The Borrowed Kitchen

by Gilmour, SJB

  Sally gasped louder now and was clenching and un-clenching her buttocks to press herself even more firmly against Mitch’s mouth. Then, ay carumba! Now I’d had my share of orgasms (admittedly, not while actually with my husband, and I did my share of Hail Marys afterwards), but they were nothing compared to this. Sally came for what seemed like a good minute and a half. She slammed her legs together, squeezing Mitch’s head deep and hard into her groin as uncontrollable spasms surged through her. The song had only been playing for six and a half minutes.

  When she finally released him so he could breathe, Mitch’s face was red and sopping wet. He was sucking in air like a man about to drown. Sally lay back on the polished stone slab for a few moments. Once she had herself back under control, she wriggled over to the side and sat up.

  ‘My turn,’ she told him. She hopped down nimbly and knelt in front of him. His cock had softened a lot, but it didn’t stay that way for long. With both hands on the fronts of his thighs, she nuzzled his balls with her nose. Moving upwards, she flicked her tongue over his balls, while she held him firmly with her right hand.

  Mitch groaned and leaned back against the bench to steady himself. Once more I had the pleasure of watching Sally fellate him with sloppy abandon, only this time, she had no intention of letting him come in her mouth. She just wanted him nice and wet and hard. Grinning at him, she sat back then turned around and knelt on all fours.

  Mitch knelt behind her and began rubbing the engorged knob of his shaft against her wet pussy lips. After a few rubs, he pressed into her slowly, but deeply. He began to thrust, slowly increasing his rhythm, leaning forward a bit to angle his cock downward inside her. He knew this made his member reach more sensitive spots inside, really triggering something special.

  Supporting all her weight on her left forearm, Sally reached underneath and began rubbing her clitoris with the fingers of her right hand. Mitch was straining now. His thrusting was harder and faster than anything I’d ever received from my husband, and he was still doing that angling thing, which was obviously becoming uncomfortable on my terracotta tiles.

  Sally came harder than before, gasping and shaking as spasms of ecstasy shook through her.

  ‘Stop, stop…’ she gasped, inching forwards to let Mitch know she wanted him out of her.

  Mitch obeyed reluctantly, but he was almost shaking with anticipation of what she was about to say.

  She turned and looked over her shoulder with a wicked smile. ‘Now my ass…’

  Mitch grinned and then knelt down and began tonguing her little hole. Again, he made sure to use lots of saliva, getting as much as he could inside her as well as around it. Then, slowly and gently he began pressing himself into her.

  I had a fair idea of what was going on in his mind already, but I just had to know what she was thinking. Once more I touched her consciousness and yet again, I was surprised. It didn’t hurt her. He was being gentle and slow — nothing like what she’d seen in some of those movies they’d both watched when the other wasn’t around. It wasn’t the same kind of pleasure, true, but she did enjoy it.

  And so did Mitch. A lot. He’d already been taken damn close to coming, so it didn’t take him long. He’d increased his speed a little, but his actions were more grinding deep than hard and fast pumping. He stayed deep inside her until his own climax finished. He was about to pull out when again, she shook her head and waved at him.

  ‘No, let me.’ She squeezed him out with a soft squelching noise. Then they both collapsed on my floor and gazed at the very spot I was using as my point of view. Quite unnerving, actually. I withdrew then. I’d really seen more than I should have and was feeling very conflicted. The acts I’d just seen them perform went against everything I’d been taught, but then how could such mutual openness and compassion and enjoyment be wrong? There was no pain, no sadism or power play — just loving, wanton desire. The lucky blighters.

  They didn’t return to me until well after noon. Guess they’d earned a good nap. Heck, I’d have gone to bed for a week after sex like that. Still, for them it didn’t seem the least bit out of the ordinary.

  Mitch put on a playlist that seemed to consist mostly of Pink Floyd, Queen and Def Leppard while he helped Sally prepare the rest of the dinner. He fetched more herbs from the yard while she chopped up potatoes, carrots, red onions, more garlic and pumpkin. These she mixed together with more olive oil and random sprigs of rosemary and thyme.

