“Are you suggesting sex?” she asked, as if the mere thought were unimaginable.
“Uh, yeah, I was.”
“Didn’t we just …”
“It’s been nearly four months,” Munroe nearly whined.
She seemed to contemplate this for a while, weighing the pros and cons of a little game of sink the pink. He could almost see the wheels spinning.
“I doubt if it will help me get to sleep,” she complained, “but go ahead.”
Inspired by her willingness, Munroe slid a hand under her nightshirt and cupped a small breast. Mekisha had unusually plump and long nipples compared to most women, well … most magazine women, Playmates, Pets, and such. Mekisha and “Melissa the Sistah,” a lady he’d employed on numerous occasions before he met Mekisha, were the only women whose nipples he’d ever experienced firsthand.
Mekisha’s were nearly red, looking like they were freshly manipulated and moistened; they stuck out like large clam necks and begged to be bitten. Munroe restrained the urge knowing Mekisha didn’t enjoy it. In fact, she despised having them bitten, chewed, or in any other way abused.
Munroe rolled on top of his wife and almost lost it when her legs parted freely, though she may well have been avoiding injury from his bony knees. He jabbed blindly and entered immediately, unhindered into her overly moist warmth.
Munroe sucked on Mekisha’s neck, shoulders, and nipples. He gently bit her earlobe and her breasts, thrusting rhythmically, and trying to get a sexual response, hoping to hear her breathing increase, feel her rock in unison with him. Christ, even a soft moan would be nice!
He moved his lips from her downy cheek to her soft lips, trying to part them with his darting tongue, and then he noticed her clouded eyes staring at the ceiling.
“Maybe I should use green,” she said.
“Huh?” Munroe grunted.
“For the backdrop.”
Munroe stopped, starting to dwindle. “For fuck sake, Mekisha, could you at least pretend to be part of this?” he complained.
Her eyes met Munroe’s. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m stressed. Keep going,” she instructed.
Munroe held her eyes, piqued, daring her to wander mentally again. He slowly resumed his motion and soon he felt a crescendo start building, warmth starting at the base of his dick and spreading outward. Mekisha’s eyes were now closed and pleasantly serene, enjoying the lovemaking … until he heard the snoring. At this point he didn’t care, the urgency called. He continued, rocked spastically, pulled out and blasted nearly four months of build-up over Mekisha’s belly, tits, and under her chin. She didn’t stir a bit.
Munroe rolled over, feeling a mixture of indignation and relief, but before long was drifting off, wrapped in the comfortable arms of slumber.
When Munroe woke, Mekisha was still asleep, lying face-down with her cheek distorted and half-sunken into her pillow, her sandy hair splayed around her head like the clouds of a tempest. He watched her in silence, wondering what odd glitch in reality had mated him with someone as dynamic as Mekisha Coralline Jutras. She was not a ravishing Catherine Zeta-Jones type of beauty, but she was very sexy in a Sheryl Crow kind of way, and she had a ton of charisma.
While Munroe was in no way an ogre or repulsive, he was squirrelly at best, barely moving the scales at a paltry one-hundred-thirty-five pounds. His non-descript physique, receding hairline—though not terrible for thirty-eight years—and insipidly plain face all added up to something as unexceptional as clay.
Mekisha’s eyes snapped open, levered by either a dream or an intuitive awareness of Munroe’s study. Startled, she regarded him and her brow furrowed questioningly. “What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, rising. “I need to shower.”
“Me first,” said Mekisha, pushing herself up. The fitted sheet rose with her, adhered to her from chin to chia by Munroe’s discharge.
“Ewww, what the hell!” she complained.
“Sorry, I had a little built up.”
“We had sex?” she asked, gingerly pulling herself free of the sheet.
We? Munroe thought bitterly, I did … you were present, but not there.
“It appears that,” he said.
“This is so disgusting,” she whined. Finally free of the sheet, she pulled it from the bed, balled it up, and tossed it to the floor near the bedroom door.
“You could have swallowed it,” he suggested, admiring her well-formed ass as she made for the bathroom.
“That’s unthinkable!” she said with revulsion.
“You make it sound like it’s venomous,” he said, feeling annoyed and rejected.
