The Bastard

Chapter 3 of 5

by H. Jekyll

“Sodomy”

I arrived, at 9:17, at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. J. Carlton Brevard.

“He’s gone,” said Mrs. J. Carleton. “His flight just left.” She was wearing a dressing gown.

“I hope he has a nice trip, Erica. The Folk Arts Museum thanks you both for this generosity. Did he sign the check?”

“Oh he signed it, Ed. But you have to earn it. And in honor of Sunday, all the servants have the day off.” Here we go, I thought.

Erica Brevard thinks she’s something special. In her own way, she is. She has a lovely body. Men still hit on her and she loves it, but that isn’t what makes her special. It’s her enthusiasm. Bill would be disappointed, I think, because I did nothing to get into her pants except have a wiener and work the Brevards up for donations. Her type seems to be represented among the arts people and the moneyed elites-- how to put it? --disproportionately. She isn’t the only one, although she’s the only one I’d call a nymphomaniac. She’s probably the least discreet. Once I asked if any of her friends knew about me. “I couldn’t ever let anyone know I did something like this,” she protested. “I have a reputation to protect.” But I had inside knowledge. At least one of her friends knew -- one who liked the same forbidden fruit.

She hit on me the very first time I went by their estate, and she let me know she expected good service. She flirted right in front of J. Carlton, who thought it was funny. After he left she came on seriously. “We help you, Ed Hyde, you help me.” She pulled my face down and gave me a wet kiss. She wanted to be in charge. That time I did what she wanted. Afterwards, while we were lying tangled in each other and the air was permeated with the smell of cologne released by the sweat between her breasts, I told her what I liked. She breathed rich, hot air into my ear and said, “I pay the bills, dear, and I call the shots.” She is a challenge.

“What if I have HIV?” I had asked that when she first asked me to strip. She wanted me naked while she was still dressed. An interesting power game that I decided to win.

“I have condoms.”

“Many?”

“Dozens of all kinds. Colored. Flavored. Ribbed.”

“I don’t use condoms.”

“You have to.”

“If you want me, you take the risk. I tell you I’m clean, but you have to trust me.”

“I don’t know.”

“What about toys?”

“Vibrators, beads, dildos, whatever you want. I need condoms, Ed, but I like to play.”

“Silly me. I was always told women didn’t like sex all that much.”

“Whoever told you that doesn’t live where I live.”

Erica wants orgasms almost every day, but she doesn’t like to masturbate. She’s obsessed with having men make her come. Unfortunately, she’s limited by her social position, which is especially tough for a woman who wants to dominate. So she took me on without condoms. Poor girl, we all have our problems. This Sunday morning it was time to use that against her again.

We went up to her bedroom and stripped. While she pulled out a box of her sex toys I played with myself to keep it up, and I palmed a plastic ointment tube. This whole thing could fall apart. It could lose me a big donor. Well, life should be played on the edge.

“Come here, sex-goddess. We’re going to play ‘The Master and His Slave Girl.’”

“You mean ‘The Queen and her Page.’” She lay down beside me on the bed and tried to pull me down to her.

“Oh? I get what I want. Who got you to give up condoms?”

“You know I get what I want. I made an exception because I felt sorry for you.”

“Not anymore. Now you get to learn how to serve.” I knelt between her legs. “Try this new lotion.” I put something from the tube onto my fingers and spread it up and down through her lips, all around her hood. She began cooing but it changed to a yelp.

“Oh! That burns!”

“It’s just for a minute.”

“Ed! What are you doing?” She sat up and pushed me away.

“Be still. Wait.” I held her. “There. Is it stopping? I told you.” I pulled her arms behind her back. “Kneel down. You have something to do.” Erica sat cross-legged. “On your knees.” She did. “Now, today you get to give pleasure, not get it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Suck me. Do me all the way.”

“You know I don’t do that. If you want that check you do what I want.”

I slapped one of her breasts. It knocked into the other one. Knockers. I had a flash of Elizabeth’s small breasts. It would have hurt her to slap a breast like that, but Erica hardly gasped.

“This isn’t about money. It’s about you. And sucking. If you want to play it your way we can stop all this right now. You can always find some pussy-whipped guy like J. Carleton, who’ll do just what you want. You want me, you play by my rules.”

“Do you want that check?”

“Don’t be too impressed by your money. There are other donors, or I can get it from hubby at the office. He likes me. I’ll tell him you and I have had a disagreement. That will have the advantage of being true. And remember -- your precious reputation is hanging by a thread.”