  I had to hand it to Sally. She was militant about saving the vegetable trimmings and leftover herbs for the minestrone she was planning to cook up the next day. I’d never have been that frugal.

  When she put the vegetables in, she also removed the foil cover from the legs of lamb. A huge cloud of vapour burst out of my oven, engulfing her completely. I couldn’t resist. I sank into her mind as she shut her eyes and inhaled. That roast smelled absolutely incredible. It was so intense I couldn’t stay in her mind for long. I had to withdraw.

  Sally then turned her attention to desert. She sidled up to Mitch as stood in front of the freezer, struggling to open a bag of frozen peas. Nudging him aside, she pulled out a packet of frozen puff pastry.

  ‘When you’ve finished wrestling the peas into submission, would you mind peeling me a dozen apples?’ she asked him with a mock-innocent grin.

  Mitch chucked the peas back into the freezer and got to work on the apples while Sally then collected her cinnamon, cloves, sugar, and all-spice from my cupboards. As Mitch peeled the apples, she rinsed and sliced them, putting all the chunks into a bowl. To this she added the sugar and spices, along with a punnet of hulled strawberries.

  When it was all mixed together, she got to work on the pastry. I’d always made my pies with form-spring tins and hand-rolled pastry. Sally wasn’t going to have any of that fuss. She simply tossed the fruit together in the bowl, then microwaved it for fifteen minutes. By the time that marvellous little box went ‘Ding!’ she’d upended a regular pie-dish on the pastry sheet and cut around the edge. A few moments later, the ingredients were cooling in the pie tin, waiting for her to pop the pastry lid on top.

  ‘There,’ she said proudly, rubbing her hands together. ‘All that’ll need is ice-cream and we’re all set.’

  ‘Great! Now what do we do?’ Mitch gave her a cheeky grin that told her quite clearly he was ready for more sex if she was.

  ‘I have some study to do.’ She waggled her chin at him. ‘You go write something.’

  Later, while she was waiting for the guests to arrive, Sally created a playlist with the new albums she’d bought, as well as a few of her favourites. There was a flamenco guitar player called Armik, a wonderful jazz singer called Kurt Elling, a blues guitarist and singer called Joanne Taylor Shaw and another jazzy rhythm and blues songstress called Angie Hubbard.

  I had a hard time concentrating on Sally and Mitch’s thoughts or even their conversation, I was so taken with the music. Something about that Angie Hubbard’s voice just set me to dreaming, and listening to Joanne Taylor Shaw was like hearing Stevie Ray Vaughan reincarnated in the body of a white British girl.

  The guests arrived on time, each bearing bottles of wine which were immediately set to chill in the fridge, or opened and taken out to the dining room. When the roast came out, it really was just about falling off the bone. Those lamb legs had browned beautifully and thanks to my ability to share Sally and Mitch’s senses, I knew smelled just divine. Sally moved the meat onto a large carving platter for Mitch to start shredding with tongs and a carving fork, while she put the strawberry and apple pie in the oven then began to make the gravy.

  She removed any of the twiggy bits of herbs and the bay leaves from the baking tray. Next she scooped all the vegetables, which by now had turned to dark brown lumps of mush, and as much of the juice as she could, into a saucepan on high heat. To that she added a glass of red wine and gave it a quick whizz with a stick blender. The result was a thick, aromatic goo which, had I been there and alive, I could have eaten by the
mugful.

  Then the pair of them left me alone to savour the memory of the flavours and smells they’d created. Every now and then, one or two of them would come in for a fresh glass or to help with dishes or what not.

  Meghan Rosenberg, or Megs as she preferred to be known, was an old friend of Sally’s from early high school. I’d caught glimpses of Sally’s thoughts about her as she nipped in and out of me to fetch things. I wasn’t surprised to see Sally still felt a little grateful Megs had moved out to the country before the sexual orientation thing became such an issue. Sally knew her popular friends would never have tolerated her being pals with a lesbian.

