It started out OK. Barbara was sad and needed comfort so I tied Peter and blindfolded him and then I shared him with her. It was fun. It felt human and loving. I was so proud of all of us. But the thing is, I get jealous. Just the way my mother does. I hate myself for it but I can’t help it.
I’d invited Barbara to stay with us, to join the Peter and Helen household. I knew they liked each other but I was too vain to think it through. And then I saw how Peter looked at her. How he wanted her. It was my doing, not his. Peter followed my lead, trusting me to do the right thing, and I gave him away.
Except Barbara gave him back. Barbara gave him back. I don’t know if he’d have come back on his own.
I must still be a little drunk. I’ve spent months carefully not thinking about this and now I’m crying into my pillow afraid that Peter hasn’t really come back to me.
You see, I know that I’m not worthy of Peter. I’m not really the person he deserves. For weeks now I’ve been watching him, wondering if I’m living in a charade; whether Peter would rather be with Barbara but is just too nice to leave me. Maybe my mother was right to put him on the other side of the house.
“Helen?”
Peter is standing over me. I didn’t even hear him come in. I sit up on the bed, conscious of how red my eyes must be and how strongly I must smell of drink. I want to get up and hug him but I can’t make myself move.
Peter has brought the toy bag with him. I didn’t even know he’d packed it. Shit, he’s brought the toy bag to my parents’ house.
He places the toy bag on the bed beside me. Normally I choose the toys, but this time it is Peter who opens the bag. He takes out the strap-on. It’s a complicated affair. The strap that goes between my legs will push a dildo and a butt plug into me and leave a long thin curved black latex cock jutting out from my belly.
“I’d like you to use this. I want us to make some noise.”
Peter wants me to fuck him and he wants everyone to know it’s happening. Joy spreads through me like liquid sunlight. Peter wants me.
He’s been watching me figure it out. When he sees my smile start, he kisses me. I am Sleeping Beauty being brought back to life. Except I’m going to reward my prince by reaming his ass as hard as I can.
I take the strap-on from him. “Strip, Peter,” I say.
He sheds his clothes calmly but quickly. He is already hard. I make him wait while I shrug out of my clothes, then I stand with one leg on the bed and tell him to tool me up. I mean to sound stern but I can’t keep the joy out of my voice.
Then it starts for real. Peter lubes me slowly and thoroughly and straps me tight. With both holes full and a strong black cock thrusting in front of me, I feel powerful and as randy as hell.
“Get on your back on the bed, Peter, and hold on to your ankles.”
I love the sound of that. Love the calm excitement with which he obeys. He doesn’t ask why he’s on his back when he should be bent over. He does what I tell him.
I spread lube over my mock-cock, place my finger and thumb around the base of Peter’s erection and push the strap-on hard into his anus.
“Keep your hands around your ankles, Peter.” Then I make the noise he’s been waiting for: in my best rodeo tones I shout, “YEEHAW,” and we’re off.
I ride him hard enough to make him buck on the bed. I keep his cock in my hand like a joystick or perhaps a saddle horn, squeezing it as I pound his ass. The harder I push into him, the deeper the dildo rises into me. When I’m close, I slap his hands away from his ankles, lift his feet up over my shoulders and fuck for depth. The bed is bouncing now.
“Jack off, Peter. Jack off hard.”
His hand moves eagerly on his cock. I am so close that I’m groaning as I grind into him. The heat of his sperm splashing onto my belly pushes me over and I growl my come at him.
I pull out of Peter’s poor abused asshole and collapse on top of him. I feel strong and whole and loved.
Peter holds me gently and whispers, “Welcome back, Helen.”
It turns out that the bed is not too narrow if we lie like spoons. As I fall asleep, I remember that I’m still wearing the strap-on but I’m too tired to move.
We are both sore the next morning but that doesn’t stop us grinning at one another.
“Do you think they heard us?”
“Your parents’ bedroom is still next door, isn’t it, Helen?”
We both laugh.
At breakfast I wait for my mother to say something. She discusses the weather and asks if we really have to leave straight after breakfast but makes no mention of our exploits. As we say our goodbyes, Mother hugs Peter and says something to him. I miss the exchange because I have a crying baby in my arms at the time.