That threw her.

“Ed! Don’t!”

“So do it now.”

“Ed!”

“Do it.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it. But will you get me off, first? I was thinking about it all night.”

“Today you only give.”

“You’ve got to help me get off!”

“I don’t think so. Feel your pussy. Go on. Feel it.”

Erica touched herself. She got the most dumbfounded look and felt again. She jerked her head down toward it, then looked back to me. “It’s numb! What did you do to me?” She rubbed herself again, hard. No good.

“Anesthetic cream. You don’t get off this morning at all.”

“Ed! You bastard!”

“You can frig in a few hours. Or, if you’re a very good girl, I’ll take you all the way there tomorrow. But you have to wait.”

“Ed!” By now Erica was almost crying, a big change for a blousy, arrogant woman used to getting her way. I could almost like her like this. She has enough breasts for Bill, and enough brains for me. She simply needed an attitude adjustment to make things worthwhile.

“Now!” And in the end she did it. She leaned forward and pulled me into her mouth and began jacking me. She has a wonderful mouth, hot and wet, all lips and tongue and throat. Whatever she said about not sucking, she has plenty of technique. It took awhile to get me there, since I’d just done Elizabeth the evening before, but I didn’t mind.

Let her get used to working at pleasuring someone, the bitch!

In the end I had a satisfying orgasm. Dear me, yes, Ms. Erica! I held onto her hair and ejaculated nicely . I had her hold me in there for a few minutes, catching the dregs while I caressed her face and told her what a sweet, obedient little bitch she actually was. I found excuses to use the word ‘bitch’ about three times. I half thought she’d be vicious afterwards, but everything worked out perfectly.

“Can I come to your place tomorrow? Ed? Can I? I need you to help me get off! Please?”

Her eyes were wide and her voice was shaky. Do dominant women have a submissive side? I’d always been told that, and it could be true.

“Will you be a good girl?” I folded the check carefully.

*****

I didn’t call Elizabeth Sunday or Monday.

*****

Monday morning Erica came by my apartment. I made her strip and kneel in the middle of the kitchen floor while I puttered around. This was better than I had imagined. I made her stay that way a full half hour. Damn, it was hard to wait! No pun intended. After awhile she called to me: “Ed? Honey?”

“You want to get off?”

“Ed?”

“Then you’ll be a good girl! When I’m ready for you, you’re getting punished!” What a great game. Erica didn’t seem to realize we really were playing ‘The Master and His Slave Girl.’ After I’d spanked her and reamed her out and let her have her orgasms, she lay curled against me with her face to my chest, licking my nipples, and she said, “Ed, you’re such a complete asshole.” What could I do but laugh?

*****

I didn’t call Elizabeth Tuesday morning.

It had been long enough now, with no word, to make her worry, even with the flower. The tactical question was: should I let her twist in the wind a couple more days? The flower would have held her most of Sunday. By Sunday evening she would have begun to get concerned.

She’d think, why doesn’t he call after we made such sweet love? I thought he liked me. I was sure he did. Maybe it’s because I didn’t use my mouth?

It wouldn’t be long before her heart would fall into her stomach. I know a guy who will torture women with uncertainty about his feelings, who will string them along, make them wait, and generally cause them to obsess about him. He swears it addicts them. Maybe so. There’s a fine line between not letting them take you for granted, and being cruel.

*****

I told you. Elizabeth was just a girl I was using. I wasn’t done with her yet, but she didn’t get in the way of other things. Tuesday morning, Anne was at the door. Poor, dear, desolate Anne. I sucked her in.

She hadn’t buzzed my apartment and I hadn’t heard the elevator. She must have crept up all six flights, avoiding people, ignoring the old fixtures, missing the ceiling lights reflected in the hall floors. No light heart or dancing feet for sweet Annie. She probably stared at the stairs the whole way. I put my mouth to her head to inhale her, ran the fingers of one hand through her hair, and stroked her back with the other one. We stood in the hall, just holding. How many times has that happened, maybe at this very door? How many people, filled with lust or need, people who are now aged and decrepit or dead and largely forgotten, people who once spilled into each other, who came alive with flesh on flesh?

“My Annie.” I wanted to comfort her, and I wanted to fuck her. “Come in.”

“I shouldn’t.” We were still holding and rocking a little, back and forth. I was half erect. She couldn’t miss it.

“Do you want to go to lunch?”

“I’m not very hungry.”

“Then come in.”