  Of course I couldn’t hear Meg’s thoughts, or any those of the others, regardless of how much time they spent inside me, but I did catch quite a few snippets of conversation that gave me an awful lot to think about.

  ‘She hasn’t changed all that much you know,’ Megs confided to her lover Kate Papadopoulos, when they were alone in me.

  Kate peered out in the direction of the dining room. She turned back with one raised eyebrow.

  ‘She’s always been nice to me.’ She tilted her head to listen to the flamenco guitar music coming from the iPod. ‘Spanish guitar?’

  Megs nodded. ‘I know.’ She shrugged then. ‘Maybe she has changed. The old Salls Morgan and her friends would never have listened to that.’ Then she sighed. ‘Still… I just remember those friends of hers would never have let her be friends with a pair of lesbians like you and me. Some of them would probably choke even now if they knew we were her guests.’

  ‘You used to be friends with them.’

  Megs nodded. ‘Oh I was. I had a major crush on one of her friends too. Not Salls though. But it wasn’t much fun. If I’d come out, they’d have disowned me on the spot.’ She sighed and smiled lovingly at Kate. ‘Guess I’m lucky my folks moved out here huh? The fresh start gave me the chance to start over so everyone just knew me as Megs the dyke, not Meghan the little girl who grew up straight and turned queer.’

  Both women shushed as Sally made her way back with some empty plates. Later, I heard the editor of the Gembrook Gumleaf, Frank Webb his name was, talking to David Forbes.

  ‘I heard they got it for a song.’ He looked around at me, admiring my enormity.

  David nodded, taking a sip from the wine glass he’d refilled four times already that night that I could count.

  ‘Guess they weren’t fussed about... you know… what happened.’

  ‘The deaths of the owner-builders?’ Frank seemed surprised.

  Neither heard Mitch coming and both blinked and flushed slightly as he spoke.

  ‘As soon as I heard, I had to find out what happened.’ Mitch grinned a little self-depreciatingly and nodded at Frank. ‘It’s a journo thing. Have to poke our noses into everything. I went to police station in Gembrook, told ‘em who I was and that I was curious about what happened. They showed me their reports.

  ‘He died after inhaling too much paint fumes or something and fell down the stairs. Smashed his head in. A month or so later, she decides to do a bit of re-wiring herself instead of paying a sparkie, and electrocutes herself. Smashed in her own head on her way off the ladder.’ He looked around at me with a shrug. ‘They might’ve been inspired when it came to design, but they probably should have left the real work to professionals.’

  Hey! Mitch Taylor, you are not going to stay in my good books for long if you keep talking about me like that.

  Mitch opened the fridge and withdrew yet another bottle of wine. This one was a fancy local sauvignon-blanc with an old-fashioned real cork. I’d tasted some a few years back, but there was no way I’d spend forty-three dollars on a bottle of wine. Ashleigh and I had been quite happy with the winery’s dry white clean-skins, thank you very much.

  Sally bounced in, flashing that big toothy smile all around as if she hadn’t a care in the world, though inside, she was all business. Now for pie and ice-cream. Mitch won’t be long, but I better get Tish, or Trish or whatever her name is to make sure her piss-head husband doesn’t take up residence in my fridge. Heh. Tish. Should call her Trash, she drinks so much. What is she on, her fourth glass?

  Sally retrieved the pie from the oven and carried it out. She nudged Mitch as she left.

  ‘Don’t forget the ice-cream.’

  Mitch gestured to David with the bottle. ‘Want a top-up? Corkscrew’s in the dining room.’ With the wine in one hand and the ice-cream in the other, he followed Sally. Mmm, ice-cream…

  David nodded at the bottle. ‘Nice drop that one. Mind if I rinse my glass?’

  ‘Grab a fresh one from that cupboard,’ Mitch told with a grin. He nodded over his shoulder as he left.

