The Mud God

by Fallacious Rose

  The Mud God

  Fallacious Rose

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  Contents

  The Mud God

  Divine

  The Car Park

  Goldilocks

  The Secretary

  Blind Love

  Quickie

  Cleaning Frenzy

  Fishes with Fetishes

  Jekyll and Hyde

  Sex with Satan

  When Superman Comes

  The Mud God

  She has made all the right preparations.

  She has lit a fire, ringed with stones smoothed by the creek, and in it burned leaves of eucalypt and honey myrtle, the hard timber of the ghost gum and the fierce, hot wood of the tea tree, spiced with ...

  She has undressed by the fire and crossed the stream nine times, singing to the night birds. She has anointed herself with the red sap, the brown earth, the water of the flesh-warm billabong. She has knelt in the mud, on all fours, and asked for a man, and now she waits squatting by the fire, in the heavy, humid darkness, her eyes and mouth black as waterholes.

  She lifts her head as ripples break on the water, circling outwards. The mud god rises - first his head, with the hair streaming long and wet over his shoulders, then the great dark chest, like a forest of water grass, the swelling muscles of his arms, the bow wave of his belly, the long penis, a sapling swinging by his thighs. He stands groin-deep in the water, his skin slick and thick with mud, his legs planted in it, his feet growing from the ooze between his splayed toes.

  She stands, showing him her nakedness - her heavy breasts loose against her ribcage, her round stomach and dimpled thighs and the sweat where her throat joins her clavicle, dripping down to the hair between her legs. She hasn’t had sex for years, ever since her husband died under a tree that should have fallen differently but didn’t. She’s worked the farm in his stead - chopped the wood in autumn for winter, nurtured and slaughtered the pigs, chickens, lambs, goats, driven the truck to the saleyards and wrestled with fencing wire in the bitter wind. Now she wants something just for herself.

  The mud god walks out of the billabong, his feet making a sucking noise as he lifts each one from the clinging ooze. He is magnificent, and frightening, and clothed in filth: Susanna is aroused, disgusted and afraid, all at once. She puts out a tentative hand to his chest, feels her fingers sink in to the turgid flesh, feels his heart beating underneath, a slow pulse.

  She sets her hands on his body and draws them down in carnal worship - through his mud-clad flanks, the flat plain of his stomach, his erection, jutting up like a submerged branch. She presses herself against it, climbing him, slipping over him, her arms thick vines around his neck. She sighs.

  The god carries her into the water and lies with her in the shallows, rolling and wallowing, until they are both made of mud and black water and the remains of life. Susanna rides him, singing, sliding, slipping, plunging, gripping his black beard as you would grip the mane of a wild horse, while he holds a swinging breast in each huge hand, the big nipples sweeping through the surface scum. He pierces her like a black eel, snake-strong, river-smooth.

  When Susanna is done, she hoists herself out of the billabong, out of the mud, and leads the god to the fire that she has made. He lies sated beside her, his great muddy body sinking into its element, till all that’s left curled against her back is a shape traced in the short grass. She sleeps for a while.

  When the fire begins to die, and the midges get too bold, Clara walks up to the old farmhouse, still naked, and pours herself a glass of red wine, and climbs into her clean linen all muddy and spent, with the dark semen of the god wriggling like tadpoles between her lips.

  Divine

  His tongue is a flame on my skin. He begins at my ankle, soft and cool at first, tracing the narrow bones, a circlet of silver, and as he moves up the back of my calf, I feel his touch burning, burning.

  But I’m strong: my skin is feather-light, hard as diamonds. He kisses the back of my left knee and I laugh and call out – it tickles and arouses me, both. His fingers are on my golden thigh, drawing patterns of lust in my skin. I sink my fingers into his white silk hair, rough, tearing. Not even a thread comes loose. He stops, and looks to me. His eyes are blue-green, deep and cold as a lake.

  “Don’t stop.”

  But he grins, and skims my hips with his snake tongue, around and about, wavelets that don’t make the tide line.

