by Rose Caraway
She pulled her belt free and her peplos slithered to the ground. The blind man made a noise of gratitude and delved between her legs with fingers and tongue-tip. For a moment she only gasped, and then impatience overwhelmed her and she pushed him backward against the sarcophagus. Getting one knee up high onto the slab lid, she slid her wet split over his upturned face and pressed down upon his mouth.
He hadn’t just been boasting; he knew exactly what to do with his tongue, and his lips, and his fingers. He lapped and nibbled and slipped into her, pulled and sucked and stirred. It was a burning, exquisite joy, and a relief beyond words. She gripped his head with her hands and cried out, shuddering her hips. He ate her like she was the ambrosia of the gods. He drank her like she was nectar. Naked, wide-eyed, awash with flame, she passed from desire to apotheosis, pouring herself upon his face like holy oil.
And she felt, for the first time in years, like she was beautiful again.
In the after wash her trembling legs let her down and she sank to straddle his thighs. He’d pulled his robe aside, she saw, and his cock was hard and engorged and shiny under his stroking fingers. It looked delicious, she thought, pushing his hand aside and angling him into her hot and slippery grip.
Oedipus groaned, teeth bared. He did his best to hold back as she pushed down his length, but restraint was beyond him now; he bucked beneath her, thrusting up, filling her with his brine and his loss and his broken pride. She clenched about him, aftershocks of her own orgasm running through her along with his.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “Too fast. It’s been too long.”
She wrapped an arm about her head to stop her hair falling onto his face, and—greatly daring—tipped forward to plant a kiss upon his mouth. She could taste herself.
“Hey.” His hand clung to her thigh as she rose from him. “We needn’t finish yet.”
“We do.” There were tears tracked down her cheeks, but he couldn’t see those. “It’s not safe.” She grabbed up her clothes. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
She didn’t answer.
“Wait—how did you know Phix’s name?”
She was already walking away, but she paused midstride. Near her feet, black lilies bloomed and the stone dog stared into space. “We were half-sisters. Keto was our mother.”
“Then…what’s your name?” he called, scrambling to his feet.
“Mine?” she asked, over her shoulder. “Medusa.”
The Contest
Michael Lewis
My first introduction to Nora came when she was sent to join me for a campaign pitch in Phoenix. I wasn’t thrilled with her last-minute substitution for my usual copywriter, Kevin, but things like that happen in the advertising business. Kevin had succumbed to the monetary inducements of a rival agency that needed to up their diversity quotient. In any other business, you might think twice about an outrageous salary offer that was predicated on the color of someone’s skin, but ad execs jump from agency to agency with less inducement than that. So congratulations, Kev! Hasta la vista! Let me buy you a drink. Touch any of my clients, and I’ll put a knife in your back quicker than you can say junior partner.
Nora was new to the agency, fresh from her MBA studies and still glowing with the suntan of a Cancun honeymoon with her new husband. Her poise put me quickly at ease with her status as my new colleague and pitch assistant. Granted this was enhanced by the type of body most starlets have to buy at Dr. Calabro’s—shoulder-length blonde hair, green eyes, delicate neck, an ample (but not too ample) chest, narrow waist, lovely hips and legs that made you forget about everything else. We hit it off almost immediately, and our success at bringing the Hinojosa Tortilla Company under the wing of the Bascom, Henry and Bascom Ad Agency solidified what would become a working relationship that’s lasted four years now.
Since then, I thought that I’d learned everything there is to know about Nora; from the day she met her husband during his final year of med school, to her “three years of hell” working as an assistant product manager for a giant consumer company. She was rescued from the land of soaps and detergents through the largesse of Mom and Dad, who were willing to provide B-school tuition, room and board. The prospect of becoming the parents-in-law of a doctor seemed to make the investment worthwhile in their estimation. After two years of business school pursuing a graduate degree, she became the wife of an earnest doctor immersed in his residency, and the running-dog accomplice of a crazy ad man twenty years her senior.
