by Jeff Gelb
“Cheating I could have lived with,” she said as she brought me back up the side of his chest to the other nipple.
“Oh fuck, stop it, stop it,” he screamed.
“But you did more than cheat, didn’t you? You didn’t use a condom.” She pulled me back and brought me down hard on one of his fingers. It cracked and smashed into pulp. I shivered with a building desire.
He screamed.
“I thought you cherished us. I thought you loved us.”
A second finger collapsed under my head.
After the scream, he begged. “I do. I love you both. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please, please let me go.”
“I could have lived with you hurting me,” she said.
A third finger went. Her breath was coming in excited pants.
“Stop. Oh please,” he wailed as more tears and snot ran down across his face.
She once again stroked his chest with my claw. His skin tried to crawl away from my cold steel, but I reveled in its warmth. She leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear.
“You endangered our child. Our miracle.”
I ran down the outside of his thigh, then up the inside. He must have known what was going to happen, because he started to writhe.
“Oh God, no.”
The child inside her womb began to kick as she tickled his balls with my claw.
“Please, baby, no.”
She ran me between his legs ...
“No! Stop! Nooo!”
. . . and back between his cheeks.
“And endangering our child is something you can’t live with,” she said. He screamed. The baby punched at her womb as if trying to escape. She jerked me forward so that my claw hooked on his balls and tore them from their home. Warm, wonderful blood spurted on me as the useless sacks fell away. The sticky wetness poured down my shaft and onto her hand.
He continued screaming, but neither of us cared. Desire ruled us both. She lifted me high, bloody rivulets running down her arm. His skull caved under a stroke we’d perfected together, and I entered the soft gray matter beneath.
His screaming stopped as suddenly as her orgasm exploded upon us.
“Only we exist,” she gasped, breathless, her hand resting gently above our child.
Mood Elevator
David Benton
and
W. D. Gagliani
The brownstone’s exterior was classic, if a bit tarnished, but from the moment Susan and her husband entered the lobby, she didn’t mind at all. Each of the five floors had been split into two apartments sometime in the past forty years, but it didn’t matter because, even so, now they would have more Manhattan space than any three of their friends combined. The rent was steep, of course, but now that Artie booked regular gigs both with his band and as a solo act in Village coffeehouses, and her own salary had recently risen to a more comfortable level, they would make it.
Susan sighed as they waited in front of the elevator for the building manager to show them around. He was late, which didn’t inspire much confidence in his managerial skills.
She pondered their situation. Sure, she wasn’t burning up the advertising-business ladder or anything like that, but her boss at the agency had taken a liking to her, spotting her talent and nurturing her past several peers. Well, true, Susan had taken to wearing tight sweaters and short skirts, often made of supple black leather, but that was her style, and she was finally able to afford it. And if she tended to leave a few of the top buttons undone on her blouses, that was because the office was always boiling hot, wasn’t it? The lacy black bras she sometimes wore under those light blouses were just as much an advantage with clients as they were with Harrison Stims, her boss, whose ad agency had developed a reputation for quick and innovative work. Susan was part of that reputation, and she was proud to have her hard work rewarded with more money and a better office, right next to Harrison’s. Thanks to her advancement, this apartment wasn’t out of their reach anymore.
She took Artie’s hand in hers and squeezed it, raising her eyebrows and hoping to turn his perpetual frown into something like a smile.
“You should be happy,” she whispered. His rough hand in hers didn’t respond to the pressure. “This is a great place.”
“We can’t afford it,” he said. “We’re going to have to stop eating out. And we don’t cook.”
“I’ll take cooking lessons.”
“Sure. Right.”
“We’ll manage. My star’s rising at Stims, so it’ll get even better.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You’ll get more gigs.”
Artie frowned. They both knew he could gig more if he was willing to join a cover band. He wasn’t.
Susan shook her head. He just didn’t get it.