  “I’ll change, just see if I don’t,” I whisper, though he’s driving me to desperation. Me, an immortal, a goddess – but in this I’m just female, filled with desires, weak as a woman in lust.

  “Like this?” His white hair turns tawny, his blue eyes golden, he’s a tiger looking down on my naked body, warm breath at my throat.

  “Like this.” I dissolve beneath him, laughing, and become a river of air, so that he crouches on emptiness. But empty is what I am, and what I don’t want to be, so I take again the form of a woman, honey-skinned, voluptuous.

  He takes me by the throat, softly, and I hear him growl as he enters me. I close my eyes and cling to his thick, soft fur, feel him purr as I constrict around him.

  He comes as a man, and we lie together as male and female, and I kiss the perfect lips and know that we’ve made another, this time.

  And that, my little god, is how you were conceived.

  The Car Park

  I’m parking and there’s this chick looking at me, late model, gold hubcaps, polished curves like you wouldn’t believe. So I slink into the spot, maximum cool, wheels turned just so, mirrors catching her eye in the morning sun. I’m just, like, hanging.

  She’s parked just opposite. We double take in each other’s rear vision. Man she has a nice butt. Hope she notices the central locking, slick click as Him Inside jams the remote. Maybe she’ll go for the anti-theft system. I can make a lot of noise when I want to, babe, I can really party.

  Him Inside disappears and we’re alone, the sun already beginning to beat on my hood. I feel real hot. But inside I’m going to stay cool. I’ve got those windscreen shades, see.

  Her brake lights wink at me. It looks like a come on. I’d come on alright, if only I had those damn keys in my ignition, I’d bump her ass. She knows I’m stuck where I am. It’s look but don’t touch, always. The old problem. You look, you like, but you pass them by. Unless of course you score a hit, but then there are so many fucking bystanders and cops around there’s no way you’re going to get it on. I need some privacy.

  And then it happens. Like a dream she moves slowly backwards, curvy little ass and all, out of her spot, and sashays up towards me, across the black tarmac. I can hardly believe my lights. She’s coming, she’s coming…quick look in the mirror, did I wax recently, sure I did…and I smell like Vanilla Heaven. Went to the carwash yesterday, no flies on me.

  Come on baby come on. I’m ready for you, my bumpers are waiting yeah. And like the sweet little machine she is, she backs right up and comes to rest, nice and cosy up against my front, and there we are.

  Hey honey you feel good, steel against steel, rear lights to headlights, paint to paint.

  Yeah she says, my brakes are all off baby, how about you and me do a little accelerating..

  And I think, this is my lucky day!

  Goldilocks

  Just as she’s in the middle of telling him about Steve’s promotion, the communicator abruptly falls out of contact.

  “Dad?”

  When she connects again, the automatic voice-over tells her he’s busy. She pictures her father fallen slack-jawed on the thick pile carpet, clutching vainly towards the alarm button set into his chest. She calls the manager, hea
rt thumping.

  “It’s my father – I was just on the communicator, and it dropped out. I thought maybe there’s something wrong – he’s not picking up. Could you go and check on him?”

  The manager was back in less than a minute – not long enough, Judy thought, for him to walk down the long corridor that led to her father’s courtyard apartment.

  “He’s fine.”

  “Can I talk to him then? Is there something wrong with the system?”

  A long pause, a cough.

  “Look, Ms Higgs, it’s difficult to know exactly how to put this but...he doesn’t seem to want to talk to you. I’ve asked him, I’ve told him it’s his daughter calling – and he just says ‘later’….is there anything we should be aware of? Have you two not been getting along recently?’

  Judy’s hand trembled with indignation. ‘It’s her, isn’t it! Nurse Goldilocks. It’s not natural. She’s turned him against his own daughter! I’m going to come and see him, that’s what I’ll do, and I’ll take him away from that place and her and everything, and I’ll look after him myself. That’s the way it used to be in the old days! Back when family mattered!”

  She set the phone down, leant both hands on the kitchen bench, dizzy with emotion.