When I’ve driven as far as the freeway, I ask Peter what my mother said.
“She told me you were lucky to have me.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that you would always have me and that I would always give thanks for that.”
I try to imagine the expression on my mother’s face when she heard that. I decide that it would probably be one of approval. Thank God for Peter, I think to myself. Then I start to look for the next rest stop. I want a quiet place where we can do a bit more thanksgiving.
Screen Play
A. F. Waddell
In a dimly lit room I stood at the bottom of a winding staircase; the sound of wind chimes played from an upstairs porch on a hot night. I wore a white blouse, tight red skirt and spiked high heels. I watched the man walk towards my front pane-glass double doors. His brown hair was slicked back; his cheekbones were prominent; his long thin nose slightly flared over his moustache. He jiggled my door handle; the door was locked. As I watched him he searched the ground for something. Picking up a large stone, he used it to break my glass door pane; he reached inside and turned the lock. He threw open the door and approached me, holding and kissing me and unbuttoning my blouse. His hand rubbed my cunt through my silk skirt and panties.
“Maybe . . .” I whispered.
He lowered me to the floor. He pushed up my skirt and pulled down my white panties, slipping them over my thighs, knees and calves, and over my strapped, spiked heels. I breathlessly shook.
I awoke moaning in bed from another orgasmic dream; I’d mentally recreated a scene from the film Body Heat. I was Matty Walker: my perfect, fit-in-a-champagne-glass breasts throbbing in my perfect white blouse, my hungry cunt throbbing in my perfect red skirt. I recalled the first time I’d seen the film in the early eighties. In a cold, empty house I’d sat huddled under a blanket. I was emotionally and physically transported to the lush, warm, wet environs of South Florida – was it my imagination or did steam visibly rise from grass and earth, from Matty and Ned, as they fucked in the boathouse? I thought of my vibrator nestled in the nightstand drawer. I deferred. It was getting late. I got up, dressed in a robe, and went to the kitchen for coffee. I took a cup of Colombian into my office and checked my schedule for the day. I’d get off easy today, only one appointment, later in the day.
Driving southwest through the hills in my Jeep was relaxing, a perk before hitting the freeway. To the sound of Santana’s “Samba Pa Ti” I floated through green-hilled space. Highway 120 was winding. With my tendency to speed I had to be careful, lest I totally lose it on a curve. The hitchhiker stood on the west side of the highway. He wore a blue flannel shirt and jeans. His long dark hair was tied in a ponytail. What would he be like? I wondered. A snake-hipped stud with knowledge of the Kama Sutra and tantric sex? A masseur and sex magician? A lover who’d spend hours discovering and lingering on a woman’s sensitive spots? Did he smell of recently showered male and exotic fragrance, his hair of coconut shampoo? I imagined the male bouquet drifting from his skin and through my nostrils, into the limbic system of my brain. Get a grip, girl. He’s probably a serial killer.
Dr Wellman’s office was located on Citrus Avenue between Back, Neck and Shoulder Pain, and the Anti-Aging Clinic. I walked
the maze between offices and entered the lobby at 3.50 p.m. The receptionist, Melanie, was pretty, perky and tan.
“Hi! Have a seat, Ms Waites. He’ll be right with you.”
I sat on a cream-coloured leather sofa. The decor reminded me of a Woody Allen film set, with its calming vibes of neutral shades: white, off-white, eggshell, oatmeal, beige, mushroom and sand. At 3.59 I walked into the office and took a seat opposite Barry. We sat in comfortable overstuffed chairs.
“How’ve you been, Anna?”
“Busy.”
“Anna, are you taking care of yourself? Exercising? Eating right? Socially interacting?”
“Yes, yes. Who are you, my mother?”
Barry smiled. “How’s work going?”
“I’m adapting my novel into a screenplay, remember?”
“That’s right. That’s wonderful, your novel about the female independent filmmaker?”
“Yes, that’s right! But I wonder if people will pay to see yet another inside-the-industry satire. No action figures or computer games will result. Industry accountants will likely be unenthusiastic.”
“Do the work, Anna. You must complete the work in order to get to the next work.”
“Yes .”