There was no going back to their old studio walk-up, where you could sit on the pot and make yourself coffee at the same time. Where the heat was more clanging sounds from the registers than actual hot air. Where their friends had to visit in stages because there was only room for a small couch and an armchair (thanks to Artie’s pile of equipment, which took up half their living room).
Susan sighed.
Artie made a huffing sound and started tapping his toe.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, you must be the Blanchards, you’re gonna love the apartment, let me get my keys.”
Susan turned toward the rapid voice, imagining a geeky stringbean type with a frayed sweater and maybe a weak attempt at a mustache. She was shocked at what she saw when her eyes focused.
“Sorry about that, and my motor mouth,” he said, extending his right hand and smiling. “I’m Mark Anthony, manager and sometime plumber.”
With his left hand he pushed the elevator call button slowly, almost sensually.
Susan gulped and smiled, dumbstruck.
“I’m Art, and this is my wife, Susan,” Artie said. The annoyance was still evident in his tone, but he held out his hand.
She let her eyes rove over Mark’s fine features as they stood, awkwardly waiting.
Mark Anthony. Yeah, right!
It was either a stage name or his parents had one hell of a sense of humor. But he did look vaguely like she imagined a Roman centurion might—powerful, healthy of body, and possessed of the most limpid dark eyes she’d seen in a long time. Dark hair cropped close to his scalp and yet seeming to flow, lion-like, over his shoulders. His nose had that Roman look, almost too prominent but then not quite, dominating his face but calling attention instead to the full, cherubic lips below. His smile was brilliant and natural, his eyes lighting with sparkles as he shook their hands, Artie’s first, then hers, lingering a fraction of a second longer after caressing her skin with his.
Or was she just imagining that?
Either way, Susan hated letting his hand slip away.
The doors suddenly slid open with a slight creak, the car having arrived noiselessly.
The buttons were rounded in the old-fashioned way, three-dimensionally, set in two short parallel rows of three (five floors and the basement, Mark explained). She pushed the top right button and stared at herself in the mirror set just above the panel, noticing that her face was flushed from the heat. At least they wouldn’t freeze in this building! Her blouse was opened almost down to her breasts, but her light leather blazer kept her look businesslike. She smiled at her reflection and let her finger linger on the floor button, feeling it yield beneath her pressure. Her breathing quickened.
Mounted on the wall of the car, perpendicular to the controls, was a hinged contraption that appeared to be able to swing down. It was perhaps fourteen inches in length, metallic like a lever but encased in opaque rubber.
Susan felt vaguely unsettled as she examined the lever surreptitiously. When she looked up, she realized that both Artie and Mark were looking at her as if she’d spoken. Or as if she’d flashed her boobs like she had once during Mardi Gras in the pre-flood French Quarter.
A droplet of sweat down the center of her
back tickled until it was absorbed by her blouse.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Her lips seemed fuller when she pursed them. Colorful patches dotted her high cheekbones. Her eyes flashed. Behind her, reflected in the mirror, the delectable Mark Anthony was talking to Artie, his hands gesturing.
Susan suddenly wanted one of those hands on her breast. She wanted his fingers to pluck her nipple as if it were a grape on the vine. She raised her hand and caressed the buttons on the board. They were nipples, and she felt them harden under her touch. She placed her other hand on the mysterious lever, encircling it with her slim fingers, feeling it throb as if blood flowed in its veins. It swelled, and she moved her fingers over it teasingly until she thought it would burst. Or she would burst.
“How are the neighbors?” Artie asked.
Susan dropped her hands quickly, guiltily, and turned around to face the two men. Her fingers retained the feel of aroused skin, and she felt wetness between her legs that wasn’t sweat.
But she was sweating. Another cool trickle seemed to sizzle down her warm back. She shook her head, hoping to clear it.
“Not bad,” Mark said. “Mostly young professionals. A couple of weird artists. Me.” To Susan he said, “I see you’ve noticed the remains of a bygone age. The elevator operator’s seat was screwed to that bracket. It would swing down from the wall so the old guy could sit on it.”
