by R. Gay
2C smiled, her ever calm voice steady as she rooted through her trunk. “There. Not so bad, is it, Jana?”
The other women laughed and Jana glared back, frustration bubbling up inside of her. This was ridiculous! Maybe she had been wrong for looking through their personal stuff. She was a big girl, she could admit when she was wrong. But this, this was insane. Being taunted and humiliated and spanked and—
2C noticed. “I think our girl needs some time to collect herself. Go to the corner, Jana.”
This bitch had another thing coming, if she seriously expected Jana to sit in time-out like a child.
“Go to hell.”
2C sighed. “Jana, Jana, Jana. And you were doing so well.”
She pulled out a large rubber dildo and a harness. Without looking away, 2C strapped herself in with a dexterity Jana couldn’t help but admire. For the first time, the others looked wary. 3F exchanged confused glances with 1B, but 4D stared in wide-eyed fascination at the scene before her.
2C sat in a chair. “Come here.”
Jana didn’t move. The cock was huge, too big for her. In any case, she wasn’t interested in being a tool for this woman’s amusement.
“You feel it, don’t you? That need.” Her voice was almost hypnotic. “Come on, Jana, let’s release it.”
Jana walked over hesitantly and straddled 2C’s lap, hovering over the dildo. Her eyes locked with her nemesis, her only shot at relief, until the fat dildo head penetrated and slid inside her.
2C gripped Jana’s asscheeks as she bounced and Jana cried out against the conflicting sensations: pain radiating from her tender bottom, pleasure from the cock filling her pussy.
2C lifted her, then lowered her back onto the dildo, the calmness in her eyes lessening with each movement.
“Have you learned your lesson, Jana?” 2C whispered. “This is what happens to naughty girls who stick their noses where they don’t belong.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jana croaked.
“Sheryl. Just Sheryl.” Sheryl nipped the side of her neck tenderly.
“Yes, 2-Sheryl,” Jana cried out, no longer concerned with her audience or the nature of her crimes, just caring about the orgasm crashing down around her, reverberating through her body until she was too weak to do more than slump against 2C.
2C held her as she wept, gingerly patting her back. Then all too soon, she felt soft hands lifting her up. Quickly, they helped her dress before guiding her to the door and sending her out.
Three days later, Jana fixed the lights outside the manager’s office—three days of no peeping, no rifling through her tenants’ things. Her still-sore bottom did a very good job of keeping her honest.
Marge walked up and tapped Jana on the shoulder. “I got a work order for you. The lady says her faucets are dripping.”
Jana turned to see 2C opening her car door. She winked at Jana before slipping inside and starting the engine.
ONE EIGHTY
Carrie Cannon
Madison knew how to cook. She honed her skills at the French Laundry and used to be the chef at the hottest finedining restaurant in town.
Madison did her own home repairs. She didn’t just caulk her own tub; she laid her own roofing and hung her own Sheetrock.
Her house was always clean.
Madison went to Smith. Madison was trilingual. Madison and her husband kayaked waterfalls in Venezuela every year.
Madison. Madison. Madison. Madison.
The four of us were supposed to be great friends—every other weekend together barbecuing, the last two summers sharing a beach house—but in the past few months Madison had crawled under my skin and started moving in furniture. It was bad enough my husband pulled out his binoculars every time she and her bouncing breasts mowed the yard in a sports bra; did she have to be so damned gracious, too?
Never angry or sullen; unflinchingly helpful; ridiculously, absurdly nice: she didn’t deserve to live.
I hated her most at night. Her bedroom window faced mine. Each night she would enter her room and raise the blinds. It doesn’t occur to the Beautiful People to be modest. She’d remove one article of clothing after another, until nothing remained but luminous skin, rosy nipples, and an oh-so-neatly trimmed triangle of pubic hair. Then she’d languorously drop a thin silken shift over her head and let it shimmy down to drape her slim body.
