by Violet Blue
You pour, then watch him down the contents of his glass. His eyes meet yours and much as you want to look away, you don’t. It’d be a lie to say you can’t; rather, you don’t want to, not really, not more than you want to look. You’re sick of forbidden, stolen glances or unabashed stares as one member of an endless audience. You want to watch, but your eyes, like the rest of you, are greedy; they want to be the only ones watching, the only ones seeing precisely what you see. His eyes look back with that same greed, that look that makes you shiver because it seems to strip you bare.
You don’t know what you want anymore, having been shaken and stirred so many times your essence has dissolved into something flat, your insides hollow as you take him in. When he grabs your hand you go, not even sure why, exactly. You squeeze yourselves into the closet and, finally, no one else exists—or at least, you are free to pretend in the dark that this is true. “I’ve missed you,” he says and you want to cry for a second, the words too familiar from the countless times you’ve heard them whispered in your head. But you don’t, not yet; there’ll be plenty of time for that later.
You don’t say a word for fear of saying too much. Instead you shut your eyes and wait; it’s easier to offer your body when you don’t know what’s coming. His hand goes to your face; soft, sweaty fingers stroking your cheek, and you want to scream. It’s too gentle, too tender. “Save that for your wife,” you want to say but instead you turn your head to the side, to the wall, rub up against it like you wish you could rub up against him. He steps forward and his bulk is pressed against yours, surrounding you on all sides. He keeps going until you are flat against the wall. His hand claims your wrists, seemingly in one fell swoop, while his other hand reaches between your legs. He tears your black and gold fishnet stockings, the ones that cost twenty-eight dollars at Macy’s, the ones so delicate you’ve walked with great care so as not to snag them, the ones that garner whistles and compliments on the street. The sound is loud in the quiet of the closet, and you know if your panties were as delicate they’d be in shreds by now too, but you’re a basic white cotton kind of girl—at least when it comes to underwear.
His fat fingers find your wetness, a wetness that surprises even you. You didn’t come here for this; you’re supposed to be an observer, a spy, a detached spectator, not a participant. In the dark you can barely see a thing, can only feel. He wants his fingers to hurt, to hurt the way they used to, the way you used to like it, so your pussy is sore long after they’re gone. He twists them and slams them deep inside you, and even though you’re wet there, it does hurt in its way. He drops your wrists to press his hand against your cheek, to pin you in place, digits digging into the tender skin of your face, landing wherever they may.
You squirm and aren’t sure if it’s to get away or to get him in deeper. Actually, that’s a lie; he’s always known better than you what you want, a trait that’s either the hottest thing ever or the apotheosis of infuriating. You push against him and instantly the mood changes; you are no longer simply star-crossed lovers reuniting, but something darker, deeper. You press hard with your hands, your hips, to fight him off—but not really. He pushes back with ease, his hand twisting your head into the wall, covering half your face. The harder he holds you there, the deeper the ache in your pussy. You try to twist to the side, give him an elbow blow, something to make him feel the impact, but he is more powerful than you by far. Even if he weren’t, though, he would be winning, because this, finally, is what you’ve come here for: to struggle, to writhe, to argue with your body, to try to tell him, and yourself, that this is over, knowing all the while it will never be over, not really.
He knows you like to struggle, knows you like the adrenaline rush of giving your all to a wrestling match with a preordained outcome. If you were locked up, you’d be the type to rattle the cage. Instead, you silently provoke him, knowing he is getting harder by the moment, but for once, this is not about his cock. This is about you, about the tears now pouring down your face, about your decision to stay rather than flee. You hear the fluttery sounds of his wife laughing outside the door and this makes you growl. He presses you tight against the wall, firm behind you while his soft bulk is before you. What he wants, though, is not what you’d expected—it never is. He eases his hand off your face so you can take in some air, then rams four fingers into your mouth. “Get them nice and slick because I’m going to put this inside you.”