If you’re tracking through all of that, you might have deduced that there was a five-year gap between meeting the doc-to-be and getting that fabulous tan on the beaches of the Yucatan Peninsula. That might tell you more about Dr. Simon than any other description that I could put together. Let’s just agree that there is a library somewhere on this planet that features a giant dictionary wherein next to the word deliberate there is a picture of Dr. Simon Hansen of Chicago. He invests more time in daily sock selection than most other people do in the purchase of a new car. You don’t want him treating you in the emergency room following a car accident, but for long-term care, Simon’s your dude!
It’s not that Simon and Nora are mismatched in any significant or relationship-threatening ways, it’s just that their styles for addressing challenges are different. In any case, it didn’t seem to affect her seemingly spontaneous view of things, and thank god for that!
So there we were, almost four years after that successful mission to Phoenix, on a plane for Dallas to learn a little about the new marketing software that promised to “cut lead time, increase profits and boost creative opportunity to new heights.” Essentially, we were traveling a thousand miles or so to drink lukewarm coffee, eat semi-stale pastries and listen to a geek whose world revolved around software that combined all the functionality of a word processor, graphics package and web design tool. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt!
I’ve lost count of the number of trips that we had shared together by this time. If you don’t see anything wrong with friends enjoying a few drinks together, you would have never looked twice at our record…until the Dallas trip. We enjoy a comfort level that allows for the opportunity to be sarcastic, share dirty jokes or even make a lascivious comment about members of the opposite sex. By now I knew more about Nora and Simon’s relationship than I cared to. Let’s just say that Simon can be a bit stuffy and leave it at that. Nora’s not exactly a free spirit, but she does like to kick up her heels once in a while, and the good doctor apparently cramps her style in that direction.
The seminar concluded early. It might have had something to do with the snores of the guy from Buffalo throughout the day and a half, but that offered Nora and me a leisurely afternoon and evening prior to the flight home the next day. I suggested we obtain sustenance at a nice little restaurant featuring hamburgers, hot wings, cold beer and busty waitresses. Despite her mild protestations of male chauvinism and salaciousness, Nora agreed to join me. Not that she was opposed to the place; her junior year of college had been partially financed with tips earned at one of the busiest locations this chain had in Denver.
Is there any better way to take nourishment than to be in the midst of big-screen TVs with twenty-four-hour sports and comely waitresses in tight tops? I don’t think so, but then I’ve been free of my starter wife for five years now and probably have a fair amount of growing up to do before meeting my forever spouse. Not that she admires the waitresses in the same fashion I do, but Nora will tell you that sometimes it’s more appealing to sip a cold beer and munch fries in front of an Australian Rules football telecast than to be balancing appetizers and a martini while making small talk about hospital politics.
The beer loosened our tongues while the 38Ds of our waitress loosened my imagination. By midafternoon, we had elected to move our conversation to a different location. It was Nora who noticed the Doll Factory as we drove past and suggested we take advantage of the happy hour twofers. This represented a new facet in our relationshi
p, and one that certainly piqued my interest. So we parked the car and marched in, arm in arm. The girl at the door waved us in—something about a complimentary couple’s admission—and we took a seat at a table. It wasn’t a large club, but there were three stages, two empty during the late-afternoon slack time, with one currently featuring a fine-looking dancer of African American heritage. During the next two rounds I was treated to Nora’s fascinating critique of each dancer’s performance style. Most of the criticism ranged from faint praise to sardonic putdowns, with our waitress adding her two cents’ worth from time to time—usually in agreement with Nora. I couldn’t resist asking the waitress why she wasn’t onstage, receiving the reply, “Not with my lack of rhythm, sweetie, but your girlfriend here could be a star if she put her mind to it.”
Okay, backpedaling time! Too much information!
But while I tried to think of how to extricate myself from this exchange, Nora came out of nowhere and exclaimed, “You think so? I’ve always fantasized about that.”
“Well, sugar,” our waitress said, “you should just bring yourself back here tonight for the Amateur Contest and try it out. You never know what might happen.”