Inside I held her hands. I kissed her forehead, a cheek, finally her mouth. “Don’t Ed. Please. We can’t.” I ignored her, and this time she kissed me back, but then she broke it off. “Ed! I shouldn’t. I can’t.”

“So you can continue your joyless little life?”

“You know why I can’t.”

“I know why you think you can’t.” I pulled her back in and kept giving her little kisses. She looked up at me.

“Please don’t.” More kisses, all over her face, a different spot each time.

“When was the last time he made love to you?”

“Oh, you’re evil! Don’t take advantage of me.”

“How long has it been?”

“I don’t know. It’s been so awful.”

“I’m going to take advantage.”

“You know I can’t resist you, not now. Please don’t.”

“Yes, I’ll please you.”

We went into a deep, sweet, slow kiss. I sucked her tongue in. I remember caressing her face. She was brushing her palms on my chest, the pads of her fingers touching my nipples, pushing her body against my penis. She finally ended the kiss and rubbed her cheek on mine. Her cheek was wet. So much for giving her comfort. She spoke in a sigh: “Why didn’t I stay with you?”

“Because I’m the Devil.” I didn’t say, “And I’m not a novelist.”

I played a memory of being with her. I’ve never run across another woman who’d fuck so hard or so long. I could still hear her growling and panting while she jerked her mound at me. She was the first truly multi-orgasmic woman I’d known, and she’d wanted them all.

“At least the Devil pays attention to his subjects. He seduces them and holds on to them. Not like Paul.” She wiped her face against my shirt. I didn’t mean to make you cry again, Annie, just to sex you.

In a minute, she was better.

“I play with their desire. You were always one of my best subjects. I’ll capture you again and again, whenever you’re weak.”

She laughed this time. Maybe I could make her happy for a while. “Only one of them? You evil man. I could be your best subject.” She brought her hands up to my cheeks and pulled me down into another slow kiss.

We went into the bedroom where I took off Anne’s clothes, slowly, one piece, another piece, until her soft body was completely available to me. I fucked her the rest of the morning. She slammed her pubis against me, again and again and again.

*****

“Edward!” Even on my cell, I could hear Elizabeth collect herself. “Hi. How are you?”

“I’ve been thinking of you.”

“Me too.”

“You’ve been thinking about yourself, too?”

“Edward! If you were here I’d have to hit you.”

“Then I should come on over, shouldn’t I? To get my punishment? I’d like to see you.”

“Now’s not a good time.”

“Oh.” I let it dangle.

“No, I want to see you. I just have a job tonight. I have to leave in a little bit.”

“Can I drive you? I could pick you up afterward and we could get some coffee.”

“Okay.” There was hesitation in her voice. Maybe she was worried I only wanted sex. Or maybe I was a complication.

“Or we could go out, maybe this weekend? The Museum of Fine Arts has an Art Deco exhibit.”

“We could do both…”

But she wouldn’t let me in. Was she more into games than I’d thought? Was it more complicated? After her gig, after coffee and a pastry (on which she scarcely nibbled), after the drive to her apartment, holding hands all the way and feeling her up at stoplights, Elizabeth left me at the front door.

Oh she didn’t reject me there. She didn’t put me out like old newspapers or beer cans for recycling. That’s not what I’m saying. Something was amiss. And amiss is as good as a mile.

I’m sorry. Sometimes these things just come out. My mind generates them on its own, little word plays that help take it off… what I want my mind taken off. Elizabeth is what I want my mind taken off. I’m sorry. It comes like a flood. Not about that night. No. That was funny in its way. I could tell she was concerned well before we pulled up. What I don’t want to think about is later, long later. I do things to forget, but it’s no good.

That night there were leaves skittering across the streets and the street lights had that glittering quality they get when there’s ice in the air. The look was perfect, but Elizabeth had her own look, a worried one, while she told me she had work to do and had to get to bed early.

“So you’re sending me away?”

“I’m sorry, Edward. I love being with you. It’s just… I can’t tonight.”

“Then let me make out with you here.”

“On the steps?”

“Against the wall will do nicely.”

Making out was nice. There was nothing cold about her except her cheeks. I can still see it, feel it, remember the whole experience. Everything. I can see so many scenes from my time with her. My left arm was between her neck and the wall and my right was, usually, at her waist. I ran my mouth up and down her neck and I felt her up some more, and she pushed her body out against me. Her breath was tinged with coffee when we kissed. She broke the kiss to move her mouth over my neck, to give me back the chill bumps I’d given her, on the way giving me a hickey, then licked me all the way up to my ear. Her breath was loud, rich, full. It shared my ear with her tongue, and then with her voice. I had a hard time making out what she was saying, with that susurrus. “My Edward. Think of Saturday. We’ll have so much more time then.” It was the most sensual rejection I’ve ever experienced.