You make a noise, a gargled moan, not sure how this will happen. He is forcing you, and yet he is not. You could call it off with a single, simple word, but it’s one that’s anything but safe. Safe would mean comfort, safe would mean calm, safe would mean something you’ve never been with him. You wouldn’t dare use it here, and he knows it, knows that the power he wields is of the mind first, body second. The words have no sooner left his lips than you picture your pussy opening, stretching, hurting, for him. You can’t let him know how much you want it, how much you like what he’s doing; that would ruin the game, and the game is all you have.
You move to bring your leg up against him, thrust your knee somewhere it will make an impact, but he’s on you in a flash. He whips something out of his pocket—a Swiss army knife. Without opening it, he presses it to your lips, then holds your mouth open while he lets the metal touch your tongue. Despite yourself, you like it; you want it. You have no time to think, just then, about whether he uses it with her or all the other girls. You just let the tang enter your mouth, let all it represents remind you why you so desire him.
“Submit,” he says, not a question but not completely a command, either. He knows you could keep struggling, keep moving, keep prolonging this teasing, taunting game. He knows it could get heated. He knows you could be in there far longer than propriety should allow. You can’t move much but you let your eyes blaze at him for as long as you can before finally sinking almost imperceptibly against the wall. He gets it and eases off with the knife.
He could cut off all your clothes, and if he knew you had a second set stashed, he surely would, but instead he just lets the knife dance over your skin. He holds one hand over your mouth, lightly enough that you can breathe, but a reminder that he can take that away at a moment’s notice. “On the floor,” he says. It’s dark, but you do it anyway. “You’re going to take my fist, and you’re going to like it.” You get so wet when he says it you almost scream, your pussy contorting even as tears race to your eyes. You’re back where you’ve always wanted to be, doing something for him—with him—that stretches your boundaries beyond all recognition.
You are no longer spying, of course; you’ve plunged right in, entered the enemy’s territory. You are in her home, but if his hand is going to go inside you, you know you will be getting all of him for as long as that takes; fisting leaves no room for outside thoughts. Of course he has lube with him, and your heart twists the way your pussy does for that. He’d never really hurt you, he’d never be the guy going too rough, too fast, like so many others you’ve been with, unless he knew you were ready. “I bet you barely need this, since you’re such a slut. I wish there were another guy here whose cock you could suck while I’m inside you.” He says this while shoving your legs apart with his knees. “If we had a bed I’d tie your ankles to the bedposts and tape that pretty mouth shut. You’ll just have to find a way to be quiet.” He smears the lube against your pussy, then slaps it, hard, before pressing three fingers inside.
You are ready; so, so ready, and you take the three fingers in greedily, followed by a fourth. His other hand finds places to pinch you—inner thigh, belly—as you open for him, spreading your legs as far as you can, willing yourself to relax. You—the part of you that makes these decisions—want this, want this final time, this heat, this heaviness, but your body is more cautious, closing around his fingers as the thumb attempts entry. Your body, your cunt, knows he is almost too large to fit inside but you have overruled your body before, turning pain into the most dazzling of erotic highs. This is not like the times he�
��s held you down and shoved his cock inside you, shocked you with the bluntness of it, making you play catch-up. He can’t hurry this along. Instead he rotates his fingers and adds more lube and you grunt and bite your lip and feel him get a little farther inside.
He goes in and in and in, thumb curled up, and then there it is, the ball of his hand, this giant inside you. You’ve heard that the human heart is actually the size of a hand and wonder if, right now, he is giving you a part of his heart, a part that is only for you, a part you can treasure as you feel its outline pressing the tender, thin walls of your pussy wider and wider. The tears come—of fear, relief, pleasure, love—all at once, and you are grateful for the dark. He can hear them, that’s fine, but seeing them is another story. Seeing them is a little too close for comfort. You lie there on the floor of the closet, stealing more than your seven minutes in a kinky kind of heaven, as his massive heart of a hand reels you in and lets you go. His other hand finds your clit, so hard and aching it could be a cock, and you think you’ll hurt him when you come like that, squeezing so tight, the energy rushing all around, making your fingers tingle and your head so light it could float away. You see stars behind your eyes and have to drop your legs to the ground. His hand makes love to you, makes love appear inside of you even as you know this has to be the end. You want all of him, all the potential he has to love someone, and this is just a teaser.