Sometimes she’d lean against the window with the light from her bedroom shining through her gossamer gown and defining every nuance of her silhouette. I’d stay hidden in the shadowy darkness of my room, secretly watching as she was lost in her private, perfect world, unaware of the mere mortal glaring daggers at her twenty feet away. Every night this oblivious act of exhibitionism left me seething with a nameless rage, sweating and tossing in my bed, until late in the night.
I couldn’t stand her. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I spent afternoons imagining it was Madison’s size-four ass I was grinding up in the disposal with the Cheerios and Pop-Tart remains from breakfast. That’s right, I don’t get around to cleaning up breakfast until just before dinner; what’s my punishment for that crime, Madison? It felt like a phantom Madison was watching me from every window and every dark corner of my house, secretly observing, summing me up, finding me lacking in a way the real Madison, the Pollyanna-perfect Madison never would be.
One afternoon when Ellie and Jack were at school and Blake was at work, I shoved piles of laundry aside and lay back on the couch to reread my favorite chapter in Wuthering Heights. I slid one hand down the front of my pajama pants, ready to take a beating from Heathcliff, but his throbbing gypsy erection had no chance with Madison hovering, watching and judging, distracting me with her immaculate perfection. Just to show her, I grunted even louder and came even harder, skin burning beneath the self-righteous glare of those imaginary eyes.
When Madison told us she was going to start volunteering at the Children’s Hospital, it was the last straw.
“I want to sell the house,” I told Blake. “Let’s move to Tucson.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You love this house.”
“I need a change.”
“What’s gotten into you? I can’t switch my job to Tucson; the kids are happy here. You’re just in another one of your moods.”
“What’s the matter, afraid Miss Cuppa at the coffee shop would miss you?”
“Drop it, all right? If you need a change why don’t you finally paint the other half of the living room or do something with that snaky pile of boards in the backyard you keep referring to as ‘the deck?’”
The next morning I proudly showed him the sleek, polishednickel faucet that absolutely had to go in the kitchen. Madison wasn’t the only one who could do things.
“You’re going to replace plumbing?” He blanched.
“What’s your point?” I asked, eyes narrowing. He snapped his jaw shut and left without another comment.
Five hours later I had screamed myself hoarse. I had gnashed my teeth and torn my hair. I had collapsed in a dejected puddle on the floor. So what if my modern, sexy faucet had pliers gashes around the base? So what if it tilted at an odd angle? So what if there were a few extra parts lying around unaccounted for on the floor? The real problem was the house-rattling clank that ensued every time I turned the water back on. And the hissing jets that shot out from the faucet at all angles.
I cursed the faucet, cursed my rotten home-improvement skills, and cursed Madison for good measure. Then I slumped against the counter and resolved to throw myself at a plumber. He could take anything he wanted if he’d just get the whole mess cleared away before Blake came home.
The doorbell rang.
I opened the door and there stood Madison. The house thumped and hissed behind me. Of course it was Madison. Madison who never comes over unannounced, Madison who just can’t leave me the hell alone even though we haven’t spoken in a week, Madison who was the last possible person I wanted to see at this exact moment. But those comedian Fate
s (who’ve always had it in for me) had aligned; the star charts had been written; and Mr. Murphy’d had his say. There was no way Madison could not darken my door at the moment of my deepest shame. Madison with…a bottle of wine? And wearing that tight little shirt that shows off her cleavage? At one o’clock?
“I heard you yelling. Is everything okay?”
Thirty minutes later the whole nightmare was history: faucet straight; pipes tamed; water whispering, calm and obsequious from the tap.
“See?” she said. “The gashes are all hidden now. All you have to do is turn this cap one eighty and everything looks pretty and shiny.” I nodded as if I knew what the hell she was talking about. Part of me still hated her, but I was so damned grateful I couldn’t do anything but grin at her like an idiot.
