Quiver

by Tobsha Learner

  “What’s this for?” she asks, her voice breaking into the moment. He smiles broadly. “Wait and see.” He places himself between her lips, then pushes her back suddenly.

  His cock seems to pierce the neck of her womb. The pain becomes pleasure as the gold bead rolls over her clit as he enters her again and again. She is close to coming, his shoulders and arms engulfing her as he rides her faster and faster.

  Suddenly she hears a muffled cough. Opening her eyes she fleetingly sees Jock ducking behind the couch.

  “Look at me! Look at me!” Ahmed’s voice is urgent, close to orgasm. Glancing up she gazes for a moment into his eyes. There is nothing there but this act between them. Sex, pure sex. And the knowledge that she is being watched. She wants to show Jock what he risks losing.

  She spins on Ahmed’s cock and turns with her back to him. He runs his hands down her broad back, parting her firm ass. He watches himself entering her, her wet clenching as he slips in the whole length of himself. He moves back so that the tip rests between her glistening lips. He slips a finger in beside his cock and traces the moisture up to her anus, massages the rim, then pushes a finger in. Stacey gasps, the pleasure is intense as if two centers within her link and throb. She is close to losing control. Ahmed groans and thrusts into her. Reaching around he cups her heavy swinging breasts with his left hand while playing her with his right.

  “I’m coming,” she moans, loud enough for Jock to hear. Jock peers out from between the gold frame of the legs of the couch.

  “I’m coming!”

  Jock’s head appears in full view, an expression of pain and fascination dances across his features as he watches this huge man, this giant, take his lover.

  “Ahhh!” she screams and grasps the shoe, throwing it full pelt at Jock. It hits him on the chest, bounces off and smashes the photo of the filly. Behind her, she hears Ahmed come in a huge resonating shout while Jock picks up the tiny red shoe and stares at it.

  DOUBT

  The plane trip had been bumpy. No matter how hard he tries, he can never get used to flying; there is something horribly unnatural about defying gravity on such a large scale. Mercifully, no one had recognized him on the plane. Normally he wouldn’t have liked that, being a vain man, but after the ignominy of last night, he was thankful for any anonymity he could get.

  Karl leaned back in the cab and flexed his hands. They still ached. Old age, you can hide it in the skin but not in the bones. Tropical rainforest flashed past the window, sugarcane fields with workers in straw hats visible where the jungle had been bulldozed flat. He couldn’t even remember the name of the country he was in. It was just two concerts, one at the request of the President of this small island, an Oxford graduate and avid fan of Mozart’s. He’d been pestering Karl’s agent for months trying to schedule a stopover on one of Karl’s whirlwind tours. Finally they’d succumbed, and for an extraordinary amount of money Karl was to play the President’s own selected concertos. There was to be no public attendance. Just the President and his twelve mistresses as audience. The second concert was for the hotel chain that had sponsored his accommodation. They had converted one of the old colonial palaces into a deluxe resort for the extremely rich. Karl was looking forward to the hotel; having spent most of the last twenty years touring, he’d become addicted to the convenience and transient ambience of hotel rooms. In his mind, they had all evolved into a monoculture of fluffy, clean, white towels, mini bars and spas. As his fame as a conductor had grown, Karl had gradually created a network of brief affairs that now spread over most of the globe. Classical music, like rock music, has its groupies. Musicians always hold an allure, and conductors, well, sometimes Karl wondered whether it wasn’t an unconscious reference to masturbation or digital competence. Whenever he’d wanted, they were always there, waiting backstage or in the Green Room, breathless, youthful, eyes glittering, nervous but alive with the thrill of touching fame.

  Him. Karl Pope. The famous conductor and pianist. Available in most record stores.

  Until Katherine.