“I’m going to pull out,” he says after what could be three minutes or thirty. You want to protest, because once he’s gone, the emptiness will be so huge you know that sex will never be enough to fill it. You reach for his wrist and he lets you take it, lets you half sit up and keep him there. There’s a stillness to all this; a calm, Zenlike focus combined with the way it makes your pussy take over everything. You can feel him shaking, are sure he is sweating, and you take your fill of him, then lie back and let him leave. The silence is not deafening, but awe inspiring. You break it by leaning against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. You manage to block out all the noise outside the closet.
In a few minutes, you will emerge, splash some water on your face even though it’ll ruin your makeup, take a sip of seltzer, and, unnoticed, quietly put on your soft, padded, pink and black coat amongst the chaos on all sides. You won’t have it in you to say good-bye to the woman in the slip or the journalist, certainly not to him. You will ease out into the icy night and feel a rush of pride and power you didn’t think he could possibly inspire. You will walk in heels the ten blocks to the subway and sit with your legs crossed as the heat he’s left you with warms you from the inside out.
Before all that, he pulls you close, and you melt into him, just a little. You are no longer on an espionage mission; there’s no pretense of haughty glamour and detached coolness. You are just a girl listening to a man’s heartbeat: tick tick tick tock. You let the rhythm lull you until your heavenly minutes are up.
ABIGAIL’S ICE CREAM
Janine Ashbless
The important thing to remember when making ice cream is to keep stirring the custard as it freezes; otherwise, the whole lot goes to icy lumps. When I first started making my own I used to churn the mix by hand, but these days I have it done by machines. Three or four batches can be on the go at once in the old dairy that now houses Abigail’s Ices. Keep it moving: that’s the trick. Break up those ice crystals as they form.
Turkish Delight: past and present combine upon the tongue as it melts. The taste recalls the sticky sweet bars eaten as a child, but up against that rears the dark and powerful chocolate of my adult palate, perfectly balancing the summer-garden nostalgia of the rosewater. I pick the pink rose petals myself and candy them before stirring them into the cream. Sweet and bitter, floral and earthy, light and dark, it is a glacé of sublime contradictions.
“I’m going to need some help getting the freezers out of the van,” I tell the steward.
She looks down at her clipboard, frowning. “Did you give notice when you booked your pitch?”
“Yes—and I rang up last week to remind you. I spoke to a Mr. Addleman; he said there’d be no problem.”
She snorts down her nose. “Well, he didn’t write it down here. Still, we’ll manage. I’ll go find you someone to help.” And she goes off, leaving me to haul the tent frame out of the van on my own and start putting it together. I think Mr. Addleman’s going to get it in the neck. She looks like the sort who’s used to telling everyone on the town council what he or she needs to do to be properly organized: she’s wearing a tweed twinset on a summer’s morning. It’s all a bit like that today—a town fête writ large and run by optimistic amateurs who are slightly out of their depth. Not that I’m surprised. The fair marks the 360th anniversary of their castle’s surrender to the parliamentary army and, well, that’s not the sort of thing you practice every year.
I do a lot of shows in the summer months: agricultural shows (green Wellington boots, horsey women and hard-mouthed farmers); game fairs (guns and spaniels and camouflage trousers); craft exhibitions (well-off suburbanites). The one thing they all have in common is food. The punters want to eat. They want to try something different, a little luxury: spit-roasted pig and hot waffles and venison burgers…and Abigail’s ice cream. Even at the Strawberry Fair in Cambridge, which is the tattooed alternative crowd and beer in plastic glasses and loud live music, I can easily shift two full freezer-loads on a hot afternoon.