I didn’t call her the rest of the week, to punish her a little for Tuesday. I had to maintain my advantage. Don’t let her get too confident. I began to think she was more experienced than she’d seemed. Almost everything made sense, except for the two words she’d said that would have been fine if they’d been separated from each other: “my” and “Edward.”

Saturday happened. Elizabeth loved the exhibit, and the dinner, and the drive through Beacon Hill at dusk. Her hair was unbraided, pulled back in a long ponytail she used to tickle my face while I drove, until I grabbed her hand to make her stop. After that she lay her head on my shoulder and rested her hand on my thigh. The evening was building toward the inevitable. I was ready to push far beyond where she thought she was willing to go. Step by step it was unfolding, up the steps to the porch, to the door. Then,

“I have to tell you something. I don’t think we can… you know… tonight.”

I must have looked stunned.

“I’m sorry. You know how much you mean to me. And I want to do things with you. It’s just that I’m … well… I’m…” And I knew.

“Having your period.”

“Yes!” She hugged me. Wait a minute!

“Since Tuesday?”

She stepped back. “Well, I was spotting then.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Edward!”

“Elizabeth!” I put my hands on my hips like I was going to scold her. “We can do everything.”

“I can’t!” She got a look. It was almost like panic.

“There are other things we can do, too. Hot things.”

We’re going to have fun, you and I.

“I don’t know…”

“Trust me.” I tickled her neck with my lips. “We’ll lay a towel across your bed, to protect your sheets.”

She looked away, then back, then away, considering something. She gave me a one of those sweet kisses that mean something, if you could ever interpret them properly. Finally she took my hand. “Come in.”

We kissed all the way up to her floor, in her tiny elevator. I didn’t try to touch anything. Sometimes you make more progress by letting things develop on their own. Direct things by indirection.

Elizabeth went around lighting candles again. I poured two glasses with a Riesling and turned off the electric lights as I followed her.

She insisted on stripping me. She was as inexperienced at this as with everything else. She unbuttoned my shirt, then had to stop to unfasten my belt and slacks. She started pulling them down but had to stop again, to untie my shoes. She didn’t want me to help, except to lift my legs or shift my body a little. When there was just my underwear she stared at the impression of my penis. Had she made her decision yet? She pulled them down, getting my dick caught in the elastic for moment. When I was finally completely naked, standing almost on top of my clothes, she asked me to climb onto the bed.

“What about your clothes?”

“I’m keeping mine on tonight.”

“Oh, no, cello girl. We don’t do it like that.”

Finally she gave in. She stripped for me while I watched, but she stopped at her panties.

“They go too.”

“No. I can’t.”

I knew why. “You’re wearing a pad.” She colored as she nodded. It was almost as though the movement of her head, atop that lovely neck, set off the coloring. Yes, that was it. A pad. It embarrassed her to know I knew about it. Damn, she was sweet!

“Next time, use a tampon. It won’t get in the way as much.”

Eventually we knelt facing each other. I’m sure Elizabeth was working up her courage. When she thought she was ready she pushed against my chest with both hands, and leaned down to take me in her mouth. She did it like the other night. I held her hair and pushed my meat into her a little and we set up the dance of face and cock.

She began to jerk me. “Don’t.” She looked up, my penis still in her mouth, the question coming from her eyes. “Slow down. Suck more. Yes. Like that. Slower. Yes.” Shit, yes. I told her to go slowly because I wanted to stretch out the time.

Her mouth grew hot and so wet she occasionally slurped. It was coming, it was coming. I gave her warning. Just as the pleasure took over I grunted to her. “Now,” and it came over me and I came into her.

She handled it smoothly, no cough or shudder, no noises. I thought it had been easy for her. But when she let me slip from her lips and raised up, she had an odd expression. She was opening and closing her mouth, and pursing her lips. She held the back of a hand in front of her mouth and looked me in the face.

“Was I okay?”

“You were wonderful!”

She laughed, suddenly, into her hand.

“Here, love.” I handed her the wine. She sipped it and swallowed. She did it again. She had a bizarre grin. She laughed again, something between a giggle and a guffaw.

“I did it, didn’t I? I gave you a blow job!”