  At the nursing home, Nurse Goldilocks and Albert Higgs gently counted the bubbles in the bath and stroked each other’s long locks, buttercup yellow and bone white.

  “It’s time for your pills, darling. Now how would you like them?’

  “The usual way,” he grinned, the deep lines from nose to jaw softer in the bathroom mist. With a mischievous expression, she leaned forward and kissed him, transferring three tiny tablets from her tongue to his in the flick of a baby pink tongue. He swallowed them, holding a pert breast in either hand.

  ‘Maybe you should talk to her. She gets lonely. She loves you, you know.’

  He sank chin deep into the warmth of the water, the aches that science hadn’t yet conquered drifting from him under the glow of her coffee coloured eyes. So deep, so sweet, you wondered where the wiring was. Back when he was young, they would both have been electrocuted. Robots have got a lot more sophisticated since then, thank god.

  ‘Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, I just want my little fairytale..”

  The Secretary

  “I’m not your secretary.”

  I looked up, startled.

  “I didn’t say you were my secretary, did I?”

  She smiled, lips as red as a British telephone box.

  “You said ‘I’ll arrange for my secretary to send it over. I’m not your secretary. I’m your personal assistant.”

  Secretary, personal assistant, whatever.

  “Sorry, slip of the tongue. Won’t happen again.” Me, CEO of Barrett Enterprises, apologising to my...my PA? Who hired this woman?

  She leaned over the desk, staring straight into my eyes with those bold, dark eyes. I don’t think she was wearing a bra. I looked away first.

  “It better not.”

  She left, shutting the door. I pulled a tissue over my forehead, then called Human Resources.

  “That sec – I mean that PA you sent me.”

  “Yes? How’s that working out? She’s very well qualified, isn’t she!”

  “Uh…yeah, she is. I just called to say she’s – well she’s great actually, working out just fine. Just thought I’d ring and let you know. Good work. As always!”

  I put the phone down. Why did I do that? The woman was insolent. She was brazen. She was...well endowed. She should dress more appropriately for the office, I thought, swallowing a glass of water in rather a hurry. I must speak to her about that.

  I found myself thinking about her constantly. It had been a week now, a week of agony. Every morning she walked in, hips swaying as if she owned the place, anybody would think SHE was the CEO. Then she issued her orders. You have a meeting at 10am. Don’t be late. Read the financial reports, I’ll check on that with you tomorrow. Where’s that project up to? Didn’t I ask you to look at that yesterday?

  My balls ached like a cow’s udders at milking time. I’d given up trying not to stare at her ass. She didn’t even notice. Just looked back at me over her shoulder, teasing me, daring me to say something. My mouth went dry. I couldn’t. She knew it and laughed, white teeth over lips like blood, eyes like a big cat.

  I had to go to the bathroom. A lot. People looked at each other; I suppose they thought I had prostate problems. I didn’t care. It was my sanctuary. Nowhere else could I escape her, my lust, my bane. In this little tiled cell, my own executive bathroom, exclusive to me, the CEO, I was safe and alone and could seek relief.

  I sat there trembling – and heard the door swing open. Her heels on the tiles. What did she think she was doing?

  “Open up.”

  “How dare you!”

  I felt her hot gaze penetrate the oak door like a bullet.

  “Open up. You know you want to.”

  I wasn’t myself. The person I wasn’t, stood up and opened the door. She stood facing me.

  “You look delicious in that suit.”

  “Thank -”

  “Take it off.”

  “What?”

  This was going too far. I stepped out, ready to push past her. With one hand, she took the collar of my shirt and pulled sharply downwards. It was an Armani shirt, $1500 direct from Italy. Buttons popped. My god she was strong!

  “Are those expensive pants, too?”

  She gestured, meaningfully, hand on hip.

  The man who wasn’t me, let them fall. I was afraid. I was erect. She saw it, and laughed, with feline cruelty and joy in total command.

  “Now who’s the boss?”