Me? I’m actually a bit of an aging hippy-chick, though I try and hide the fact for some venues. Since Indian prints are finally back in fashion this year, today I’m wearing an embroidered, sleeveless dress I first bought when I was at college back in the Eighties (oh, no post-punk grunge for us: ours was a fine arts college). It still fits me, after twenty years and a child; there are some things I can be proud of. Its soft cotton swings with each turn, making me feel good about myself, and I don’t think I’m out of place here. This particular fair is a combination of local celebration—they’ve got a historical reenactment group in: Roundheads and Cavaliers poking at each other with pikes—and charity stalls and family entertainment. It’s an easygoing crowd and it looks like the sun’s going to come out, which is great for my sales. It’s going to be a doddle, if I can get someone to help me shift those freezers full of ice cream out of the van.
And then suddenly, as I’m working a tent pole into its canvas sleeve, there they are: two men standing over me, grinning. “Need a hand with that, love?” says one.
“Looks like a bit of a tight fit,” adds the other with an audible smirk. “You need some K-Y, I reckon.’
I look up, acknowledging his teasing with a grin and a shake of my head. They’re both wearing uniforms of some sort: green shirts and trousers, radios on their belts. Both strong-looking men, thank goodness, and in their twenties at a guess.
“We were told you needed a hand,” says the one with the lube obsession. He’s got a handsome square face and sun-blonded hair that would be curly if he let it grow any longer than his stubbly beard.
“Um.” Standing, I look again at the NHS badges sewn on their shirtfronts. “From…doctors?”
He looks hurt. “Paramedics, love.”
“Oh—right.”
“We’ve got time to kill before the show kicks off,” says the other, the one with the olive complexion and the dark nap of hair shaved so close that it looks like suede. “Mrs. Addleman asked if there was anyone available for some heavy lifting, so we volunteered.”
Aha, I think. Mr. Addleman is doomed.
“Great, thank you. I’ve got two freezers full of ice cream in that van,” is what I say. “They’re on wheels but they’re still really heavy. If you could shift them down into the stall area here…”
They get to it with enthusiasm. It turns out that the fair one is Matt and the dark one, Trev; that they’ve been stationed here with the ambulance all day to back up the St. John’s first-aiders in case there’s a serious incident, and that they’re doing a demonstration in the main arena area later, helping
the local fire brigade cut an “accident” victim out of his car. They’re fit and chirpy and they josh each other and me. They insist on helping me put up the tent, and I can barely instruct them fast enough to keep up with their swiftness and confidence. In minutes the stall has taken shape. With a few casual blows of the mallet it’s pegged securely to the ground. They connect up the freezers to the generator out back and get it started up for me with hardly any effort.
Oh, they make me feel old.
Vanilla: every ice-cream maker has to have some version of vanilla in his repertoire. Mine is Madagascan vanilla-pod and clotted Devonshire cream; the taste is rich and sweet and comforting. Even now when I make a batch it reminds me of bathing Skye when she was a baby, of talcing her skin and holding her tiny body to me. Vanilla is the scent of babies and breast milk. It’s safe and infinitely satisfying, and it’s what we all fall back on. It’s my best-selling line. Plenty of people eat only vanilla.
“Bloody hell,” says Matt. He’s just spotted the price list I’ve hung at the front. “That’s expensive ice cream!”
“Homemade, organic and fair-trade.” I’m not abashed: I’ll cover my costs here on any reasonable day, but my profit margins are surprisingly slim and it’s seasonal work. “I pick the fruit myself and make every tub. And the base is sheep’s milk for most of them. That’s not cheap.”
“Sheep? You milk sheep?”
“Not me—I get it from a local farmer. He used to milk for the cheese trade, but he lost his contract and I stepped in to try turning it into ice cream. It’s lovely stuff. Easier to digest than cow’s milk too.”