“Oh,” was all she could muster. Was he leering at her?
Instead of feeling upset, she felt ... tingly.
The elevator opened, and when she touched the rubber-encased doors, they were like the soft skin of a vagina.
What the hell’s the matter with me? she thought, her breath hitching in her throat. What am I thinking?
“Fifth floor: beach wear, lingerie, and vacant apartments,” Mark said. He smiled innocently as the three of them slipped out of the elevator.
The hall seemed cool and dark compared to the intense swelter of the elevator. Susan suddenly felt self-conscious, almost embarrassed. She reached down and buttoned the top of her blouse.
Down the hall, a young woman emerged from her apartment. She wore a well-tailored business suit that showed off the gentle curves of her slender body. She carried a briefcase in one hand and her keys in the other and smiled at Mark as she passed them on her way to the elevator.
To Susan the smile seemed too friendly, and she felt an unexpected jab of jealousy surge through her.
“This way,” Mark said, motioning in the direction from which the woman had come. Artie and Susan followed.
Susan looked over her shoulder at the young woman by the elevator. She seemed to be watching them from the corner of her eye as she stepped through the doors. Or, more precisely, she’d been watching their ruggedly handsome guide.
And Susan was envious, envious of her figure, of her features, of her hairstyle, but mostly she was envious of her apparent relationship with Mark Anthony.
They reached the apartment door just as Susan heard the elevator doors slide closed.
Susan took a deep breath and sighed. She was a happily married woman! And, although she could not deny that Mark was stunningly good looking, she knew she loved Artie despite his sometimes cold demeanor.
Get a grip! she commanded herself.
In the hall, a portrait caught Susan’s attention. An old oil painting hung in a gilded frame on the wall.
“Is that Aurora DiLuisas?” she asked.
“Yes, it is.” Mark stepped back to admire the picture, a wide smile on his face. “She was known as ‘The Greek Marilyn.’ She’s our official matriarch. This was actually her building at one time. She died in the early seventies, still fairly young. Sexy thing in her prime, wasn’t she?”
“Who is this Aurora-whoever?” Artie asked.
“The actress!” Susan declared, latching onto Artie’s arm. She had an urgent need to touch him, to reassure herself that things were all right between them. Or just to touch him. She stared at the portrait of a lovely woman, lush red lips parted in near ecstasy, dark eyes flashing below deep red hair piled in a single side-braid. “You know, on AMC. She’s a late-night, B-movie queen now but might have made it as big as Melina Mercouri, if she hadn’t died.”
“They say she still hangs around, haunting this place,” Mark said, mock fear in his voice. “But I’ve been here for three years now, and I’ve never seen any ghosts. It’s a great story to tell your friends, though.”
Artie grunted.
Mark winked at Susan and slowly slid the key into the hole. He turned the ornate doorknob, opening the place wide for inspection.
Susan gasped. It was better than she had hoped. The floors were all bare hardwood, except for the art-deco mosaic tiles in the bathroom. She walked through it quickly. The rooms were huge, with high, vaulted ceilings and richly embellished plaster crown moldings. A fresh coat of white paint made everything sparkle. The building still used radiant heat, and there were radiators in the bedroom, the kitchen, and the enormous living room. And she instantly fell in love with the old cast-iron claw-footed bathtub. She envisioned herself in the tub, naked in a mass of bubbles, Mark—Artie, she corrected, Artie—Artie standing beside her, thrusting his erect member into her mouth. She shivered, and ... the vision faded. She’d never had that urge before. She shook her head.
When she looked out the windows, she knew there was no doubt they would take the apartment despite Artie’s reservations because the tall double-hungs overlooked the avenue just above the canopy of maple trees lining the street. And after seeing that, there was no returning to the view of the neighboring building’s back side she’d had to endure the last five years.