  The taxi skidded and the cab driver, large and black, shouted blasphemies as a nonchalant goat glanced scornfully at the car and sauntered back to the curb. Karl suddenly felt very sick. The humiliation of last night sat like a cold brick in the base of his stomach. Up until this moment, shock and the distraction of coordinating his departure had mercifully postponed the memory of the extreme ridicule he had been exposed to. Katherine. She had been everything he’d imagined in a partner. Highly intelligent, funny, musical—but, thank God, not professionally so. She was also fifteen years younger and beautiful. The best kind of beauty, worn like an irritating obstacle that got in the way of communication. She worried that people didn’t take her seriously because of her appearance, but this was one of the eccentricities that had first attracted him. That and the fact that she was never in awe of him. She didn’t even know who he was when they first met. Because of this, Karl always felt she loved him honestly for what he was and who he was. And it had been love, in a way that at fifty-two he’d never experienced before—or perhaps had never recognized.

  Love. For him this underpinning chord had always made their lovemaking transporting, not the debauched sexual gymnastics he had been used to (in fact he’d found Katherine to be curiously conservative) but transporting in a spiritual way. All he had to do was to be inside her. United with her. It was the only time in his entire life that he felt safe, connected.

  A pain shot across his chest. The crescendo of the concert resounded suddenly in his head, as he saw himself, baton raised, turning around at the sudden sniggering coming from the auditorium. Then, as if in slow motion, in the corner of his eye he saw a flash of naked flesh and long red hair swim past. It was when he was about to bring in the bass that he heard it—the sound of a woman coming clearly audible, clearly recognizable.

  Why did she do it? It was extreme attention-seeking behaviour, no doubt. Perhaps she had become tired of his indiscretions. But they had workshopped that, after all he couldn’t expect her to accompany him on all of his tours. She was a successful illustrator of children’s books, published and acclaimed in her own right. At the time they had seemed so adult, so sensible, discussing rationally the absurdity of monogamy in this day and age. As long as you make me feel loved, I don’t mind, I just don’t want to know about it…is what she had said, along with making him promise that he’d use condoms faithfully every time. So why this sudden rebellion? This blatant display of sexual marking of territory? Karl felt suddenly old. Doubt about his proficiency as a lover crept in slowly through all the other doubts.

  The taxi pulled up to the hotel. It was a huge early nineteenth-century palace, built in colonial British style. The architect had obviously been influenced by the white palaces of the Raj.

  Karl, hit by the humidity as he climbed out of the air-conditioned cab, asked the driver to take his bags up to the desk, then leaned against the car, his Panama firmly down on his head. He lit a cigarette. He’d given up a year ago because Katherine had asked him to, but this was his fifth cigarette since last night. A tourist bus pulled up beside him. The various categories of traveler disembarked: the Japanese, mainly middle-aged and nervous; a party of Americans from the Midwest he guessed; a group of extremely beautiful and giggly English schoolgirls; and one lone woman. Australian. Something vulnerable about her persona attracted him.

  Early thirties, small with dark hair, her fragility created a grace about her. And she was alone. He carefully projected the more handsome side of his face as she walked past, pulling at her suitcase. She didn’t even bother to look at him. This disaffection plunged Karl into a further depression. He wasn’t used to being ignored. The cab driver whistled to get his attention, irritating him further. The days of respect for one’s customers were definitely on the decline.

  The foyer was spacious and cool. Ornate, with high marble ceilings, it had a fernery in the center, around which the building had been designed. His suitcase sat by the des
k. The concierge, an extremely handsome young man of mixed blood, was busy chatting flirtatiously with the Australian, her ruck-sack plonked unceremoniously on top of the desk. Tall, with brown skin and, Karl noted bitterly, unusual green eyes for a mulatto, the concierge said something that made the woman break into laughter.

  “Salinity is my field.”

  “Salinity? You mean you have a problem with rain in Australia?”

  “Drought, bad farming…rabbits, you name it.”

  “No problem with rain on this island, everything is very fertile.” He extends his consonants in that attractive Caribbean way, pushing himself forward as if to display to the girl his own evident fertility. Karl can’t help noticing the lush growth of thick brown hair on the boy’s head. With a pang of jealousy he is reminded of his own thinning pate.

  “Any chance of some service here?” He hates the sound of his own rudeness but can’t help himself.

