“My god, it’s horrible, isn’t it?”
That’s when the spider quickly scurried up the web and disappeared under a rafter. Tara shrieked and grabbed hold of me, burying her face in my chest.
“Oh my god,” she barked. “Where is it? Is it in my hair?”
I found myself holding her tight, my hand cupping her ass as if it had no choice but to migrate there all on its own.
“No,” I said, swallowing something dry and bitter. “Do you have a broom?”
I slipped my hand off her ass.
“In the corner,” she said, pointing to the corner beside the washer and dryer. “There.”
I let go of her, and made my way to the broom, my body tingling and at the ready every inch of the way. I kept one eye ahead of me, and the other focused on the ceiling. I sensed the spider was looking at me with its many eyes, strategizing, looking for the perfect opportunity to jump on me, bury its fangs into my neck.
I grabbed the broom, raised the business end up like a weapon. I tiptoed my way in front of the washer and dryer, my wide eyes peering up at the ceiling, heart pumping in my throat.
“Be careful, Vic,” Tara said from the opposite end of the small room, her back against the door.
That’s when I saw it scurry across the rafter. Panic filled me. I lashed out at it with the broom, but only managed to shatter the single bare lightbulb. The room fell dark. Tara screamed. I felt like the spider was on me.
I dropped the broom and slapped at myself like it was wrapping me up in a thick web.
“Open the door!” I shouted. “Open the fucking door!”
The door opened, and light from the main room filled the space. That’s when I found that I was down on my back. How did I get there? In all my panic, I must have dropped down out of instinct. But now, with my eyes open, staring up at the ceiling, I saw the big spider with the orange belly slowly descending toward my face. It was just like my dream. I was living the nightmare for real.
“Jesus H!” I shouted, rolling over to my side, grabbing hold of the broom, jumping up to my feet.
When the spider hit the floor and started scurrying for the narrow, dark space beneath the washing machine, I brought the broom down on it hard and swift.
“There, you insect bastard. Take that,” I shouted.
I applied pressure on the broom to crush the insect.
“Is it dead?” Tara anxiously asked.
“Not sure,” I said, slowly, timidly lifting the broom.
The spider raised back up on all eight legs, once more began heading for safety under the washer. That is, until I stamped down on it with my left foot. I felt the tearing of flesh, the crushing of cartilage, and the popping of the orange belly, the white larvae like guts squirting out from beneath the rubber sole of my shoe.
“No more spider,” I said, inhaling a breath of air.
She ran both her hands through her hair.
“Now, that’s what I call a handyman,” she said.
Tara approached me, pulled a few paper towels from the dispenser mounted to the wall.
“Give me your foot,” she said.
Instead, I took the towels from her, and cleaned my own shoe, discarding the soiled towels into the trash can set beside the dryer. That’s when I started to laugh.
She smiled. “What’s so funny?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life, Tara. I thought I was going to pee myself I was so scared.”
She giggled. “I know what you mean.”
Then she took hold of my hand.
“Come with me. The least I can do is offer you a cup of coffee.”
“Have any whiskey in the house?”
“Stan lives here,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I think I might be able to rustle something up.”
I followed her upstairs. I’m not sure if she intended me to offer an eye full, but all the way up the stairs, I focused my gaze on everything that was happening under that T-shirt. It was a black silk thong, and the way it disappeared up into her perfect ass, made me want to jump her right there on the steps.
As soon as she was in the kitchen, she placed a coffee pod into the machine, set an empty white cup underneath the dispenser.
“How do you like yours, Vic?”
I felt desire building inside me, like when lava boils up from the underground, fills the chambers. I felt the rumbling inside my body, the tightness in my sternum and throat, the dryness in my mouth. My brain was humming like an electrical output, and my cock was uncontrollably hard. Maybe I should have swallowed a deep breath, got a hold of myself, reigned my desire in. Other than to say hello now again to this woman, I didn’t know her at all. We were complete strangers. If I made an advance, she was likely to slap my face, tell me the get the hell out.
But something inside was telling me to go for it. To tell her exactly how she was making me feel. If she kicked me out, then so be it.
I came up behind her, pressed myself against her ass so that she felt my hardness.
“How do you like to take yours?” I said, heart pounding in my throat.
I could feel her hesitating. I felt her breathing in and out. This could go one of two ways. Either she was going to scream, insist I get out before she called the cops. Or she was going to play along. There was no middle ground here.
“From behind,” she countered.
She turned around fast. Our mouths locked. It wasn’t like we were kissing one another. More like we wanted to devour one another. I pulled off her T-shirt. Tore it off her. She didn’t care. She kept kissing me, so desperately and so hard she bit my bottom lip. I tasted the blood in my mouth. It only made me hungry for more. Bending at the knees, I lifted her up, set her on the counter. Using both my hands, I pulled off her panties. I pressed them against my face, breathed in the scent, then tossed them aside. Her scent on me, in me, I slowly spread her legs, began kissing her creamy thighs.
