Scream Queen

by K T Morrison

  “You’re so fucking hot,” he said.

  “Take off your things,” she said.

  He undid his tie, tore it away, took off his shirt, got on the bed on all fours wearing just his chinos and socks and glad he’d been getting to the gym at least twice a week during the winter. Chelsea received him, sitting up now with her knees raised, cupping his neck and kissing his mouth. Her lips were soft and plump; she smelled like strawberries and sativa and leather. He nibbled on her neck and she undid his buckle. They worked together on getting his pants off, his underwear getting caught on his boner, Chelsea tugging on the waistband, freeing his dick and making it dance. She laughed at its performance.

  Then she was over top of him and he was lying on his back like her prey. She got between his open legs and kissed at his stomach. She worked her way down, took his penis in her mouth. He wove his fingers through her hair and guided her head up and down as she bobbed on his shaft. Her fingernails went over his scrotum, dipping low, cupping them and squeezing them. She got him moaning and writhing on the bed. Mouth pulled free, she ran her tongue up from the base to the very tip, got over him on all fours and said, “You want to feel my body?”

  He nodded.

  “Put your hands on me,” she said.

  He looked at the flat of her stomach, the tautness of it even as she crouched over him. Perfect breasts hung down, her nipples dark brown and hardened. She moved to put one in his mouth and he sucked on it while rubbing at her sides, feeling the edges of her ribs. He went down her narrow waist, grabbed her ass.

  “You like my body, Ben?”

  “It’s incredible.”

  “Are you going to fuck me?”

  He struggled to answer, and the delay made her look down at him. She took her breast out of his mouth, smiled at him.

  He said, “Do we have to?”

  “Just want to feel my tits and suck on them? What do I get out of this?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What kind of man doesn’t want to fuck me?”

  “Chelsea, of course I do.”

  “Ben Todd’s got a conscience, huh?”

  “I love Libby.”

  “You’re not gonna fuck me?” She gripped his dick. He moaned, made to answer, but she started jerking him furiously, making his knees come up and his stomach tighten.

  “You just want a hand job? You just like all those other guys? All that effort to get in my bed and then they shit in it. Rubbery dicks, coming in their shorts before I can take it out, going soft when I look in their eyes, I thought Ben Todd wasn’t a big talker...”

  “I’m not,” he said.

  “You’re shitting in my bed, Ben,” she said and jerked him harder and faster. “Just come in my hand, I’ll go home and jerk off with a vibrator...”

  “I can’t, ah, Chelsea,” he said, digging his fingers into his thighs but unable to move away and stop her from stroking him. Her skinny forearms twitched and flexed, the blades of muscle in her slender shoulder rippled and her tits bounced with her effort.

  “Just come already. That’s all you want, you’re just as useless as the other guys. Get your nut off. Nobody can fuck Chelsea right...”

  “I can,” he moaned, “I can...”

  “Bullshit, Ben, come on your stomach and we can both get out of here...”

  And as if she’d actually commanded it, he was suddenly grunting and gasping, spurting all over his chest and stomach while she squeezed and stroked him. They both watched her hand on his erection as his stomach heaved in and out, desperate for breath. She chuckled.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It was kinda hot. You’re a real squirter, I like that.”

  “I’m sorry, Chelsea, I am...”

  She drew a long inhale then sighed out slow, turning her hand over back and front and looking at the webs of his semen. He’d splashed it all up his bare body, even onto his neck. She wiped the mess from her fingers onto his hip bone, then she used his tie to dry her hands. She said nothing, and he watched her get up from the bed, walk naked to leave the bedroom, climbing the stairs up to the galley. Her legs were about the sexiest thing he could imagine. He groaned and covered his eyes with his forearm.

  Out in the boat’s belly he could hear her snatch her clothes off the floor, slide the things back over her bare skin. There were stomps as she beat her bare feet into those expensive boots. The heels clicked on the hardwood floor until they grew faint and then she trotted down the outside steps.

  He lay there naked on the bed, semen cold on his stomach, his erection still hard as a rock. Chelsea kicked her starter and her bike bellowed in low grumbles that he felt in the yacht’s mattress. He shook his head, forearm hairs scratching his brow.

  As her bike rumbled out of the dry dock, he groaned sounds of painful lamentation and he asked the room: “Why didn’t I just fuck her?”

  10

  For four years now Libby worked at a downtown bookstore. She had the primo shift from ten A.M. until six P.M. It didn’t used to be that way, in fact when they were first married and they were living out in the west end, it sucked because Lib worked five evenings a week. But the store didn’t have a better employee, and it wasn’t long before she’d proven that to them. Now she worked days, and it gave them the evenings together. Libby took the subway and then a bus home every night, usually getting home just before seven o’clock. Ben was usually done around five, though sometimes if he had to travel to go and check out a good purchase he might be gone well into the nighttime. But usually it was on him to prepare dinner and today was no exception. In fact, today he’d gone the extra mile.

  Libby’s favorite was baking at 400° in the oven. His meat lasagna with triple cheese. Lots of ricotta and a half-inch thick crust of mozzarella along the top. He’d made garlic bread and even picked up a good tiramisu from Casa Mia for their dessert.

