pseudonym. I wanted it to sound exotic, but not like a stripper or the actresses in those XXX-rated movies. You know, Sally Sweet or Melinda Love. I was at the video store shelving some new travel videos and there was one about France. The picture on the cover was of Mont St. Michelle. The St. Michelle stuck so I added a French sounding first name and Nichole St. Michelle was born.”

  “Okay, what has been written about her? What do we have to be sure that Nicki knows, or does?”

  “Eileen put out a few press releases when the book first came out. Nicki’s a divorcée, who travels a lot, which is why she can’t do interviews. Somehow it just snowballed into a mysterious temptress who has dazzled crowned heads and refused marriage proposals so she could remain on the prowl.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s about all. When I think about it, physically this shouldn’t be too hard. Since there’s never been a description of her in any of the press releases, no one knows what Nicki looks like.”

  Carla sipped her tea. “That’s great. So our main task is to teach you to think like a wild, free-thinking woman. Then we’ll brush you up on some of the things you might need to know. I don’t know a lot about Europe, unfortunately.”

  “Before I left, I watched every travel video the store had. I think I know as much about Europe as Nicki does. Except, of course, that I’ve never been there.” Fran lifted her chin and looked down her nose at Carla. Lowering the pitch of her voice, she said, “But of course, I only travel to and from France on the Concorde.” She grinned and returned her voice to its normal pitch. “There was a bit about it at the front of one of the films I watched.”

  “You know I love that voice. Can you do it so you won’t slip?”

  Again lowering her voice’s pitch, Fran said, “I’ll try to get into the habit of doing it all the time. If I slip, let me know.”

  “You know there’s one more piece to this puzzle. We have to make you look like Nicki.”

  “But no one knows how she looks,” Fran said, a bit confused.

  “I know that, but she’d look more…” Carla shifted in her seat.

  “Okay, I understand.” Fran reflexively tightened the scrunchy on her ponytail. “I need a new face and stuff.”

  “The face you have is just lovely. You just need some help with how to enhance the good points and play down the bad.” Carla looked at Fran closely, then cupped her hand beneath Fran’s chin and moved her face left and right. “Great eyes. We need to make your chin come forward a bit. Good cheekbones but you need a bit of under eye coverup. And some properly applied lipstick will make your mouth just a bit larger. I’ve taken several makeup courses and I can certainly help you with that. But we do need to get you to a really
good hair stylist. Any objections to going the whole way?”

  Fran sighed and pulled on her ponytail. “I guess not.”

  “Good girl, and I’ve got just the man to do it.”

  “Do you really think you can do something with me?”

  “I remember saying almost the same thing to Ronnie when we first met. I had always thought of myself as medium brown and average, average, average.”

  Fran gazed at Carla’s face and perfectly cut and styled auburn hair. “But you’re really gorgeous. Me? I think of myself as oatmeal and short.”

  “Without makeup and a bit of help with my hair color,” Carla said, running her fingers through her reddish bob, “I’d still be medium brown and average.” Carla leaned forward and looked at Fran. “So much of how you look is attitude. If you think mousey, you’ll look mousey. If you think smashing, you’ll be smashing. By the way, ‘smashing.’ That’s a Nicki word. She’d probably use it a lot.” Carla glanced at her watch. “It’s almost eleven and I need to make a phone call. I’ll be a while.”

  Fran took a deep breath. What better time to begin her lessons. “Eileen told me that this is a client.”

  “It’s a writer friend of mine who claims I’m his inspiration. When he’s reached an impasse in something he’s written, he leaves a message on my answering machine and I call him at a pre-arranged time. He says it gets his juices flowing in more ways than one.”

  The two women laughed and then Carla continued, “He left me a message on Friday asking me to call him this morning at eleven.”

  “Does he write erotica? Maybe I know his name.”

  “He writes horror. Very bloody stuff. I don’t know why he wants an obscene phone call, but he said once that it celebrates life when his writing gets too much into death.”

  “Has he had books published?”

  “If you want to know his name, I won’t tell you. I never give out the names of any of my friends without their permission.”

  “I’m sorry. Of course not. I didn’t think. So what will you say?”

  Carla put her hand on Fran’s arm and spoke seriously. “Why don’t you listen? It won’t embarrass me and he’ll never know. Actually, if I told him he’d probably find it hot.”