by Selena Kitt
I watched as they walked out to the driveway and loaded his bicycle into the trunk of her car. There was something about the interactions of married people that made me feel uneasy. Maybe it was the knowledge that they would never be a single entity. Even during sex, which ought to be the ultimate joining of man and wife into one being, there were always external factors at play. They would never know each other fully and completely. Helen had discovered one of Steve’s secrets that day, but there would always be more beneath the surface. She had her share too, no doubt.
About Giselle Renarde
Eroticist, environmentalist and pastry enthusiast Giselle Renarde is a proud Canadian and a great lover of the vast forests of the Great White North. For Giselle, a perfect day involves watching a snowstorm rage outside with a cup of tea in one hand and a chocolate truffle in the other. Ms Renarde lives across from a park with two bilingual cats who sleep on her head.
Giselle Renarde has contributed short stories to numerous anthologies, including Tasting Her: Oral Sex Stories (Cleis Press), Love Bites (Torquere Press), Coming Together: With Pride, and Coming Together: Out Loud (Phaze). Online, Giselle has contributed erotic content to such websites as For The Girls and Hips and Curves, and editorial content to Lucrezia Magazine.
For desirous commentary and hyper-analysis of every facet of social existence, visit Giselle’s blog, Donuts and Desires or visit her site here!
BREAK NECK HILL
By Jack Osprey
The car died before Debra knew she was in trouble. In her mind, she'd been going over her evening's sales pitch for the old Whateley place, wondering if there’d been anything she could’ve done to spark the off-island buyers’ flagging interest when the big Chevy’s engine sputtered and died. She’d barely had enough time to pull the massive car over to the side of the lonely road before it became an immovable rock.
Getting out and trying to find the problem was out of the question; even if she hadn’t been wearing her real estate clothes—wool suit and fancy silk blouse—she knew absolutely nothing about cars except they needed gas. God knew the Impala's big V-8 sucked plenty of that down. She’d just sit and wait—one of the island’s cops or Rufus with his tow truck would be along soon if she was lucky. In the meantime, she’d just go over her strategy for selling that rambling Whateley farmhouse on Sweet Bottom Road. It was a charming old home, traditional New England with extensive grounds and beautiful gardens. Of course, winter wasn't the best time to impress potential buyers with those, but she'd really thought she had the young Boston couple on the hook. What had she said or done wrong?
Getting out of her two-tone red and cream Impala, she took off her suit jacket and got her bulging brief case from the back seat. Earlier, she’d had the fifty-nine Impala’s heater cranked up all the way. Now it was stifling in the car. Shivering in her white sleeveless blouse, she realized how chilly the December evening had grown, right after she'd tossed her jacket on the other side of the wide front seat. She’d probably be putting the jacket back on within twenty minutes or so, especially if rescue was slow in coming. Beneath her white slip and bra, Debra felt her nipples shrivel and stiffen, perking up to assert their agreement. It was going to be a cold one. There was a definite dampness in the air too, heralding rain, or maybe even a little snow. At least this time of year, the fog wasn't creeping in from the coast. Usually. She shivered and looked back towards town, hoping Rufus or Chief DeCosta would crest the hill soon.
She’d barely gotten back inside, coaxed her flashlight to feeble life, and found the house listing she wanted to review when she heard them. At first she thought it was the rumble of distant thunder, but then she could pick out the throaty roar of the solitary Harley as it barreled up Break Neck Hill. Her heart hoped—maybe it was a handsome cop to her rescue. She just loved those tight uniform pants and highly polished brown boots. Silly—Grim Island had no motorcycle police. Hell, they only had two police cars that she knew of. And she didn't remember seeing any handsome stud-muffins hanging around the new station house in the center of town. Muffins was the operative word for most of the island's cops—short and round like a donut. She looked expectantly up the hill, just starting to see the dim glow from the oncoming motorcycle’s headlamp, and realizing for the first time that it had started to spit a freezing rain. God, just don’t let them be Hell’s Angels. Hammering down the Impala’s door locks, she scrunched down in the driver’s seat. Maybe they’ll just zoom on by into the night, and leave me alone. It’s a pretty black miserable night outside.