“It may as well be. I don’t see how anyone can swallow that stuff.”
He looked down at his manhood. It could have been in a dictionary under the common human penis. Like everything else about him … typical, average, run-of-the-mill Munroe.
“What time do you want to leave for your reunion tonight,” Mekisha said from the bathroom, elevating her voice above the running shower.
Munroe closed his eyes and let out a breath. He had zero desire to dredge up memories of high school. There wouldn’t be anyone there he wanted to see, and he was quite certain no one there would want to see him, no less remember him. His high school years were generally spent trying to be invisible, avoiding those whose only use for him was for their own entertainment.
“I don’t want to go,” he protested.
“Of course you do. Anyway, I’ve already paid for the meal tickets. It’ll be fun.”
Fun at my expense and at my humiliation. “I won’t know anyone there. Jesus Christ, I only had two high school friends; one’s dead, and Jared Gault lives on the West Coast.”
“You went there for four years and you’re telling me you won’t know anyone?” She emerged from the bathroom toweling her hair briskly. Munroe admired the way her firm little tits responded to the motion. “What about that girl you dated?” she went on.
“Oh my god, Tara Jean Beyer? She was a fluke!” He walked passed Mekisha and into the bathroom. Tara Jean was the Salem High School sweetheart and beauty. Everyone in school knew her name, and every guy, girl, and possibly teacher, wanted to either be her or do her. Why she had come on to him, he never knew, though she only dated him for a week. “She came to her senses soon enough,” he said to Mekisha and climbed into the shower.
He didn’t understand why Mekisha was with him, either. He figured he was her retreat after her somewhat legendary furious and promiscuous adolescent phase.
Munroe arrived at work forty minutes late. He was usually prompt—Mr. Seven-on-the-button—and the few times he was late no one seemed to notice anyway, so today he grabbed a coffee.
When he settled at his desk, it was ten past eight. He switched on his monitor and clicked on his calendar to see the day’s itinerary. The first thing on his schedule was an appointment with his shrink at 8:30. He switched off his monitor, rose, grabbed his briefcase, and left work. He was sure no one would miss him.
“I apologize for the delay,” said Dr. Shamus Henderson in a smooth, sleepy voice. As usual, the psychologist was fifteen minutes late opening his door for Munroe.
He seemed to move in a vacuum, as if his motion could stir no air. Dr. Henderson was not a large man, but Munroe found him imposing. Munroe wasn’t certain if it was because of the man’s black-as-night skin, his Hannibal Lecter sophistication, or his long, stick-like fingers, but Shamus Henderson positively scared the hell out of him. Munroe followed him into the office and reclined on the couch, which was a change for him, as he usually preferred sitting up.
“How have you been since we last met?” asked the doctor as he settled into his seat at the head of the couch. Munroe heard the quick shuffle of papers and felt sure the doctor was looking for a name to jog his memory.
Munroe shrugged. “Same as ever,” he said.
“Ah! Yes,” said the psychiatrist, verifying Munroe’s suspicions. “So, do you still think your existence is of no importan
ce to anyone?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” repeated Munroe, “I know my existence is of no importance to anyone.”
“Why do you feel that?”
“Why?” blurted Munroe. “Last night my wife fell asleep during sex … again.”
“Does this happen often?”
“Very seldom, about three times a year. In fact, only when we have sex.”
“Hmm,” said Doctor Henderson. “Maybe the problem is with your wife, not you.”
“Hardly! When I left work to come here, I didn’t tell anyone.”
“How did that make you feel? Do you feel it was a responsible action?” asked the doctor.
“It doesn’t matter. They won’t notice I’m gone. Wait, check this out!” Munroe pulled a folded piece of paper from his front pocket and passed it to the doctor.
“What is this?”
“My rejection letter. You know the six-hundred-page thriller I’ve been writing for the last four years?”
“Yes,” said the psychiatrist, but Monroe could tell he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about. Munroe waited until the doctor passed the paper back to him.
“How does this make you feel?” asked Shamus Henderson.
“Like shit! Didn’t you read it! That’s my seventeenth rejection! Dear Mr. Mundane Doldrums, they called me! My fucking name’s Munroe Dolan. Don’t try to tell me that was a typo!”