Nora demurred, and shortly thereafter, my heart started pumping with a regular beat. One more beer and we decided that dinner was a viable option. But she seemed a bit pensive throughout the meal. As we neared the end of dinner, she finally looked up with a grin of lustful determination and announced, “I’m going to do it! Are you with me, or are you going to wimp out and hole up in the hotel?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I stammered, knowing damn well what she was talking about.
“Amateur Night…I’m going to dance! Why not? We’re out of town, no friends or relatives to stumble in and ruin my reputation, or go squealing back to Simon…correct?” The look in her eye promised physical mayhem if I even contemplated telling her husband. My leering smile answered her without the need for any further assurances.
Why not indeed? We gathered our things and returned to the hotel, with a stop at Shannon’s Sensuous Toys and Fashions on the way to obtain the correct apparel for such a performance. Watching Nora shop was an experience in itself. She passed on my suggestion of the pink-lace teddy; or should I say she demurred at my suggestion that she model the pink lace teddy? But she did pick out a tiny G-string with red sparkles that would glitter like crazy in the stage light. Mentioning a red blouse back in her hotel room that she could adapt, she finally decided that the only additional requirement for her performance ensemble was a tiny black leather micro-skirt. She didn’t actually do a runway number with it, however she did strut a short distance out of the changing room to get my (enthusiastic and supportive) opinion. We made a slow pass by the dildo assortment, during which she looked just a tad wistfully at the various motorized cumbots, then paid for the skirt and G-string and hurried back to the Loew’s Anatole Hotel.
At precisely 8:15, I left the elevator and met the sluttiest looking bundle of energy I’d ever seen. “Thank god, you’re not late,” she said, “the desk clerk keeps eyeing me like I’m some kind of hooker!”
“Well, my dear Nora, you do match the description somewhat.”
“I know,” she purred, “but I don’t want to pass up an opportunity like this by getting busted in the lobby!”
We drove back to the Doll Factory, arriving to find the parking lot a little more crowded than it had been during the afternoon. “Sure you want to go through with this?” I asked. But there was no opportunity for an answer as my curvaceous friend was already out of the car and headed for the door.
The couples’ admission policy was still in effect, though clearly there weren’t a lot of patrons that had benefited from it. All three stages were in use now, showcasing some lovely dancers, one with marvelous moves on the stripper pole. Nora looked as determined as ever. Watching her sign the performance waiver was almost arousing in and of itself.
We had time for a drink. “A little Dutch courage,” as she called it, then the manager retrieved her and the other contestants for their instructions, while I listened from nearby. They could go completely topless but there had to be at least a thong or G-string on the bottom. Removal of that bottom coverage—both fully or partially—was not condoned by the club, and could result in the arrest of the dancer if the cops were in the house. However…wink, wink…it could also generate greater enthusiasm on the part of the audience, resulting in more points. In other words, a flash of gash just might be what it took to win.
The number of contestants wasn’t great, but the quality was better than I would have expected. As gorgeous as Nora was, winning would not be easy. At that point in time, I didn’t realize that winning was even on her mind, having been treated to an almost professorial lecture from her on the “naked in front of an audience” fantasy she’d always savored. But, as the first girl stepped up to the stage, I couldn’t help but notice an expression on Nora’s face that reminded me of those moments before a business preparation.
“Omigod…she’s in this to win,” I thought to myself.
There wasn’t a great deal of diversity in the contestant pool that night; four blondes (including Nora) and one spectacular brunette. The judging criteria called for the awarding of points based upon three factors: noise generated, tips earned onstage and the vote of a panel consisting of the manager and two customers. During the introductions, I might have been inclined to give the nod to the brunette (introduced as Molly from Grapevine) just for her singularity, but I reminded myself that I had to be partisan and true. My initial reaction proved insightful, as Molly seemed to gather the most enthusiasm during the introductions. Nora only looked at me with a sense of lustful purpose that made me uncomfortable in more places than one.