No such luck. She heard the bike skidding to a stop alongside with a crunch of slick ice—it must be more like sleet than rain now—followed by a rapping of brazen knuckles on her window. Sounded like a cop in one of those hot rod movies—the ones with James Dean or Steve McQueen. Maybe the island had a motorcycle cop after all—she didn’t know everything about Grim Island. Feeling like a fool, she decided to sit up and risk a look. She hadn’t heard any footsteps leading away, though she did hear voices. There were at least two of them shivering out there.
It wasn’t a cop or one of her bad boy Hell’s Angels. A good-looking guy was staring in her window, his shivering girlfriend still sitting on the tail of the battered Harley. He looked to be about Debra’s age, the kind of stud she’d date in a heartbeat if he was cleaned up a bit more—maybe a shave, a better hair cut, more conservative clothes.
“Everything all right, Miss?" He flashed a dazzling smile with his pearly whites. God, he’s handsome when he does that. "You okay in there—got car trouble?” With his brawny right hand he was indicating she should roll down her window while they talked. Debra couldn’t see his left hand and that bothered her a little. God, I’m so paranoid. Not everybody's a rapist, out to get your body, Debra. Besides, when was the last time you actually got laid? She couldn't remember. She glanced at his girlfriend, a pretty blonde, about nineteen by the look of her. Sweet, almost elfin looking waif. Ethereal, looking pretty miserable out there in the cold. She was really shivering now—well, that wasn't surprising. Just look at her. Look how she was dressed! Cheap trash—no lady, that was for sure. Except for the open leather jacket and her high-heeled boots, she was dressed for summer—cut-off jeans and a top that looked like lacy underwear.
“I’m fine, thanks. Some car trouble. It just died.” She’d rolled down her window, but almost wished she hadn’t. This close, waves of primal animal attraction threatened to engulf her. Denying her yearning, Deb wondered again if he might not be a rapist, or worse. She was far from unattractive, and here she was all alone on a desolate road with a dead car. Helpless. Fighting the urge to crank up her window in his handsome face, she threw out a casual warning instead. “The town tow truck should be along any minute. The garage owner, Rufus, lives out this way—he’ll get my baby going.”
“I sure wish we could help you, but I’m not much good under the hood. Sure is a pretty car, though. Fifty-nine Impala, right? A real classic.”
She ignored his comment, or missed it. Obviously not a car guy, though she could imagine what he could do with those big strong hands. “She’s almost brand new—I’ll have it paid for come February. Cars are just so expensive these days. I do like the smell of a new car though—I just had to have her. That’s why I can’t understand why it just died. Anyway, thanks for your concern. I’m sure Rufus will give me a tow.” Debra moved to crank up her side window, but the biker shoved his hand through the crack, stopping her. When she looked up, nervous anger leaking across her face, he smiled down at her, indicating he wasn’t through talking. Debra got the distinct feeling he was looking right down her blouse. He could probably see her slip, her bra, maybe even her boobs. Her face blazed almost as red as her long hair.
“Look, I'm sorry Miss...?"
"Debra. Debra Primm. And you're right—it is Miss."
"Look, the thing is, you shouldn’t be waiting alone out here. Things happen around here—on this road, on this hill—after dark. Bad things. Now, it’s freezing out here, a
nd with this sleet, it’s kind of dangerous. We almost got in a bad skid coming up this hill. Chrissie—that’s my girl—is really frightened of riding in this weather, and we’re both pretty darned cold. Maybe we could wait with you—inside—until the tow truck comes. I’ll try my cell. Give them a call and hurry that old buzzard on his way. That be okay with you, Miss Primm?”
“Cell? Debra—please call me Debra or Debbie. Yeah, come in, I can see your girlfriend is really miserable with the cold. Come in and wait with me. I’d like that.”