Munroe rubbed his hands through his thinning hair. “They said I should not write. They called it ‘hapless drivel, less exciting and less tasteful than paste and drier than parchment. We’ve read instruction manuals and calculus text books that were more exciting’,” he quoted in a mocking, singsong whine.
Munroe sat up on the couch and swiveled toward Doctor Henderson. “Christ! They said they were being kind!” he said.
He looked at the doctor who was bent in half, his head nearly touching his knees. Drool had pooled on his pant leg and he snored lightly. Munroe stared at the sleeping psychologist and felt an intense urge to kick him in the forehead, but true to form, a resigned Munroe got up and walked out of the office. He noticed a pretty, young woman sitting alone in the waiting room.
“The doctor will see you now,” he said to her.
The thought of returning to work appalled him. Munroe had had his share of humiliation for one day without willingly throwing himself back into the line of fire. He’d simply tell them that he had told them he was leaving for the day, if it became an issue. He was sure they’d find the possibility of not hearing or seeing him believable. Hell, they did it daily.
With thoughts of avoiding the balmy summer air and lying around the house for the rest of the day, Munroe started his Ford Focus, backed out of his parking spot, and headed for home.
He wasn’t surprised to see Mekisha’s BMW in the driveway even though she said she had business in Boston all day. He wasn’t even surprised to see the shiny black Chevy Silverado. The idea of Mekisha having an affair wasn’t unthinkable. Shit, he’d cheat on himself if he were in the same situation. What did surprise him was the volume of Mekisha’s voice, clearly lost in the throes of passion, trumpeting from the back yard. This was not like her, Mekisha did not get passionate, but the voice with the telltale smoker’s rasp was inarguably hers. Disappointed yet morbidly intrigued, Munroe rounded the side of the house readying for a confrontation he didn’t feel like having. He pictured Mekisha and one of her physically perfect male models entangled in the pool.
“Oh! Bite them harder,” she implored. “Oh, fuck yes! Make them bleed! Ow! Yes! Goddammit! YES!”
Munroe stopped short at the gate, mesmerized by the sight of Mekisha laying spread-eagle on the gym mats she stored on the patio. Aerobics, my ass! he thought bitterly.
Kneeling near Mekisha’s nimble body, to Munroe’s disdain, were two of her physically perfect male models—one black and one white. Each had a nipple clenched between their teeth, and they both gnawed like puppies with chew toys. Mekisha writhed in ecstasy, her hips thrusting her sex toward Munroe as if in ridicule.
The screen door slammed, and yet a third man came into view. He was about six-foot-three, copper-red haired, and NFL worthy. His erect dick was impossibly long, maybe a foot and as thick as Munroe’s wrist, and it bobbed like a dowsing rod as he walked to Mekisha. Black Dude and White Guy knelt up, exposing their own generous packages, though not as imposing as Big Red’s.
The redheaded giant knelt near Mekisha, grabbed her by the hips, and flipped her onto her hands and knees as easily as if she were a stuffed toy. Her remarkably large nipples now stuck downward like blood-soaked thumbs.
Munroe watched unwillingly, transfixed by disbelief and horror, as Big Red drove his horse-like rod deep into Mekisha, eliciting from her a shriek of pain, and even more so, pleasure.
“Oh-my-fucking-god,” she gasped, repeating the litany again and again in rhythm with the red man’s wild thrusting.
Black Dude knelt in front of her and pinned her orally as well. To Munroe, Mekisha looked like a convulsing pig impaled on an agitating spit.
After an indeterminable amount of time, Big Red’s face darkened two shades, looking about to burst. “Grarghhh!” he roared.
“In my mouth!” Mekisha cried, urgently pulling free of Black Dude and engulfing Big Red. White Guy immediately filled in behind Mekisha where Big Red left off.
“Oh, you like the taste, bitch?” asked Black Dude.
“Mmm-hmmm, mmm-hmmm,” Mekisha nodded convulsively, which drove Big Red over the edge. With a grizzly roar, he held the sides of Mekisha’s head in his mitts and exploded.