She put the glass down and launched herself at me, her face to my shoulder. Whoa! I grabbed her and held her while she hugged me. She moved her head back and forth and talked into my chest.

“Oh, Edward! I was so afraid! I didn’t know I could do it. I thought I’d get sick, or I’d be terrible.”

She laughed a third time. It was a laugh of relief, wasn’t it? I felt her soft flesh, her mouth, her little breasts, her eyelashes, but then it all changed. I couldn’t be prepared, and I wasn’t, when she began snuffling. By the time she sat back she was teary-eyed. It was as though something terrible had happened.

“Elizabeth?”

Her chin began to crumple.

“Elizabeth?”

“I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes. “I’m happy. Really.” She smiled brightly, much too brightly, tearfully, and rubbed her eyes again. “I wanted this to be special for you.” Her voice went to a higher pitch. “What if I couldn’t do what you wanted?” At the end of the sentence her voice broke entirely and she began crying.

Oh Jesus, no! How did that happen? Come here. Hold her close. Pet her. Murmur to her. Tell her how wonderful she is.

I could feel her damp face, feel my chest getting wet.

Oh shit, Elizabeth! You’re not ready for the bigs. I brought you up too soon.

She couldn’t seem to stop herself. “I’m sorry I’m being such an idiot.”

Shh, my fiddler girl, my little cocksucker. Cry if you want to. I love your mouth. I love every part of you. I want to do everything with you, over and over. If only this weren’t so strange.

We lay together on her bed for over an hour. I kissed both her eyes, her forehead, her nose, an ear, a cheek, her mouth, and I told her she was beautiful. She calmed. I tickled her with my fingertips and sucked on her nipples and gave her a nip just below her navel. I petted her through her pad. When she grabbed my hand to stop me I rushed back to her face and held her arms beside her head and planted kisses on her face all over again. She grew happy, really happy, and content, so after awhile we could simply lie side by side, looking at each other and talking about nothing while we held each other. I began to doze.

I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but I have to go.

*****

What did I think of her? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? I don’t know the answer, not exactly, not clearly. She was unstable. Or she was wonderful. I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell. I thought something. I don’t know what. I can’t say it. I don’t know how. I once made a girl cry by breaking up with her. I’d gotten any number of blow jobs. The two don’t exist in the same universe. No one had ever cried over sucking me. No one had ever cried because she thought she might not be able to please me. Not that I know of.

What had I gotten into? When we were done, would she stalk me? Or would she wither away in that apartment, be a recluse, a ghost, a hermit, announcing her presence only by the occasional, despairing sounds of a cello sifting through her door? Would it kill her?

She’s too fragile, Ed! What should I do? I don’t know.

*****

I called her Sunday morning. I had some paperwork but would come over mid-afternoon. I didn’t want her to be alone.

“I have to practice, Edward.” That was all right. I’d bring food and would read and cook while she practiced. I’d make dinner. “I don’t eat red meat,” she said. Fine. Ed Hyde isn’t dissuaded. I’d leave the ground chuck at home.

I stayed out of her way while she did her exercises. She played the same set of cello parts, over and over, the music following me through the apartment, rich, sad strings. I baked a salmon casserole and read some funding reports while it cooked. I read the reports and I drank tart Rhine wine, surrounded by the smell of baking and her music, and sometimes I’d put down my papers to look into the little living room, to watch her practice in front of the tiny, gas-log fire.

*****

After dinner I led her to the bedroom.

“You have to trust me.”

I lay a towel across the bed and stripped her. She already had a tampon. “Take it out.” Then, “Lie down.” I played with her body and we kissed, and then finally we had sex. There wasn’t any blood to speak of.

She has the sweetest, lean, pale body, small breasts, and dark hair but not too much of it. I ran a single finger everywhere, while she rested. I got a slippery mixture of juice and semen out of her and drew sketches on her stomach, sketches that dried into invisible art before I finished them. Sometimes there was a faint red tinge. “Turn over. Onto your stomach.”

I played with her bottom, an innocent, white, smooth bum, massaging her gluteus before going between her cheeks. I played with her anus, letting my finger go around and around it, then taking the finger down to her vagina and getting it slippery, then back up and pushing it into her. She tensed but didn’t say anything. So it was. I’d gotten into the back door. I’d get further. Take the next step. I pushed my finger all the way in. Her anus was tight around it. She still didn’t say anything. I finger fucked her anus for a minute, nice and slow, all the way in and out. Hold it there.