She unlocked the Chevy, and let them in. Chrissie—Christine, she’d introduced herself—scooted into the back seat while her boyfriend, Mark, lingered in the sleet, trying to raise the garage on his cell phone. Finally, he too scooted inside, tossing Debra’s suit jacket into the back seat and sliding across the broad front bench seat almost into Debra’s lap. He shook his head, spraying them both with icy spray, saying he couldn’t get through, his cell claiming there was no service, because of the hill, the weather, or something. He guessed they’d all just wait. Debra tried the engine, wanting to heat up the inside. Both she and Chrissie were shivering. She wished she hadn’t worn her thin sleeveless blouse but felt funny about asking Mark to retrieve her jacket. Looking at Chrissie, seeing the tips of her large breasts poking out the thin fabric of her lacy thingy, she suspected she must look the same. Risking a quick glance at Mark, she noticed his eyes weren’t exactly on her face. Embarrassed, she felt anger blaze across her face, accompanied by something else. Desire. He was really hot.
They stumbled through a brace of awkward moments. Debra learned that both Mark and Chrissie were off-islanders, vacationing tourists. They were staying with Christine’s cousin, out near Wolf Head light. Fingering the little plastic name tag pinned to Debra’s suit jacket, Mark noticed she was a real estate agent for Ocean view Realty. Debra Primm. Their star agent, one of three women.
Trying to keep the stuttering conversation going, Debra mentioned she’d just finished showing a farmhouse out on Sweet Bottom Road when the Impala died. The old Whateley place.
Hearing that, Chrissie made a funny face, saying she had seen the farmhouse, but her cousin had commented it was owned by a school teacher named Rodriguez. Her cousin’s kid had her in class at Constance Paine Elementary.
After that, the silence in the car began to fester. Debra had never heard of anyone on the island named Rodriguez, much less an owner of the house she was trying to sell. Yet Chrissie seemed certain. Why would she lie?
At last the sleet seemed to slacken, and Mark decided to take a look under the hood after all. The tow truck guy was taking an awful long time coming. There were a few awkward moments when he asked Deb to pop the Impala’s hood. She offered him her flashlight before she realized she was sitting on it. Squirming aside so he could reach it, she noticed two of her blouse buttons had popped open, baring the lacy edge to her slip and the swell of her pale breasts. Mark retrieved the flashlight, but in sitting up, lost his balance and tumbled into Debbie. She was sure his hand grazed her breast before he regained his balance. She couldn’t have imagined his strong fingers pattering across her nipple—she’d felt him right through the thin crepe blouse. It couldn’t be her suppressed desire—could it?
“Got it! Thanks.” Without another word, he was out of the car, whistling Orinoco Flow as he strolled towards the engine.
Flustered, Debra sat staring forward, enjoying the male eye candy moving around in front of her car as she wondered what had happened—what she should do.
“He’ll do you, if you want. Just ask him.”
“What? What did you say, Chrissie?”
“You heard me. I know you want to.” Sighing heavily, Christine positioned herself directly behind Debbie, letting her long fingers skitter spider-like over the top of the front seat. “I said Mark will fuck you—you know you want him to. You’re a pretty hot lady yourself—in spite of the frumpy clothes. He’ll love it. He can’t fix shit on cars. He’ll be back in a minute—then we’ll ask him. He'll be frozen stiff and we'll need to warm him up anyway. I know you want him—I can see it in your eyes, Debbie. He’ll waggle his dipstick and check your oil. It is what you want, right, Deb?”
“How can you talk like that about your boyfriend? You should be ashamed, young lady. I figured you for lovers.”
“Don’t you young lady me. Christ, you’re only—what—about twenty-five? I’m nineteen—and a half. And yeah, we’re lovers. Since high school. Fairhaven High School. Blue Devils—rah, rah, rah. Don't worry about it. I don’t mind, really. It’s been a long time since I let him.”
“But what’ll you do? You can’t stand outside in the sleet while we—not that I’m saying I want to. But you can’t just—watch.”
“I don’t intend to, Debbie.” Chrissie’s hands did snake down the back of the bench seat then and slither onto Debbie’s silky shoulders, wriggling on down to touch her breasts. “Mark isn’t the only one you turn on, sweetie. Haven’t you ever heard of a threesome?”
Debbie thought she should protest—that would be the lady-like thing to do, even though her heart was racing with the thought of having Mark’s strong thighs thrusting between her legs. Debbie meant to, but then Chrissie’s lips engulfed her own, as her pale fingers unbuttoned her blouse, shoved aside her lingerie straps and began kneading her soft breasts.