  “I’ll just finish with the lady, sir.” The concierge hands a key to the Australian. Karl notes his unusually large hands. Probably hung like a horse, Karl muses bitterly, doubting the validity of his own penis size.

  “Room seven, it’s a lucky number.” The concierge hands the keys to her with a broad suggestive smile. She smiles back. Karl thinks it’s time to intervene.

  “Karl Pope.” He leans back, waiting for the usual reaction to his name, hoping that the Australian will turn around, acknowledging his presence, his fame, but she just walks off. Ignorant colonial, he finds himself thinking.

  “Ahh, you’re the famous piano player who’s going to entertain us all…welcome.” The concierge’s charm, Karl notes, extends to men also.

  “Room thirty-six, that’s the penthouse suite.”

  The bedroom was magnificent—large with en-suite bathroom, the bed a huge four-poster hung with silk. It was mock antique, elegant but comfortable. Beside the bed sat a small table, along with phone, fax and remote control for the huge video screen sitting opposite. Karl moved over to the small bar fridge and opened it. It was stacked with strawberries and mangoes, his favorite fruit, ones he always requested on tour. For the first time in forty-eight hours he smiles. He lies down on the bed, realizing that the silk doubles as a mosquito net. The sound of children playing in the distance drifts in through the huge bay window, along with splashes from the pool below. Karl closes his eyes for a second, only to be confronted yet again by the sight of Katherine hanging half-naked out of the window of the listening room. Afterward he hadn’t even been able to get a rational excuse from her. Not that he’d been that rational himself. How was he meant to react? Sexual betrayal is one thing, but in your own domain? She must have known what the consequences would be. As for his relationship with the orchestra—he knew he wasn’t liked anyway, and that was something that really pained him. But the trouble was that the more he tried to be liked, the less successful he was at it. He was a perfectionist, and expected others to achieve the standards he imposed on himself.

  How would he ever show his face in the concert hall again? They must have crucified him in the newspapers.

  Characteristically, his agent thought that it was a wonderful turn of events. Frankly, she’d said, you’re old news. We need a sexy angle like this to spark up some media interest. Conductor betrayed by wife in auditorium—it’s perfect. You watch, it’s gonna be great box office success.

  He pressed the remote. CNN flashed on; images of an earthquake intercut with footage of the minister pleading for more aid flickered silently across the screen. He switched it off, and reached into the small bedside cupboard, pulling out the brochure found in all hotels, the one starting with Swedish masseurs and finishing with high-class escorts. Even on this small island they’d managed to create a flourishing industry judging from the quality of the paper. Most of the prostitutes were black and beautiful. He thumbed through the photos with their accompanying descriptions in German, French and Japanese. The novelty of paying for sex had worn off years ago. Occasionally, when stress had reached an intolerable level, he’d hired women to perform bizarre acts, like sucking him off under the piano while he played a Scriabin sonata. It had been good, but the perfunctory nature of sex without emotion held no charm except physical relief for him. What he craved now was love and Katherine’s dry wit to put a perspective on his generally paranoid sense of the world. Katherine. Would they ever make love again?

  He reached over and phoned down to the desk. There were no messages for Monsieur Pope. None. Pas un seul. What really disturbed him, a fact that kept tugging at a corner of the frozen image of horror, was the extreme youth of the man Katherine had chosen to seduce. Perhaps he was really too old for her. More than anyone, Karl knew the incredible seduction of young skin. He was, after all, the most fascist of aesthetes. He ran his hand across his forehead. There were permanent furrows on his brow. His jawline, once referred to as having the classical edge of an Eastern European prince, was now definitely jowly. And then there was the question of his belly. Although a tennis player, six hours of piano practice a day did not lend itself to exercise. Perhaps if he promised to diet, to spend more time in the one country, to unpack and stay with her for at least two months consecutively. God, he hadn’t done that for at least ten years. But love, he realized, wasn’t a piece of music you could play over and over again with different interpretations. It actually needed to be improvised as you went along. And God knows he hated jazz. Frankly, he was terrified that he’d arrived at this knowledge far later than most of his peers. Perhaps too late.