  Did guilt play a factor? One hundred percent.

  But now he was at the front door window wringing his hands in a tea towel, looking out the glass insert to see if she was home. Libby was funny in that she eschewed smartphones but had an old flip-phone. She didn’t even text. Her sister called her Old School as a nickname, the irony being Georgette was a fuddy-duddy in her own right but couldn’t see it.

  Now, there, coming down Sarah Ashbridge, a familiar and beloved figure: a cute and shapely five-foot-three foot blonde girl wearing a knee-length skirt, polished flat loafers, a dress shirt, and blazer. She had her sensible brown leather purse slung over one shoulder in tandem with her work satchel. His heart ached for his precious Lib.

  She had a determined quick walk, and he smiled seeing her with her serious face marching along their tree-lined beach side alameda. He unlocked the door, left it open, darted back into the kitchen to check on dinner. There was a smile on his face though his heart was so heavy.

  And if he stood still too long, those bad feelings would start to creep up on him. The awful thing he’d done. At the party... The awful thing he’d done earlier today when he swore he’d come to his senses.

  The biggest fear he had was if he stood still too long and those thoughts got a hold on his mind, it might start to wander and he would find himself considering ludicrous things like what the future might hold. A full-fledged affair. Cheating on his wife. Chelsea falling in love with him. Chelsea leaving her husband. What would the two of them do then? They could move to a different city, start a new life…

  It was fucking bullshit because he didn’t want that. All he wanted was—

  Libby’s footsteps came into the hall, and she sang out: “I’m ho-ooommme...”

  He shouted back: “In the kitchen...”

  It was a minute before she showed up, sliding into the kitchen in her slippers, obviously in a good mood. Her face was bright, her eyes wide and happy. She said, “Do I smell… lasagna?...”

  “You do,” he said, leaned on the kitchen island and she met him over the middle and they kissed.

  “Are you serious?”
/>
  “Just for you. Triple cheese, the way you like it.”

  “Oh, my gosh,” she said, “this day couldn’t get better...”

  “You’re having a good day?”

  “It’s been a good day,” she said, sliding over a stool so she could sit down and rest her forearms on the island.

  “Tell me all about it—wait… Are you wearing lipstick?”

  She made a funny, worried sort of face, and her lips tucked inward. He touched his own lips, looked at the pads of his fingers that came away pinkish.

  When he looked at her, she still had that troubled brow.

  She let her lips pop out and she asked, “Does it look stupid?”

  “Stupid? No, no way, Libby. I didn’t mean that all I, just noticed—you don’t usually wear it.”

  “Should I take it off?”

  “Oh, come on now, baby, don’t be so shy. You look fantastic…”

  “Thanks,” she said, but regardless plucked a white paper napkin from atop a square folded pile and dabbed and then puckered her lips on it, cleaning them.

  “You’re so silly,” he said, watching her. “Your lipstick looks great.”

  “I thought I’d try it out,” she said, folded the napkin over and wiped at her lips again.

  He changed the subject. “What was your good news? Why was your day so great?”

  “Oh, work was awesome, lots of new deliveries, I fulfilled some rare book orders that got me lots of bookseller credit.”

  “You’re good at it.”

  “I am,” she said. “And guess what?”

  “You got a promotion.”

  “No,” she said now, frowning. “Although I should. But, no, it’s not work-related...”

  “Then how can I guess?”

  She rolled her eyes, understanding how difficult it was what she was asking. She said, “Dorchester is coming this summer to play up in Barrie. Finn is working that show, and he said he can get us tickets, maybe even get us backstage.”

  “Wow, that’s awesome,” he said, “that’s your good news?”

  “You know how much I love Dorchester.”

  “I do, it’s amazing, I can’t wait to go. I didn’t even know they were coming.”

  “Me neither, I haven’t seen them since—what was that, Ben? Second year?”

  “Yeah, I bet you.”

  “Oh, my God, it’s just like we’re back in college...” She hugged herself and ran her fingernails over the backs of her arms, her smile growing wide as she pondered the fun they would have.

  He said, “Wait, you were talking to Finn?”

  “About the tickets? No. Chelsea came by—”

  “Oh, shoot,” he said, “that’s right. She came by this morning?”

  Libby asked, “Did she catch up with you?”

  He nodded, said, “That was weird,” averting his eyes by keeping his hands busy.

  “She said she wanted a set or something to shoot a movie?”

  “Right. I don’t think I have what she was looking for.”

  “She came by this morning and we had coffee together. She came by to tell me Finn was going to set up that show and he knew I liked Dorchester.”

  “How did he know that?”

  “From at the party. When you were off wherever, we were dancing, we were talking about music and I said how much I like Dorchester.”

  “This was while you were dancing?”

  “No, we were taking a break.”

  “Right. That’s nice of him. He was looking out for you.”

  “He seems like such a nice guy,” she said. “How did he end up with Chelsea?”

  “Chelsea has her ways.”

  “Well, whatever. I’m glad we’re all getting along.”

  “You think Finn’s a nice guy?”

  “You don’t think he’s nice?”

  “I don’t know him. I haven’t spent much time with him except at the party.”