“Markie babe is taking a while playing his little mechanic-game. Let’s get you all primed and greased for him, Debbie dear. I know I’m well oiled just thinking about it.”
The icy rain made sure Mark didn't monkey around under the hood too long. As he slid back into the car, he noticed two horny partly undressed ladies watching his every move.
"Sorry, Debbie, I couldn't find your problem."
"Don't you worry about that, Mark, baby." Chrissie giggled. Her partly closed blue eyes drifted down his body as though she might peel away his clothes just by staring. A glance toward the horny real estate woman revealed her watching him with only slightly less obvious lust. "Get your little ass in here, honey, out of the cold. You must be freezing to death. Don't worry about the damned car. Debbie and me—well, we discovered she's got a more immediate problem for you to fix. We found this dark wet hole needs plugging."
"Maybe he doesn't want to, Christine. We really shouldn't force him." Debra blushed, suddenly very aware that her breasts were flaunting themselves, all but popping out of her half-unbuttoned blouse. "After all, you don't really know me."
"Nonsense. I know my Markie—he'd love to. Didn't slow me down. I don't know you, and you and me been sucking face the whole time he was out there freezing his balls off. I told you he'd love to, Debbie—ain't that so, Mark?" Her fingers still playing inside Debra's dainty blouse, Chrissie twisted around to beam at her boyfriend. The lipstick smears decorating Chrissie's face proved that Miss Primm wasn't all frigid prude.
"I'm filthy, Chrissie. Got grease and oil all over my shirt and hands. Your Miss Primm isn't going to want me touching her. But I will watch."
"Men can be so dense. Take the damned shirt off, sugar bum." Looking exasperated with her man, Chrissie crossed her arms under her heavy breasts, pulling her lacy chemise tight across her large rigid nipples. "Maybe you should take your blouse off too, Debbie. It looks expensive and my Mark can be a bit of an animal."
As he removed his dirty shirt, Mark noticed an almost perfect lipstick imprint of Debra's lips marring the yellow silk at one of Chrissie's breasts. Apparently, Debra Primm had no hang-ups about making out with other women. Cool—if she didn't want him to touch her cause of his dirty fingers, he could always just lay back and watch. He was warming up just thinking about it.
It kind of looked like that was going to be the case—as he watched, she buttoned up most of her blouse. Damn. Too bad; she appeared to have really nice breasts—a bit smaller than Chrissie's jugs, but by no means small. Real pretty face too. He was disappointed—he'd been hoping to look at those big green eyes staring back at him as she sucked on his throb
bing wang.
"Actually, Mark, I'm not worried about the car. I'm sure the tow truck or one of Chief De Costa's officers will be along any time. Likewise, I'm not worried about your dirty hands. In fact, if you don't think it too weird of me, I was kind of hoping you and Chrissie could help me live out a little fantasy I have." As she talked, Debra Primm lowered her face seductively, her large emerald eyes riveted to the swelling bulge between Mark's thighs. Although the image she cultivated announced she was a proper lady, her burning gaze screamed she was anything but. "I've always wondered what it would be like to be taken against my will. To be completely at the mercy of a handsome stranger and fucked silly. Will you, Mark—fuck me without mercy?"
Mark allowed a nasty grin to ooze across his handsome face. "You'd better listen to Chrissie and take off that pretty blouse, Debbie. Your slip and bra too, if they're nice."
"Why don't you take them off me, you brute. Pretend I'm completely at your mercy."
Mark backed out of the car then, ordering Chrissie to slip over the seat top and stay up front. As he got back in, scooting himself across the Impala's wide back seat, Debbie indulged herself in watching the graceful movements of his broad tanned chest, his well defined six-pack, and just a hint of paler narrow hips as he undid the front of his jeans and let them slither lower on his torso. Catching her ogling stare, he pumped his muscular arm, watching her wonder about the lurid skull and crossbones riding his biceps. Suddenly, his thick forearms shot out, snaring her thin wrists, and beginning to drag her across the seat back towards the rear seat. "Chrissie, grab her ankles and give her ass a shove. I want this bitch in the back seat with me." Switching his attention, Mark glared at Debra, letting his face split in a wide feral grin. "Okay, Miss Primm. It's play time. Just the way you want it."