“I’d like to be in there.” I pushed my finger in again.

“Not your finger?”

“No. My penis. I’d love to be inside you here.” She thought about it for a minute while I moved my finger around in her.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, you might try it. It could surprise you.” I got my finger slippery again and ran it around her rim, and while I did I told her why and how she might do it. I didn’t tell her the big reason, the one I was relying on. I told her the other things. “You think it will hurt.”

“Uh-huh. That’s part of it.”

“But it doesn’t. Not if you do it right, not if I lubricate you and play with you a long time and let you open slowly, and especially if I play with you up front too.”

She didn’t answer.

“And you think it’s dirty.”

“Yes.”

“But it’s usually not.” I drew more slippery circles around Elizabeth’s anus. She got goose bumps on her ass, and clenched it. “And it doesn’t have to be at all. I can clean you, so your ass will be pristine.” She lay still while I played with her slippery anus some more. “Do you want to know how?”

“I’m not that innocent, Edward. I know how. When would I do it?”

“I’d do it. It would be part of the playing.”

“You wouldn’t go into the bathroom with me, would you?”

“Not if you didn’t want me to.” I had a thumb in her ass now, and the other one in her vagina. I was hard again, all the way up.

“I don’t know.” But she would. She would, for the big reason. Women, almost all of them, want to let their guys do things, especially when the blossom is fresh on the vine. That’s the one reason you stay silent about, or you ruin it. As things go I could have done her right away. She raised her hips to let me thumb fuck her, and I got up behind her and fucked her vagina from behind. I kept a thumb up her ass the whole time, all the way in. She was tight and elastic. Exquisite.

*****

“You don’t want to get as old as me.”

Mrs. Chandler was almost ninety, and frail. Not like those hearty octogenarians you run across these days. No, she was the old fashioned type, all sticks and parchment. There was almost nothing there at all—no body, rheumy eyes, wispy hair, whispery voice. She was completely desiccated. I had thought working with her, of all people, would stop Elizabeth from running around inside my head. She sat hunched over in her wheelchair, but she was alive in there somewhere and she wanted to change her will to leave three-hundred thousand dollars to keep the music flowing.

It was ten days before she would die. Of course I didn’t know that. I did know she had a clear mind and no one to hold her. This was a nursing home for well-off folks, so she had brought some old furniture with her, and the walls were covered with paintings and with photos of mostly long-dead family members, but she was seldom visited by the living ones. I felt sorry for her.

“I didn’t have sex until I was twenty-six, and it was so good I did it six days in a row. I rested on the seventh.” She laughed, which was a sound like two blocks of wood being rubbed together. “It was like I’d created a whole new world. I wanted to do it all the time. I did everything. Everything!” When she said “everything” the second time she opened her eyes wide and gave me a look that was almost insane. I hadn’t brought up the subject. She got around to it in her own way, and on her own schedule. It was what she wanted to talk about, and she was the patron.

“I wish I hadn’t lost those years, but back then you didn’t do that sort of thing, and who knew we were wrong?” I nodded. “I had so many lovers. I had one-night stands. I knew more about men’s bodies than most call girls, and the whole time almost everyone thought I was Miss Goody Two-Shoes.” I nodded again.

“Then I met Mr. Chandler.” Here a sigh came out from some place inside the shell. “He courted me, and he was a millionaire. What would you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not shocked, are you?”

“No.”

“I knew you wouldn’t be. Well I decided I wouldn’t be young forever and I needed to settle down.” She was silent for a minute. I waited her out. “Sex with him was terrible. He was flabby, and his breath was always bad, from cigarettes, and he didn’t know anything interesting to do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hyde. But feel sorry for my letting age catch up with me, not for Mr. Chandler. After all, it wasn’t his fault. Not all of it. And he was sweet, and generous, and he really loved me.” That sigh again. “I found ways to have my men on the side, just not as many. And when my husband died he left me almost everything, though by then his family had found out some things about me and didn’t approve.” She paused. “I think he knew those things too, but he never showed it.” It was the first time she’d called him her husband.

We sat in silence while I thought of other people, of my mother and how she’d withdrawn from the world when my son-of-a-bitch of a father died, and of Elizabeth. Why hadn’t my mother gotten a second life, like so many other widows do? What would Elizabeth be like when she was ninety? I tried to imagine something else. Finally I asked Mrs. Chandler if she wanted to discuss her bequest, but she didn’t.