  Libby said, “I didn’t either.”

  “I didn’t mean that...”

  Libby played with her necklace, pondering how to clarify her point. “It’s just, you know, given the way he looks, and he rides a motorcycle...”

  “He’s got all his tattoos...”

  “Right, he’s got all those tattoos all over his arms and everything, you might think he was a jerk or he’d be mean or an asshole...”

  He laughed. “It’s funny hearing you say asshole.”

  “Don’t make fun of me,” she kidded, clucking her tongue and smiling. “I’m right...”

  “You are. He looks like the kind of guy who might be an asshole.”

  “I think he has a good energy.”

  “I’m glad you two are getting along.”

  She frowned and showed him worried eyes. “Ben, what do you mean—getting along?”

  “Nothing,” he said, wondering what he was getting at. Why was he throwing shade in her face? It was him who was the asshole. He didn’t even ride a motorcycle or have tattoos, yet he was clearly the one who was an asshole. Chelsea had given him a blow job, jerked him off today, and here he’s acting like Libby’s the one who’s up to no good. He slid over to the oven, saying, “You ready for dinner?”

  She clasped her hands and leaned across the counter again, pouting her lips. He slid close and kissed her. She said, “I’m so excited.”

  “What do you want to do tonight?” he asked scissoring the oven door open and donning his oven mitts.

  “I want to eat lasagna until my stomach bursts and I want to watch TV.”

  “You don’t want to walk down the boardwalk?”

  “Oh,” she said, “that’s awesome. That is—that’s what I want to do...”

  “Then maybe we’ll go to bed after a little TV because I have to get an early start tomorrow.” He slid out the lasagna, put it on the counter so Libby could admire it then retrieved the baguettes he’d turned into garlic bread from the warming tray.

  Libby beamed at her awesome husband. “Look at you, Ben.”

  He presented dinner with his oven mitts, gesturing over his fine spread. “What do you think? You want to go crazy, have a glass of wine?”

  “One glass of wine,” she said, smiling at him warmly and they met over top of his steaming lasagna for another kiss.

  11

  After dinner, Ben took care of the dishes while Libby went upstairs to change into comfortable beach-walking clothes. He got the dishwasher loaded and put the leftovers away in Tupperware, putting aside a serving for his wife’s lunch tomorrow.

  Libby was back down in fifteen minutes wearing shorts and a polo shirt and her comfy walking-around sneakers. She hopped off the last step and it somehow hurt him more to see her in such a good mood. It heightened the scale between her happiness and his badness—it would be a big drop off for her to go to obliviously gleeful to the black reality he’d created for them today.

  Happy smile pushed on his face, he grabbed the house keys, took her arm and led her out to the stoop and locked up. They strolled their street, waving to Carol and Gwendolyn as they passed their well-kept home, the two women sitting together on their porch and sipping iced tea. They went down the Main Street past the burger place and its awesome smell of grilling meat, made their way to the tennis courts and watched an energetic foursome for a while.

  It was a warm summer evening, the beach busy with bicycles skateboards and rollerblades; there were even people brave enough to get in the water. They strolled the boardwalk as far as the yacht club, turned around and headed back. Libby asked him if he bought his boat today and his stomach turned over.

  “I did,” he told her, “I’m having it put back in the water next week.”

  “Aren’t you going to ship it?”

  “It’s pretty big, and you know, it’s a boat, Libby...”

  “Oh, shoot,” she laughed, “that’s right...”

  “I’m going to pay a sailor, I don’t know, five-to-ten grand to sail it out to Africa.”

  “You’re so cool,
” she said.

  “Am I? It’s not me sailing across the ocean, you know. I just made a phone call...”

  “You’re still pretty cool,” she said, and looped her forearm under his and hugged herself to him as they strolled.

  12

  They decided they would watch the whole last season of Game of Thrones over again and were two episodes in when Chelsea sent her first text.

  Chelsea: You kicking yourself for not fucking me?

  He jolted, enough that it startled Libby who’d curled up in the crook of his arm, the two of them on the couch together, the AC off and the windows open, a cool breeze keeping their family room comfortable.

  Libby asked, “What is it?”

  “About the boat,” he said.

  Libby sat away from him, her arms folded, eyes sleepy. “Problems?”

  “Maybe…” He looked from his phone screen back to the TV.

  Libby asked, “You want me to pause it?”

  “No, no, we’ll keep watching...” With one thumb, he texted back.

  Ben: maybe

  It was a few more minutes before Chelsea got back to him.

  Chelsea: I bet you’re burning up inside

  He texted back.

  Ben: I made the right decision

  Chelsea: good boy Ben

  Ben: I’m sorry

  Chelsea: wow, you really think your god’s gift

  Ben: No

  Chelsea: apologizing because you didn’t fuck me

  Ben: I wanted to

  Chelsea: Ben Todd just ended up being another high school loser laying on his back with come on his stomach

  He sighed and grumbled and Libby turned her face to his profile. He said to her, “Hey, maybe pause it.”

  Worry pulled on her brow. “Really? Is the sale going to go through?”

  “It’s done, baby,” he reassured her. “This is just logistics now, can you give me a minute?...”