“Sleeping well? Dreaming?”
“I dreamed of Matty again. That I was Matty.”
“Why do you suppose you dream of being a femme fatale?”
“I suppose I’m attracted to the power. The sexuality.”
“Yes?” Barry rested his chin on his intertwined hands and leaned slightly forward; the furrow between his brows deepened.
“Dr Wellman, do you realize that Matty’s character is bad, and isn’t punished for it? Quite unusual for a story, for a film. Oh. And don’t forget Bridget in The Last Seduction. Another exception to the rule.”
“Anna . . . we don’t use the ‘b’ word in this office.”
I smiled. “Sorry! And this morning I fantasized about picking up a hitchhiker.”
“Yes . . . ?”
“Spontaneous sex with a complete stranger would be hot.”
“Well, yes, but a distinction must be made between fantasy and reality. Many fantasies are meant to remain unrealized. Violating prohibition is however a strong basis for eroticism.”
I had images of forbidden fruit. Dates. Smooth and rich on the tongue. High carb. Sugary. Dangerous.
I took Citrus Ave to I-5. As I drove north through green foothills, the air quality improved; dusk gave fantastical quality to the hills and lights. Pockets of housing development imposed their squares and rectangles backing out, pushing between the natural curves of the foothills, boxes juxtaposing green jutting breasts. Driving east towards Shadow Valley, I looked forward to getting home, putting on a robe and puttering around the house. I wondered when my muse might visit and send me scurrying to my notebook or word processor. At home I reclined on the sofa and thumbed a magazine. Goddess targeted a female professional demographic. I skimmed the food section and made a mental note on the salmon and spinach diet. I skimmed the health section and noted the latest miracle supplement. I skipped ahead to Indulgences. Blurbed were spas, vacation getaways, and specialty services: Retreat caters to your special needs. Nestled in the natural environment of the Golden Haze foothills, our facility offers the utmost in comfort, privacy and natural beauty. Our select, discreet staff is here to indulge you. For more, visit our web presence at retreat.com. I went into my office, signed online and accessed the site. The design was simple, understated, clean. Shades of light blue, cream and black were accented by soft-focus photos of foothills, cabins, interior design and bodies under the hands of masseur and masseuse. I accessed the reservations page. A link provided a request form. Let us assist you in designing your experience. Interesting, I thought.
I bookmarked the website, got ready for bed, climbed between the sheets and randomly took a book from the nightstand. The Mind of Eros by Frederick Borman PhD could be a deeply psychological read, but also included sexual fantasies and experiences. I liked to skip around. I first hungrily, then sleepily, read.
The dark-haired woman sat in the centre of the small movie theatre; she seemed to be the only woman there. Men watched the screen with a focused yet wild energy. In giant close-up, a pink quivering cunt and cock devoured and attacked the other. Reminiscent of some fifties American sci-fi/horror film, sans the cheesy costumes with visible zippers in the back, slimy odd-shaped creatures wrought havoc and spewed mysterious, dangerous fluids. A large prick pumped a perfect, hairless, tanned, pink-edged wet cunt. The Maw-Creature appeared impossibly small to accommodate the Prick-Monster which inched inside it, stretching and spreading its edges.
A pink, belled tip and shaft vigorously slid through slick fingers and thumb, fingers and thumb, fingers and thumb. From its slitted tip spurted whiteness into brunette hair it ran; onto a soft tan face over heavily blushed cheeks; over cotton-candy pink lip gloss; over a delicately dimpled chin. The dark-haired female viewer looked at the screen. Recognizing her own face, her jaw slackened as the cinematic action reflected in her eyes.
I awoke and touched my face. Lying on my back in bed, I stared at the ceiling and replayed my unusual dream.
Under a skylight I crawled on the hardwood floor and arranged three-by-five cards. Breaking down a novel into key film scenes could be torture. How to effectively condense, yet retain meaning? I agonized. Many screen treatments in any case eventually suffered drastic rewrites; the further into the process one got, the less original meaning likely remained, until a work could appear unrecognizable. Casting-wise, Cate Blanchett and Jeremy Irons might devolve into . . . who knew? I thought the first scene would be of protagonist Claire giving direction on a film set. Scene two would begin a series of flashbacks of Claire in the early years, as continuity person and script supervisor on various low-budget location films, including the comic relief of behind-the-scenes on horror films. Relationships would be broken into love scenes, interspersed with her industry climb and disappointments, climaxing in her Cannes win for Sighs and Whispers. I gathered my three-by-five cards, mixed them up, and threw them into the air. I spun and chanted as the cards fluttered to the floor. Not bad! I thought of their reordering.