“Don’t get old, Mr. Hyde. You’re young and vigorous. You don’t want to lose it. You don’t want to be like me. I haven’t experienced desire, the physical part, for years, and I miss feeling it. Do you have a young woman?”

“I’m not sure I can answer that.”

“Yes.” The carved head nodded. “It’s often like that. I had many I wasn’t sure of. Some of them were sure of me. I was sure of only two. One died and the other broke my heart. It was easier getting over the broken heart.” A tear formed in a mottled eye and wandered an inch down the face, where it spread among all the crevasses. It was as incongruous as a tear on the face of an old, carved, cigar-store Indian. “But there were always more young men to play with until enough years had passed that my body fell apart and they weren’t interested in me except for my money. Then there were older men. Then there were only impotent men. And then I lost my sexual appetite. It just happened, Mr. Hyde, all by itself, like sand through an hourglass.” Silence again. “It’s terrible to have only your memories.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. I’m not a believer, but sometimes I convince myself that when I go I’ll join my one, dead love, my dear Jer, and we’ll be young like we once were.” She changed the topic, and it was abrupt. “Well, Mr. Hyde, my attorney has already drawn up and filed the papers. The bequest is set. I won’t change it. But I have a request for you, and I can understand if you refuse.”

“Refuse?”

“Once more before I go I’d like to taste and feel a man.”

“Taste and feel.”

“There are rumors you can be generous with yourself, and that you are creative.” She gave another little block-on-block laugh, which turned into a cough. She couldn’t get the phlegm up, so for a minute or two it sounded as though it were vibrating in place while she tried to breath. Finally, “I haven’t tasted a man in years. Or felt a swollen Kadiddlehopper.” She cackled at her choice of words, and for a moment I thought the phlegm would come up again. Finally, “I can still taste a little. If you would indulge an old woman in this, it would give me a fresher memory. The old ones are so tattered, I don’t know what I have forgotten.”

“You aren’t joking, are you Mrs. Chandler.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No. Will you?”

I didn’t have to consider it long. I stood and loosened my belt. I got close to her face so she could watch me work it up. She seemed absorbed by the sight. “All right Mrs. Chandler. Will you do me the honors?”

“Thank you, Mr. Hyde. And it’s Dorrie.” She sucked me into her mouth. I was surprised at the heat and moisture, and how supple she was inside. Getting to orgasm without the desire wasn’t very interesting, but it wasn’t hard to do, and after I finished she said, “I had forgotten so much of what it was like, Mr. Hyde, what the real experience was. Now I remember. It took me back so nicely. Thank you.”

Is it too hard for you to believe I did it as a gift?

*****

I conquered Elizabeth’s ass at my apartment because she got a roommate. “I can’t afford the apartment by myself, Henry.” That was her explanation, and I guess it was true. Of course it was. She’s no daddy’s girl. The roommate would have the dining room, which could be closed off. We would still have the bedroom, but not the whole place. I hadn’t a clue about Justine until she moved in.

Yes. Justine. And yes. I’m not the only one who’s read de Sade, am I? She isn’t that Justine, though, the virtuous girl abused by others. Not a chance. This one could be the abuser. You could see it in her eyes. I could almost smell it on her. Sometimes you can tell when you first meet them, but Elizabeth couldn’t. Justine presented worlds of possibilities. I knew she wasn’t worth the risk.

So I took Elizabeth to my place. She loved it. It’s the opposite of hers. She loved the polished brass and polished, wood floors, the marble insets, and the windows that reached from the floor. It was light, bright, with carved touches along the halls. She loved that my furniture was so different from hers, my square, pale oak pieces, the mixture of old American and modern Danish. We aren’t alike in anything, or not much. I was hoping we were complementary in sex. I had let her know at the beginning of the evening what I had planned for us. She hadn’t said a word about it, but she’d been quiet. My fear: would she cry again?

You’ve experienced it, haven’t you? Being on a different plane than your lover. She goes along but isn’t swept along. It isn’t quite right but you don’t want to step back from it. So it goes. I kissed Elizabeth and touched her and licked her, to bring her over, but what she wanted was to get on with it. Me? I was pulled by my lust for her ass, going fast, too fast to consider slowing down. It speeds through me like riding the mile-high slide at the water park.