It took a crazy amount of self-control, but I moved up the length of her thigh slowly, deliberately until I found myself within inches of her wet, triangular patch. She wasn’t completely shaved, but instead, nicely trimmed. Her dark hair glistening with her own hot juices. I kissed her pussy, starting at the top and worked my way down to her ass, then back up again. When I started in with my tongue, it sent her into convulsions. She held to the back of my head with both hands, pushing my face into her moist pussy so forcefully it was like she wanted me to crawl up inside her body.
She tasted sweet like candy. I couldn’t get enough of the sugar. She moaned loudly and thrust her hips, and I knew it would only be a matter of a few seconds before the flood gates opened. When they did, she screamed. Her pussy let loose with a gush of hot moisture that seeped into my mouth and coated my tongue. I swallowed her not once but twice.
When she was finished, I stood back up. I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my jeans, pulled down the zipper. She slid to the edge the counter, leaned down, reached for my hardness, and pulled me out.
“Fuck me right here,” she demanded. As if there was time to go anywhere else.
I grabbed hold of her and pulled her onto me, entered her. I fucked her hard while she rocked in rhythm with my thrusts, letting loose with a shriek each time.
“Fuck me,” she yelled. “Fuck me harder, Vic.”
I felt myself getting to that place very quickly. Too quickly. But I didn’t want it to happen yet. I had something else in store for her first. I eased my place, forcing my cock to move slower until it was no longer thrusting in her at all. Very gently, I pulled out only to hear her whimper her disappointment. Then, with my hardness leading the way, I took hold of her hand, brought her around the counter to the kitchen table.
“Lean over the table,” I commanded, hard, direct.
She complied, her perfect white ass staring me in the face. Cocking back my hand, I spanked her. She jolted forward with surprise, but she didn’t resist. She didn’t tell me to stop. If she’d told me to stop, I would have. But she didn’t
utter any such thing.
Again, I slapped her ass. And again. Harder each time. Each time she thrust forward, but she never resisted. She seemed to love it. It made her even hornier. Even more wanting.
I smacked her two more times as hard as I could. So hard, I left a hand print. I pumped my cock into her but did so slowly, to make the moment last. But she wanted me to go faster.
“Harder,” she insisted. “Harder, Vic.”
Taking her request, I put my hips into it and slammed into her round ass. I fucked her hard, harder, and harder still. It was all I could do to keep from exploding. The way she leaned over the table, supporting herself on her elbows, her breasts bobbing with each thrust, her ass giving way with just a hint of jiggle, sent me into a kind of ulterior reality.
It was all too much to take. I pulled out, grabbed hold of her hair, turned her around. Without protest, she went down onto her knees and took hold of my cock.
“Let me,” she said, pumping it like a professional.
When I came, it was like an eruption. She took in every bit of it, and when I was emptied I felt so lightheaded, so drained, I had no choice but to pull out a chair and set myself down. She took hold of my T-shirt tail, cleaned herself off, then got up and set herself in my lap.
“Like I already told you, lover,” she said, smiling, “you are one hell of a handyman.”
“I aim to please,” I said.
We’d just experienced one of the sexiest, intimate moments two people could share together. But now I felt awkward. I also felt more than a little guilty. I wasn’t the type to drift from Stella, even if she was planning on kicking me out. Suddenly, there was no question about drifting. It was done, as in past tense. What the hell motivates a man to give up three years of monogamy in the flash of a moment? It all felt so natural, so perfect, so prescribed. It was almost like my meeting with Tara had been scripted somehow.
What did I do now?
Tell her I’d be seeing her? Go back to issuing a quick wave, one driveway to another? Forget this meeting ever occurred in the first place?
As I was contemplating the situation, something happened that diverted both our attentions. Another spider was making its way up the closed basement door. It wasn’t nearly as big as the first spider, but it was still black and nasty. We somehow caught sight of it at the same time, and it startled me. But Tara did something I never would have expected.
She slid off my lap, approached the door. Holding out her palm, she cocked her arm back and swatted the spider bare handed. Pulling back her hand, the crushed spider fell dead to the floor.
“Gotcha, you little black bastard,” she said.
When she glanced at me over her shoulder, I could see that she was smiling. Like she was enjoying herself entirely.
“Wait,” I said, standing, pulling up my pants. “I thought the whole point was that you hate spiders. They make you absolutely catatonic.”
She went around the counter, opened a drawer, grabbed a paper napkin which she used to pick up the dead spider.
Tossing the spider into the trash receptacle under the sink, she said, “Oh they do. I guess I just acted on instinct.”
It hit me like a Louisville Slugger to the brain. The reason why I was there.
“This was never about killing any spider in the basement, was it?”
She turned to me . . . entirely naked and looking as fresh as a happy teenager.
“What was your first clue, Handyman?”
She got dressed and insisted on buying me lunch at a local juke joint called Lanies Cafe.
It was a nice day, so we were able to sit outside on the patio.
“I have a proposition for you, Vic,” she said, stealing a deep drink of her Corona beer. “Please don’t take offense to what I’m about to say, but I’m guessing you’re not making a whole lot of money at the current writing gig.”
I don’t know why her words struck me as odd. Maybe because I’d never heard them coming from someone other than Stella before. That they were coming from a woman who claimed to be afraid of spiders but who was, in fact, the spider drawing me into her web, made them all the stranger.