  Before he followed Mitch, David noticed Frank giving him an enquiring look.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t it strike you as odd? The Owens dying so close together like that?’ Like Mitchell said, maybe it’s a journo thing, but I’m curious. I remember the story of course, but—’

  David shook his head. ‘We see shit like that all the time,’ he slurred, referring to his work at the bank. ‘Only usually with older couples who’ve already paid off their mortgage. One goes and no sooner have we sighted the death certificate and closed off the account, the other one drops off.’ He chuckled. ‘Kelly reckons the place is haunted.’

  Frank chuckled. ‘She’s what, fourteen?’

  ‘Fifteen.’ David shrugged. ‘Cops might’ve thought something was up. They interviewed us about four times. The seemed to want to tie the case to Alec Riley. I didn’t know ‘em very well at all, but I met the woman’s brother a few times after she died. Neill Coates. Lives in The Junction.’ He shook his head with wry appreciation. ‘That’s one lucky fucker. Two lots of life insurance and the money from this house. Just as well. Guy thinks of himself as some sort of artist, but nobody wants to buy his paintings. Ask me, he’s just another bum.’

  David Forbes was also beginning to annoy me. My brother is not a “fucker” or a “bum”.

  ‘But the house was mortgaged, wasn’t it? Anything owing on it would go back to the bank.’

  David nodded. ‘If they were like most of the poor suckers out there. Thing is, same as my bank would have tried to do, their bank tied them up into paying extra for full insurance against loss of income or death.’ He grinned and waggled a finger at Frank. ‘Never trust a bank that sells insurance. They’ll fuck you.’ Then he shrugged. ‘Turns out they fucked the bank. Both names on the papers, both dead. Do you know the odds of something like that happening? It’s like their bank won the lottery in reverse. Brother got the house, bank got fucked.’

  Now Frank became really interested. ‘Any idea how much he pocketed from the life insurance?’

  I didn’t want to hear any more. Luckily, I didn’t have to. Trish called her husband in for desert. Yes, Neill had inherited well, though I doubt he would have called himself lucky. My husband and I had what’s called key person policies or something. With both of us dead and the sale of the house, Neill would have inherited close to two million dollars after tax.

  Chapter Three

  Autumn turned to winter so quickly it seemed one moment, the days were bright and clear, the next they were dull and grey. Storms, always such a lovely occurrence out in the bush, signalled the arrival of the cold wet months when nothing grew and little flowered. Leaf litter twirled and rained down upon the place like paper from a ticker-tape parade. Sometimes more than just leaves would fall. Boughs and branches also came down frequently. Those from the stringy-barks and the manna gums were usually small and rarely caused me a moment’s thought. Those from the majestic mountain ash gums however, had always made me me catch my breath for a moment when I’d been alive. Now with only the one in my field of vision, I worried about it constantly.

  One Sunday night, a huge such branch came down during a storm so fierce it rocked our house with its thunder and lit me up with its lightning as if I was the floor in a nightclub.

 
Sally and Mitch had taken a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and a loaf of crusty bread and a small, shallow bowl with extra-virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and sat on the front porch to watch the storm. I couldn’t hear a word they said over the roar of the wind, except for brief, muffled exclamations of awe after each lightning burst.

  When the bough came down, Sally squealed, signalling the end of their outdoor entertainment. They came in just as the hail began to thunder down. It was the Third of July and the beginning of the winter holidays.

  Early the next morning after his usual breakfast of fruit and coffee, Mitch went out to the shed and came out wearing my husband’s earmuffs and carpentry glasses. He was also carrying my husband’s chainsaw. It took him a few tries, but he managed to get the old Stihl machine buzzing away.

  At first I thought it a bit unfair of Sally to make him go out there and do all the work alone, but then I read her mind as gently and as quickly as I could. By now I’d realised that my sifting though their minds and focusing on certain thoughts or memories actually brought them to the surface. In order to leave their minds to follow their own thought processes, I tried whenever possible to observe only.