The first two performers went through their sets with enthusiasm, but with only borderline talent at best; a little dancing ability was needed. Nora and another competitor watched them closely. But I couldn’t help noticing that Molly the brunette was nowhere to be found. It may have been just a coincidence that the bartender was on break at the time, replaced by one of the waitresses.
The third dancer raised the bar considerably—to almost 36DD inches, if you know what I mean—and it was obvious that she knew the difference between the rhythm of dance and the rhythm of contraception (did I mention dancer Number Two’s bikini scar?). She was also far more relaxed and clearly more approachable than the others were. Following the same three-song format as the regular dancers, she avoided the novice trap of not pacing herself. Contestant Number One had apparently been in a rush to get down to her G-string, leaving her with too much time to deliver the goods to the stage-side denizens. Number Two might have suffered an attack of modesty, taking forever to remove the bikini top she’d brought with her, and not doffing her miniskirt until the very end of her set, a terrible faux pas—she should have stripped off the skirt first and then the top. Amateurs!
Nora was up next, so I replaced a skinny guy sporting a Dungeons & Dragons tattoo (what’s up with that?) on his arm when he left his seat at the stage in search of the john. The difference between Nora (introduced as Sabrina from Arlington) and the rest of the field was immediately apparent. With a face flushed with sexual excitement, she pounced onto the stage to the driving beat of Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love.” After four years as business associates, I had probably begun to take her looks for granted. But seeing her onstage, wearing the black leather micro with red blouse loosely tied in front, accessorized with her favorite Chicago-style leather boots, was tantamount to a revelation. The blouse barely contained her boobs, making her a certified jiggle queen. Damn, she looked good!
She used the Palmer song to demonstrate surprising dancing ability, managing to flirt with every guy in the joint in the process. Near the end, she allowed one lucky guy to unzip her skirt, with him copping a brief feel of vulva in the process. By the time that the skirt slowly slithered down her legs there wasn’t an empty chair at or near the s
tage. The way it rode the curve of her hips made her legs look even longer. Of course the black boots didn’t hurt either.
The next musical selection, “Brick House” by The Commodores, kept the energy level up, but allowed her to get up close and personal with her new fans along the stage, and the tips started to pile up. New decibel levels of crowd noise were reached when the red top practically melted off of her, releasing two of the most perfect tits I’d ever seen.
More than one paying patron was delighted to experience the perfumed valley between her tatas, and I relished the look on her face when the first guy sucked a nipple into his mouth, lingering and savoring it longer than I ever thought she’d allow. She was enjoying this!
As she moved toward the end of the second song, we gave a brief demonstration of that typical Bascom, Henry and Bascom Ad Agency commitment to teamwork; Nora enlisted me in the removal of the thong, leaving her with only the G-string as the final barrier between her and the indecent exposure ordinances of Dallas. Hmmm…now that I think of it, the thong must have come from her suitcase. I know she didn’t purchase it with the G-string and micro-skirt. Our level of eye contact as I pulled it down her legs with my teeth gave me the first real hint of what was to occur later in the evening.
Tom Jones provided the final bit of musical inspiration, “You Can Leave Your Hat On,” a slinky classic if ever there was one! Prior to now, she had been shaking her ample bosom in front of the paying customers, in varying degrees of proximity, and showing off every other delectable body part she could. It was my turn again for some special attention. She leaned over, conveniently allowing her breasts to fall into my open hands as they lay palms up on the stage and kissed my ear, pausing long enough to say, “I have never been this turned on…never.” Then, spinning around on all fours, she presented her world-class rear for my personal viewing enjoyment. This was the rear that had been parked next to mine in so many airline and lobby seats, and now here it was in all of its naked glory, just inches from my lips. Peering down between her legs, she reacted to my enraptured smile by reaching around and inserting her middle finger two knuckles deep into her pussy. It practically dripped with lust syrup, offering no visible resistance to her probing digit. She followed this by sucking the glistening fluid from her finger, staring so deep into my eyes that I temporarily forgot my name, location, and…well…I forget what else I forgot…