“We’ll take it,” she blurted.
“The lease is on the counter. I just need you to sign it, and I’ll need the first and last month’s rent.”
Susan signed, and Artie did the same, begrudgingly. It was plain to see that he was unhappy about being railroaded into renting the place. His face was stoic as he handed Mark the check. But Susan knew just how to relax him.
“All right, well, here are your keys,” Mark said, setting them on the kitchen counter. “Would you like me to show you out?”
“No, we’re going to stay for a little while,” Susan responded, giving her husband a devilish smile.
“Okay!”
Was that a leer again?
She led Mark to the door, said good-bye, and turned to face Artie.
“Damn it, Sue!” Artie glared at her.
“Come on, honey. This place is beautiful. It’s just what we always wanted.”
“It’s what you’ve always wanted. At least we could have discussed it before signing the lease.”
Susan closed in on him, pulling him by the front of his pants to the kitchen. “Please, Artie, I don’t want you in a bad mood the first time we make love in our new home.”
She hiked her skirt up a little, teasing, then pulled it up past her hips and hopped onto the kitchen counter, spreading her legs wide. “Like?”
His face turned red. Damn it! He wasn’t quite as sexually liberated as she was, and she knew it. What had come over her? She jumped off the counter and went to him. “Artie, I’m sorry.”
She hugged him through his discomfort, and they stood like that for a few minutes. She could feel the squelching between her thighs when they headed for the door. Artie still hadn’t said much, and she wondered what he thought of her right now. What did Mark think of her?
She hoped she’d see Mark, but the hall was empty. She pressed the call button, and again it was a nipple under her fingers. She shivered. Almost as if it were her own nipple. The doors slid open coquettishly, teasing her with their molded rubber labial folds. When she entered, pulling Artie along, the heat struck her again, and she felt the flush creep onto her face. The Lobby button yielded to her touch like a young virgin, and she almost giggled helplessly at the thought. The doors winked at her as they closed, and she winked back.
She spotted the Hold butto
n, and before she knew it she’d caressed it and the elevator had stopped between floors.
“What are you doing—” Artie began, but she’d pushed him backward into the side and now saw herself in the mirror behind his shocked face. “Susan?”
She knelt down in front of Artie, massaging the crotch of his khaki pants and feeling him stir.
Finally!
Slowly she undid his button and zipper and pulled the cloth down around his thighs. He was straining in his shorts, and now his breath came rapidly above her. She freed and took him gently into her cool mouth and engulfed him, slowly bobbing her head while he grew harder. When Artie reached the point at which she could no longer comfortably fit him in her mouth, she concentrated on his head with lips and tongue, stroking his shaft with her right hand, her left hand gently caressing his scrotum. She pulled away and let him slip out of her mouth with a wet smack.
Susan’s clitoris tingled, and she started to moisten again. She stood and nearly ripped her black lace panties off with one hand while massaging Artie’s member with the other.
“Fuck me,” she whispered, her eyes half closed, lids heavy with ecstasy. She saw herself in the mirror and wondered when she’d dyed her hair red. But she hadn’t, had she? It had to be a trick of the light.
Even Artie couldn’t ignore this force of nature. When she reached up and balanced her left arm on his shoulder and straddled him with one leg up, he slid himself upward and inside her wetness. He thrust slowly and deeply, keeping time with their labored breaths. Susan gasped. He had never seemed so huge. She thought he would scrape the bottom of her ribcage with his erection. She leaned on him, allowing him to surge even higher.
The elevator wall beneath her hands seemed to tremble at their passion, and when her left hand slid downward it naturally found the lever (the old seat bracket, Mark had explained, Mark Mark Mark) and her fingers encircled its bulbous head and she groaned as it came to life under her touch and began thrusting out at her in rhythm with Artie’s own thrusts.
Susan almost let go of the handle, but it felt so real, so alive, and so urgent in her hand that instead she massaged it as if it were a second lover.