She just saved me from mortifying myself with the plumber, I thought. The least I can do is drink her wine. Why on earth would she bring wine with her anyway? As I set a glass down next to where she perched, legs crossed on top of the kitchen counter, she moved her hand to rest it lightly on top of mine. This unexpected intimacy should have surprised me, I suppose, but what surprised me was the thrill of electricity that ran up my arm. I found myself strangely aware of the curve of her neck, the rounded protrusion of her collarbone, those flawless orbs on her chest that were barely contained behind straining fabric. I shook my head to clear the fog hijacking my concentration.
“Madison? Why did you bring a bottle of wine with you?”
She turned crimson. “You know, I’ve always really admired you, Susan. Truth is, I’ve always been a little jealous of you.”
That was carrying things too far. And what did any of this have to do with that bottle of wine? I gently extracted my hand. With a surge of something almost like regret, I moved across the kitchen and leaned against the counter. “Oh, please,” I said. “You can do anything.”
“I can’t be fearless like you are. You’re wonderfully intense and you’re never ashamed to say what you think. You’re not even afraid to tell off that scary bitch who runs the neighborhood association.” She shook her head. “No, I could never do that.”
I blushed. That had been a proud moment for me. “That old bag?” I answered modestly. “What’s so scary about her?”
Her eyes caught mine and the faintest hint of pink remained on her cheeks. I felt my own cheeks go hot again. I couldn’t stop staring at the outline of her pale lips. “I’ve always been jealous of your relationship with Blake, too,” the lips said.
I choked on my wine. “What? I mean, why?” There was something coy about the way she put the emphasis on ‘Blake,’ as though she were jealous of him, not the relationship.
“The way he looks at you—he must think about fucking you all the time.” The look in her eyes made me wonder suddenly if she’d thought about it once or twice herself, and my stomach got all twisty and excited. Was Madison coming on to me? Did I want her to? Wasn’t I poking sewing needles into a canvas Madison doll just this morning?
I snorted in response. “Blake thinks about fucking everything all the time. Blake would figure out how to fuck a porcupine if it sat still long enough. Mark doesn’t like to have sex?”
“Oh, it’s not that; he’s…enthusiastic.” The word fell between us like a lead weight. “Don’t get me wrong; I love him. He’s just not terribly…”
“Terribly what?” My eyes were wide. I was having trouble catching my breath and my head was getting fuzzy again. The air between us snapped and crackled with tension.
“He’s just…he’s just not all that good. It’s been years since I had an orgasm with him in the room. Oh, god, I can’t believe I said it!” She burst into hysterical, nervous laughter, rolling her perfect buttcheeks back and forth across my counter. The sight of her happily jiggling breasts made my stomach do flip-flops.
She calmed herself and began intently picking breakfast crumbs off the counter, pinching and rolling them between the tips of her long, slender fingers. She fixed me with a soul-jolting stare. “Do you ever feel like you need a change?” she asked, barely above a whisper. She looked terrified.
“You mean like having a go at Gladiator Glenn, the UPS delivery guy?” I blurted, my voice cracking. I hoped that wasn’t at all what she meant.
“No. Something a little more…close to home.” Neither of us had moved, but she suddenly seemed very, very close. I thought I could feel her heat, hear the hiss of her breath. And those crystal blue eyes were pinning me, squirming, to my own stretch of counter.
“I’m sorry if I’m completely out of line,” she said quietly, “but I came over here today to…I mean, I just wondered…the way you’ve watched me at night in the window the past few months. I thought I might have a chance.”
I’m pretty sure I turned the same color as the pinot noir trembling in my hand. I didn’t need to mortify myself with the plumber; I was doing a fine job of it right here with Madison. I guess my bedroom wasn’t as dark as I thought. Then I realized this meant Madison had been undressing for me all those nights. She had known I was there…but she didn’t seem to mind. And she was right, my obsession may have been couched in animosity, but it was starting to look a lot like a playground crush. Had I been yanking Madison’s braids?
I couldn’t speak. I fumbled and sputtered and tried to process this new Madison. The Madison who admired me. The Madison who was coming on to me. The Madison who suddenly made me want to throw her down on the kitchen tile and redefine ravage.
I found myself creeping uncertainly across the room toward her, but once my hands clasped her knees I completely lost my nerve. Fearless indeed. I’d never even kissed a woman.