“I don’t do too badly, Tara.”
It was a lie, and she saw through it. She smiled, drank some beer, dried her lips by running her long tongue over them.
“You’re not fooling me, Vic. Everyone in the neighborhood knows you and Stella are surviving by the skin of your teeth.” Her smile grew wider. “Tell me something. What is it that keeps Stella around anyway? Maybe it’s the sex.”
This time, I felt her words in my gut. I also pictured Stella and me going at it on the couch in the living room. We liked to do it sometimes in broad daylight with the blinds open. Had Tara seen us in action? It’s tough to say for certain.
“We love one another,” I said.
“Today proves it.”
“I’m a writer. I need to experience something if I’m going to write about it. It’s the only way to make it seem real.” I shrugged my shoulders. “You know, make it come across as true.” The rejection letters flashed through my brain. The ones that said my work was cold, stilted, lacking in experience.
“Is that what I am to you, Vic?” she asked. “Experience?”
“I’d be lying if I said you weren’t.”
Her smile faded somewhat. I could tell we were about to segue into something else entirely.
“About that proposition, Vic. I need a favor from you. A quick favor that will pay very well.”
“A handyman kind of favor?”
“Exactly. Something only a handyman of your talents can handle.”
What she revealed to me took only five or six minutes. But it took me at least that amount of time to absorb it. It also involved the draining of one full beer and two shots of Jameson. When I finally found the balls to respond to her proposition, I said simply this: “You’re out of your mind.”
“Why?” she asked. “Because I want my husband dead?”
I looked over both shoulders. Not only was she insane, but she wasn’t bothering to be discreet about it. I leaned over the table.
“Look, Tara, I get it that you hate your husband. I get it that he doesn’t pay the slightest attention to you. I get it that he hasn’t fucked you, or even touched you for that matter, in years. I get that he’s a miserable bastard who treats you and the kids like indentured servants. I even get it that he’s got a girlfriend or two going on the side. But what you’re talking about is nothing short of premeditated murder.”
She exhaled, drank the rest of her beer, set the empty bottle back down gently on the table.
“Some murders are justified.” She said it as casually as if she were ordering another round for the table.
“A statement only the devil could love,” I said.
“Victor, we all hate our husbands.”
“All of you?” I questioned. “As in women? Like in general?”
She smiled once more.
“At the very least, a few of us could use a handyman.” She got up. “Now, I want you to think it over. Don’t decide right now. Give it a day or two. Remember, there’s nothing like personal experience when it comes to writing a good book.” She gave me a wink. “A great book.”
“Now you’re an expert on literary matters.” I also got up.
She reached into her jeans pocket, pulled out a wad of cash that made me want to cry.
“At least I can afford lunch,” she spat then headed for the parking lot. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.”
“Since you’re going that way anyway,” I agreed.
I didn’t say much of anything during the short ride back to our Orchard Grove neighborhood. It was like my feelings about Tara were split. Divided.
On one hand, I would love nothing more than the chance to get her back in bed. On the other hand, I wanted to alert the police to a possible murder-in-the-works. Murder in the first degree. Premeditated murder.
What I mean is, if the bastard were b
eating she and her kids on a daily basis, maybe I could condone his having a bad accident. But, as far as I knew, he had done no such thing. What it came down to was this: Tara hated her husband, and she wanted him gone.
Forever.
There was something else too.
She also wanted his life insurance money.
“Not the most original of stories,” I whispered to myself. “But a classic all the same.”
“Excuse me?” she said pulling into her driveway.
“Nothing.” I opened the car door.
She took hold of my hand, pulled me to her. She brought her mouth to mine. We kissed for a full minute, hands began wandering. She rubbed my hard-on so fiercely I thought I might cum in my jeans. I unbuckled her belt, unbuttoned her jeans, and forced my hand into her panties. I rubbed her warm wetness gently but rapidly until she exploded against my fingers. It all took less than three minutes.
“You might want to rub the rest of that one out when you get home,” she said, her breathing heavy and labored.
“Why don’t you finish it for me here. Now.”
“Accept my offer, and you’ll get as much of that as you want. Forever.”
Money and sex from a beautiful woman like Tara. There were worse things in life. I got out without saying goodbye.
Behind us, the mail truck pulled up to the curb. The mail man reached out the window, deposited Tara’s daily mail in her mailbox. He saw me, nodded, then pulled up to my mailbox. He stuffed three or four manila envelopes into the box.
Rejections.
“Will it ever end?” I asked myself. “The rejection?”
As usual, I was sporting a hard-on. But I wasn’t very happy about it. I made my way across Tara’s driveway and across my lawn to the mailbox with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man.
I carried the mail inside the house, set it down beside my typewriter. I poured a whiskey, brought it with me back to the table, ripped open the first envelope. The story wasn’t even dog-eared. It was as pristine as the day I slipped it into the envelope and pasted three dollars’ worth of stamps on it. A note was included. Or, what’s commonly referred to in the business as a form rejection letter.
Lust and Letters: The Handyman, Episode I Page 2