Spent, Big Red fell onto his back. Mekisha swallowed heavily and licked her bottom lip, retrieving a rivulet of Big Red’s juice that tried to escape.
“You want to taste some more?” asked Black Dude, rubbing himself with increased need.
“I want to taste you all,” said Mekisha, drawing him to her swollen lips and gorging on him as if she were frantic and starving.
Monroe couldn’t watch any longer. Disgusted, immensely betrayed, and maybe a little turned on, he retreated. He could hear the animalistic fury of Black Dude’s release as he climbed into his car.
By the time Mekisha called Munroe on his cell phone, he had been sitting in Donut Delight for nearly six hours. The servers had stopped looking at him suspiciously about three hours earlier, and now shot him quick glances he could only read as pity. They probably thought this poor, pathetic bastard was a loner, or some loser in the world of love. Boy, were they right, he thought.
“Yeah,” he answered the phone.
“Where the hell are you? We’re going to miss the reunion,” she said.
Mekisha loved parties and most public events for evidently self-serving reasons. She got a high from being recognized, praised, hounded, and ultimately, envied.
“How’d your meeting go today?” he asked objectively.
“Fine,” she said. “Same as usual.”
Yeah, I’m sure, he thought. As if she would give him an honest answer. Why, I had a gang-bang with three guys today, and you shoulda seen it, I didn’t even fall asleep once! Not just that, one had a fence post for a dick. Oh, and you know how I won’t swallow for you? Hell, I practically chug-a-lug it for them, and I let them chew on my nipples as if they were beef jerky.
Munroe’s anger had encompassed him such that Mekisha had to yell into the phone to get through to him. “I know you’re still there, I can hear the registers.”
No wonder her nipples were always so red and tender. No wonder she hated them touched; they were always recovering!
“Listen,” she kept on. “I know you don’t want to go, but, trust me, you’ll have a blast.”
He sighed heavily and Mekisha took it as a yes.
“Good! Get your ass home so we can go have some fun,” she said, sounding like the pep rally princess. “It’s an hour drive, so we should leave by six at the absolute latest.”
“I’ll b
e there in ten minutes,” Munroe said. He knew it was over for him and Mekisha; he didn’t have much to offer in the interesting department, and he bored her to tears in practically every facet of their marriage. What it came down to, the proof evident in all walks of Munroe’s life, was he was an utter, downright, one-hundred-percent, USDA, grade-A dullard.
He bought a final cup of hazelnut coffee, his fourth, and walked out to his run-of-the-mill car.
Not an intellect, but not daft; not handsome, yet not homely; Munroe was the epitome of middle-of-the-road. He didn’t know why he was so lackluster. It was an integral part of him that, after years of trying to remedy with conferences, shrinks, and how-to books, refused to be exorcised.
On the positive side, he had always been unbendingly honest, loyal, and respectful, but it was now clear to him that morality accounted for little.
During his drive home, a pissed-off and vengeful Munroe vowed he would have fun tonight, but at Mekisha’s expense for a change. Since her image management was so vital to her, Munroe decided a little public indignity was long overdue. Munroe wished he had divorce papers already drafted up so he could overtly serve them to her over a PA system. That’d bring her down a few notches, he thought self-righteously.
As they drove, Munroe took in the buildings flanking both sides of Salem’s Rockingham Boulevard. He had seldom set foot in New Hampshire for more than twenty years, and as far as he was concerned, he would have been content never to enter the state again.
A lot had changed in his absence. Rockingham Boulevard, otherwise known as Route 28, was still a two-mile stretch of strip malls, specialty stores, and other commercial hullabaloo, but far more thickly settled. Some stores remained, some buildings were razed, and many more were raised, but it was still, well … Salem. It wasn’t a bad town by any means, but there were no good memories … neutral and middle ground, par for the course in Munroe’s view.
He steered Mekisha’s BMW into the valet parking lane at the Holiday Inn hotel and hopped out of the running car, leaving his door wide open. He grabbed a number from the attendant and headed for the hotel doorway, chancing a quick look over his shoulder. Mekisha sat in the passenger’s seat looking put out by Munroe’s blatant snubbing to open her door as he usually did.
Inflictions Page 26