  Night had fallen and a chorus of crickets had started up, punctuated by the occasional tree frog. He went to the window. It smelled balmy outside. The scent of the sea was just discernible under the scent of frangipani and orange blossom. None of this cheered him up; if anything it fed his melancholia, the nostalgia that lay embedded under the incredible anger of being betrayed. He was too old for this kind of thing. With that thought rising like bile in the back of his throat, he slammed the window shut and went in to have a shower. It was bedtime for Monsieur Pope.

  Later, washed and in the blue silk pajamas Katherine had given him for his fifty-second birthday, he pulled back the bedclothes and got into bed. It was too hot for blankets. He contemplated leaving the fan on, but decided that he wouldn’t be able to sleep with the noise. He switched the fan off with the remote and lay flat on the bed, the sheet pulled high up over his ears. After a moment his hand crept down to his penis, softly curled against his thigh. Comforting, a friend that had accompanied him over a long, hard journey. When erect it was the most unwrinkled thing about him. Normally he was proud of this fact, and had often used it as a pick-up line. Tonight the thought depressed him. Katherine’s young boy must be bigger. He was convinced that was what she had secretly craved. Big, thick cocks. He felt vulnerable and protective of his own now, cradled in his palm. He’d always thought his was of respectable dimensions, a loyal upstanding member. Probably due for long-service leave now, poor thing. Poor neglected thing.

  Christ, he wanted her touch. He wanted to feel her lips caressing the base of his cock in that uncontrolled way that made him know that she was near to coming herself. He stiffened. The image of her sucking someone else suddenly loomed up, a jarring note that instantly upset his harmonic modulations. He wilted immediately. He tried to think back over the years, but he couldn’t remember anyone complaining about his size, and he’d had over a hundred women. Perhaps he’d shrunk with age. Everything was falling apart anyway. Lately it had been his career. Didn’t that other pianist, half his age and very good looking, get a rave review for the very same piece of music he was famous for? Youth always an inch behind him, stealing his limelight, stealing his music, stealing his wife. It was exhausting.

  He turns restlessly in his bed, contemplating the sleeping pills he always keeps with him. A light comes on in the room opposite, and for a moment Karl’s bedroom becomes a shadow play of mysterious shapes. He sits up on one elbow, peering across. Just visible in the window op
posite he can see the Australian getting ready for bed. She stands for a second, her face pushed into the light, just in her bra and pants. She has a good body, he thinks, with legs that remind him of someone’s. Not Katherine’s, he notes with spite. The light goes off and she is lost in the shadows. Karl watches the spectres on the wall for five minutes then falls asleep. The kind of sleep where all conscious thought goes reeling backward and is sucked into a black vortex into which one discards mortality thankfully. Mr Pope swims thus, dreaming of being tied to a piano stool by gigantic locks of red hair that wrap themselves around him like the blind tentacles of an octopus. For some inexplicable reason the only way he can begin to free himself is through humming, in perfect key, the full score of the concerto he is to play for the island’s President. The louder he hums the more the tentacles shrivel up like flaccid penises, shrinking away from him across a bizarre parquet floor. Gradually, he realizes that the humming isn’t coming from him, but from outside. Outside the dream, louder and louder it grows until it becomes a kind of roaring.

  He woke abruptly, a wave of nausea flooding up through the sleep. The sound was still there, a throaty scream audible through the opposite wall that Karl recognized as the sound of a woman being made violent love to. He turned away from the wall and wrapped a pillow around his head.

  It didn’t make any difference. The cry was followed by a moan and then a loud growl. Karl switched on the bedroom lamp. The electric clock glowed three A.M. He was furious, he had a concert at two the next afternoon and he was always up for practice at six. He couldn’t function on too little sleep. A thud against the wall and then a low groan. It sounded like great sex. Suddenly it felt like everything was conspiring against him, as if the whole world was out there fornicating, while he lay withering in his bed, forgotten, ignored, his last good years going to waste.