“What if we get caught?” she asked, looking a little shocked herself.
“You mean by Blake? Are you kidding? He’d drop to his knees and sing praise and thanksgiving to any god who’d listen. Besides, he has a standing appointment at the coffee shop on Wednesdays.”
She smiled and bit her lower lip in such a sweet way that my own lips just skipped over to join in. She seemed slight, insubstantial compared to the men I had kissed. I wasn’t prepared for how rough and clumsy I would feel against her thin frame, but her eager response made my heart flutter and my skin tingle.
Her legs twined around my hips as my pelvis pressed into the hard edge of the counter. Was this the same Madison I was cursing an hour ago? The fog in my brain was back and I couldn’t concentrate on anything except the heat in my chest, quickly gaining pace from a simmer to a boil. One wandering hand (mine or hers?) slipped over my rib cage and brushed my breast. Madison murmured some incoherent mantra in my ear and I became painfully aware of the thin layers of fabric separating her crotch from my waist. When my hand worked its way under her shirt, she cried out and her murmur solidified into words. “Please, please, please, oh, god, please. Please, please fuck me.”
I stood back to face her with a jolt. Perfect, tidy little Madison had eyes glassed over with desperation. Perfect, composed little Madison was whimpering and begging me, of all people, to fuck her brains out. Suddenly, all the anger and resentment I had focused on Madison for the past few months was transformed into an equally fierce tenderness. At the same time, a wave of predatory lust surged through me and this heady cocktail of emotions shored up my confidence.
I touched my lips to her ear. “Get down off the counter and remove your clothes.”
Madison did as I asked, dropping one article of clothing after another on the floor in a reenactment of all those previous nights. She stood before me, her pale eyes searching mine for approval, her pink nipples heaving—smallish, up close they weren’t so perky after all.
“Sit down on the floor with your back against the cabinets,” I instructed. I removed my own clothing and sat between her legs, squeezing her beautiful, less-than-perfect breasts against my back and leaning my head against her shoulder. I could feel the movement of her throat as she swallowed, the deep breath she took to steady herself, the pressure of her pelvis arching into me as her h
and snaked down between my legs.
Her fingers sent thrills through my body, but when she asked, “Does that feel good?” I chose not to answer. I wasn’t going to help Ms. I-Can-Do-Anything with this do-it-yourself project; she’d have to figure it out on her own.
But I forgot that I had never had sex with a woman before. I forgot that, without ever touching me previously, she would know my body almost as well as I did. I didn’t have to tell her that my clit got overjoyed when you snuck up on it from behind. I didn’t have to tell her that more is not always better when it comes to deep-probing digits. And I sure as hell didn’t even know to tell her about that fabulous thing she did with her thumb.
She already knew to play with my breast while her fingers fucked me. She knew to wrap her entire hand around the base and pull upward, tightening her grip until only her thumb and forefinger pinched my nipple as she tugged. She knew all the tricks, and she knew to do them all over again and again, in just the right intervals, until I had no breath left and my muscles tensed up tight and I exploded in savage waves against her hand.
It took a while for the room to stop spinning. I stumbled to stand on rubber legs and took her hand to pull her up. “Thank you,” I whispered, pressing her against the counter, partly to kiss her and partly to keep from falling.
Flushed and pleased, Madison followed my directions to sit back up on the counter. The sight of her bare ass on the Formica made me giggle. “Blake always sets his dirty tumbler in that spot when he gets back from the coffee shop,” I explained. “I don’t think I’ll ever wash this part of the counter again.” My explanation didn’t help Madison’s confusion, but I distracted her by gingerly touching one fingertip to the small rise of her clit. Her breath whistled through her teeth and she pulled me close for a fierce kiss. I let my finger slip down along the warmth of her crease. When I added a second finger and slid them both slowly inside her body, Madison rocked back against the wall and closed her eyes. Her tongue peeked out, barely visible between parted teeth, and I could see her pulse hammering in her white throat.