I drove west on Mountain View. It had been a while since I’d seen him – since he’d closely stood, caressed my shoulders and neck, and run his fingers through my hair. Rick was a good listener, sensitive and had a sense of humour. I’d date him, I thought, but then we’d have sex and break up, and I’d lose a damned good hairstylist.
“What are we doing today, Anna?”
“A trim and a blow-dry, please, Rick.”
Draped in plastic at the shampoo sink, I leaned back, closed my eyes and relaxed into the experience. Wet. Lather. Rick’s hands vigorously massaged my scalp, moving in circles, moving skin over bone, messaging nerves and limbs. Rinse. Condition. Rinse. Back at his work station, I sat as he precisely combed and trimmed my hair. He continuously repositioned my head, as if I were a fidgety child. At the next station a female stylist did a man’s hair. It was funny, I thought, most men came into a hair salon with a maximum of two or three inches of hair, yet the stylist could take for ever to trim a quarter-inch. She did a hair-styling dance of sorts, delicately fluttering around the man, smiling and chatting and flirting.
“Let’s blow this dry, Anna, I want to double-check the line.”
“I want volume and tousle. Every hair needn’t be in place.”
“Sure! Lean forward and flip your hair, please.” Through the fringe of my hair I noticed the intersection of his thighs and groin; his well-tailored navy cotton slacks; the tucked black cotton shirt; the thin black leather belt with the silver buckle. Stylist and patron seemed often body parts to one another, varying with the point of view.
“How is it? You like?”
I looked at my hair. It was full and wavy and not too short.
“It’s good. Thanks, Rick.” We smiled.
I drove east on Eucalyptus. Towne &
Country Centre boasted an upscale grocery market. I aimed my Jeep towards the parking lot and put it in a space between a Mercedes and a BMW. Dear God, I thought, Christmas decorations were up. Red, green and gold froufrou contrasted the clean lines of the beige stucco building. The upscale neighbourhood seemed sometimes surreal, perhaps too quiet, too clean, too calm, with lurking noise and dirt and chaos threatening sudden explosion. Inside, market patrons had a weird social energy, sugary perkiness covering vitriol. Perfect suburban dolls shopped in tennis dresses, smiles drawn back over teeth that would love to bite. Suntanned champagne blondes filled their carts. Clothing fashion changed little throughout the year in Southern California; the temperature changed little, and might allow halter tops, cut-offs and platform sandals in December.
The produce department boasted obscene abundance; it seemed the vegetables had been inflated with a bicycle pump, or were futuristic monsters. The produce area smelled wonderful, I thought, as I touched Japanese eggplant, English cucumber and Italian squash. To my right a man shopped and watched me. Was it my imagination, or was he slightly smiling and smirking as I handled the green and purple vegetable shafts?
An instrumental version of “Let It Snow” played as I wandered the store aisles. At the bakery, red and green packaging contained myriad sweets. The world shimmered with candy. The muzak was seeping into my brain. I had to get out! I focused on filling my small basket. Mixed baby greens. Zucchini. Chicken breasts. Merlot. Chocolate ice cream.
At the express lane, Aileen rang up my stuff.
“Paper or plastic?” asked Kyle.
“Paper, please.”
In the kitchen I unpacked groceries and poured a glass of Merlot; it tasted fruity, plummy, spicy, low herbal. I stood and looked out my kitchen window, sipped, gulped and poured another glass. On the counter I preheated my grill. I heavily spiced a boneless chicken breast, put it on the grill and put down the lid. I mixed baby greens with extra virgin olive oil. Wine chewed at my empty gut; I drank more. My brain clicked, warmed and sweetened. I stood at the counter and wolfed down my chicken breast and salad.
The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica Page 48