Play with her ass, Ed. Push your slicked fingers into her. One, two, three. I’m ready for it, Edward. She was so tense her anus had tightened right back up, but I was filling her with water. God bless it! Her head was down on her arms, her hips up high, such a beautiful pose of submission for me. Go empty yourself, Elizabeth. Then: ass up again. Refill her. The bag went from fat to flat and Elizabeth made a sound in her throat I couldn’t interpret. Her belly muscles shimmered. My Elizabeth. My trooper. Empty yourself. I’ll slick you up again. Lie down here, legs off the bed. Here’s my erection at your anus. Push.

I held it all the way inside her, as deeply as I could. Hold it. Hold it. Don’t move. God damn just feel it taking in the whole depth of her. Elizabeth was grabbing breaths and holding them. Now pump. Out, in. She made a noise, something different, some kind of cry. Out, in. Ah! Out, in. Keep it up. Fuck that tight, rubber, smooth ass. Do it! Pump again. That’s what it was like.

She made another noise, a real cry. “Edward, please!” Don’t stop. Finish it! Here it comes. It’s coming. Push. Push.

It was as good as it could be. I lay atop her for minutes afterwards, my erection becoming a penis, my penis shrinking, lying there until I was sure I had pumped everything that I had.

*****

“How are you?”

Elizabeth smiled up at me, my Mona Lisa. I could tell she was going to dodge the answer. “Was I okay?”

“You were wonderful.” That’s my good girl. Keep that attitude.

I was too enervated to think about what I would do to her next time—something exciting, I’m sure—but she turned the tables on me by changing the subject.

“Can I spend the night?”

Oh my! You’re learning, aren’t you? Quid pro quo. I owe you, don’t I? I’m certainly not going to kick you out. I don’t want to disappoint you, especially not now. Let’s get you a T-shirt and a toothbrush.

The tee hung to Elizabeth’s knees. She held her hands like a ballerina and made a pirouette.

“Is Madame ready for a snack?”

She followed me to the bathroom, then out to the kitchen and living room. About halfway out she said “You’re it!” and began touching and poking me from behind. I slapped back at her fingers. I intended to lock the door and turn off lamps and close the plantation blinds, but while I did it she poked me again. “You’re it!”

It seems, when I think back, that something had changed for her, that she was able to shed her old skin, to be playful with me, to be at home. I wouldn’t have expected that, not with her ass chafed by my dick and my semen swimming through her bowels. Not after her sweet submission to my wants. I hadn’t expected her to be kittenish, but here she was teasing me. I tried ignoring her, but she grew bolder, so I turned without warning and roared.

She shrieks well.

I was hungry. Well, sure. Sex does that. So I made us a snack of fried egg sandwiches, on a sliced baguette, with mayo, and I found something else had changed. Elizabeth had more appetite now. There was no more picking at her food. She finished her sandwich and a tall glass of milk. There was some sliced cantaloupe in the refrigerator, and she ate two slices.

By golly, Miss Elizabeth! If I keep fucking your ass you’ll gain weight.

After we put the dishes away, she followed right behind me to the bathroom, poking and pinching me, until I turned and roared at her again. She hadn’t forgotten how to shriek. In the bathroom, she insisted on our brushing our teeth at the same time, in the single sink. Then to bed.

Let’s snuggle down, Elizabeth. I’ll lie here quietly, until I’m sure you’re asleep and won’t be bothered by my leaving. Then I’ll read out on the couch.

About a half hour later she said “Edward?” from the bedroom doorway, and I almost jumped. Jesus! She was only half awake, and I was only half a step from a heart attack. “Couldn’t you sleep, Edward?”

“I don’t sleep very well. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She came over and sat beside me, blinking and yawning but not wanting to sleep alone, wanting to be with me. She put a couch pillow on my lap and lay down. Okay. Wriggle around until you get comfortable. I took the afghan from the back of the couch and folded it over her, working downward from her shoulders. I leaned far down to tuck it in around her legs. When I sat back she was smiling up at me. My girl. Never in my life had anyone slept on my lap. You were the first one, Elizabeth. I beeped her nose.

“Time for Elizabeth to go back to Neverland.” I petted her hair, then picked up my book with my left hand so I could leave my right hand on her hair. In a few minutes she was gone.

I never did get any reading done. I couldn’t concentrate on it, not with her breathing so softly and regularly, the occasional tickle of her breath, the shape of her hand resting in front of her face, or her face itself, as serene as a cat’s, her closed eyes, her lashes resting just above her cheekbones, everything. I stared down at her for a long time, and every few minutes I caressed her hair, very softly so I wouldn’t wake her, until finally I grew sleepy, too. It must have been nearly an hour. “Come on, Elizabeth. Let’s go to bed.”

End of Chapter 3