  She slipped her dress from her shoulders. I was right, no bra. Her breasts were beautiful and frightening. I reached out to caress them. She slapped my hand away.

  “I said, who’s the boss?”

  “I am.” I said. Because, after all, I was the CEO, and she, the secretary. I mean, Personal Assistant. Whatever. Nothing could change that.

  “You are?” She put her hand down, closed her fist around me, came very close, eye to eye, breast to breast. I shivered – with desire, with fear, I don’t know.

  “As to that, I think you’ll find,” she purred, pushing me back against the urinal, “that there are many shades of grey.”

  Blind Love

  The first time I felt you, we were in a crowd, drinking. We were deafened and caressed, by music and laughter, smoky air brushing my cheek, a kaleidoscope of smells, sweat, perfume and earwax and leather and many other things it would take me too long to tell. It was dark.

  You spoke into my ear and I felt your sharp hair tickle my lobe like a forest of needles. Your voice hummed right through me, vibrating from my skull to my thighs. You said – I forget what you said, I hardly heard it, instead I heard your longing, your uncertainty, your braggadocio. I smelled that you were a little drunk, on vodka and orange, and that you hadn’t washed in two days, maybe three. I smelled also that you worked outdoors, the grass and birdshit still clinging to you, fresh from the mower. I felt you tremble with embarrassment and faint hope. I said, my garden’s a mess. You laughed. How do you know? you said. You’ll see.

  The next time, you pulled weeds as I lay in the warmth of the morning and stretched and smiled. You sang Michael Jackson and your voice cracked on the high bits and you laughed and threw blades of grass at me that landed on my upturned face like butterflies. When you were finished, you got us lemonade from the fridge and held it to my lips, cold and sweet, and then with your lemonade lips you kissed me, with your grassy, sun-warmed, sugary tongue you stroked my mouth, with your hand you oiled my leg with cool man sweat. Then you stopped, your hand on my breast, burning me.

  I put my hands to your jeans, over the stiff hot cloth, up to the zip, read it like braille, came to the full stop of your belt buckle, ran a finger inside, where your skin was hot and smooth. I sat up and raised your shirt and sniffed at your stomach and chest,
tickling my nose with the rough hairs, almost long enough to plait. You held my head and stroked my hair till it pulled.

  I felt your underarms like soft piles of moss, the bones of your chest and neck framing your heat-prickled skin, your beard fur all the way down from your ears, your lips that bit my fingers as they passed, your hair long and a little matted from sweat and twigs, your back like a long bow, back to your belt and the curve of your dick, a branch bent and ready to spring. You knew what I wanted.

  You unclasped it, let it drop. I listened to you opening yourself up, like a present for me. I shut my eyes and opened my mouth and held out my head, and it was like your kiss, only fuller and richer. I tasted you, I heard you liking it, held your butt as you moved and swayed, felt every centimetre of you under my tongue, felt your roots trembling, felt your thick wetness already collecting in my mouth.

  You said, pull up your dress, can we? And I said, don’t talk while I’m eating, and you came with a rush and a shake like a wet dog, all over my nose. And you said, oh I’m sorry, and I just laughed, feeling the sticky sap caking in the heat, and put my arms around your neck, and hugged you down to me. You were my fragrant, flowering, thick-trunked tree and I wanted to plant you in the middle of my messy garden, to grow with me in the lovely darkness.

  Quickie

  Corn, peas, lamb chops….or sausages if chops turn out to be too expensive, jelly for afters but I’ll have to make it now otherwise it won’t be set and remember what happened last time, crystallising in the freezer like red bean-bag filler and the kids wouldn’t eat it, they didn’t eat their dinner either, maybe I’m a bad cook maybe they’re too thin…Mum, can I leave the table, Mum, why do you only give us horrible things to eat? They only want to watch videos.

  Ah, ah, now that’s interesting, I like that, I wonder how long he’s got to go, the pillow’s making creases in my face but that’s ok for now, thump, thump, thump goes the mattress sometimes my back hurts I must be getting older but it’ll be alright afterwards……