by Gail Bridges
Clapping.
Aghast, I opened my eyes. I stared at him.
“Fine show! Lovely in every respect. My compliments to you both.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Neither of us moved.
Logan blew on my neck. He was pissed. I could tell. So was I.
“Your turn is over, my man. It is now Valerian’s turn,” announced Mr. Abiba.
He waited. We still didn’t move.
“Why the sour looks, my dears? There is a time limit on your shenanigans, isn’t that so? Two hours, if I recall correctly? The end of the calling card game is but nine minutes away! Up and at ’em, Logan! Unhand the lady! Make way for the next gentleman!” He clapped again, sharply.
Logan stiffened. He took his fingers from inside me, rested them on my leg. “We’re not stopping! We don’t want to!” But his voice held a distinct whine and his cock was already beginning to shrink. I could feel it. Our lovemaking was ending whether we wanted it to or not.
Mr. Abiba sighed theatrically. “Oh dear. My poor Valerian needs a turn with the lovely Angela! Will you deny him, Logan, my good man? Where is your compassion?”
I sucked in a quick breath and clenched my jaw, hearing the blood pounding in my ears. Since when did people take turns with me? Where was the compassion for me? I glared at Mr. Abiba. How dare he treat me this way? I wasn’t a plaything! But my anger didn’t faze him. Smiling sagely, he leaned forward and reached out a long, thin finger.
“Angela,” he said, stroking my cheek, “why are you angry? Do you not like me?”
His touch…his touch.
His hand moved to my leg. He fondled my inner thigh.
“Yes,” I said, “but…”
His finger trailing a line of fire along my skin, so lovely, so lovely, like nothing I’d ever felt before. I sucked in my breath, forgetting what I had been about to say. My asshole contracted, making Logan moan. He was getting hard again.
“My dear,” Mr. Abiba said kindly, “I only wish the best for you.”
I knew that. I did. It was just that I wanted…oh…oh…oh!
His hand settled on my mound and pressed inward, downward, gently, relentlessly. And then a marvelous thing happened—something wonderful, something made of pure white beauty flitted into my pussy, touching me, stroking me, as light as a feather, heavenly. And then it was gone. I cried out. So did Logan. His arms tightened around me.
Mr. Abiba’s finger! It had to be!
I bit the inside of my cheek, dazzled.
My god. If a mere touch of Mr. Abiba’s finger felt like that—if it held such raw emotion, such desire, such power—what would the rest of him feel like? I couldn’t follow the thought to its logical conclusion.
I just couldn’t.
“Angela,” Mr. Abiba said softly, “why all the fuss about a simple change of partner?”
Why indeed? I was suddenly confused. Was I overreacting? Perhaps it wasn’t really that big an imposition? Because I did want to make love to Valerian—just not at that very moment. Not without being consulted first. “Fine,” I said, making up my mind. I didn’t want to be a diva. “I’ll fuck Valerian now. If you want me to.”
Mr. Abiba settled on the blanket beside the mountain man. “Good girl,” he said, nodding.
Logan slumped against me, defeated. Working together, we separated our hot, flushed bodies. Logan kissed me one last time, then joined the others on the blanket. I couldn’t bear to look at his dejected face as he rolled off his rubber and tossed it aside.
“Valerian—you’re up!” announced Mr. Abiba.
Every head turned to stare at Valerian.
The color drained from his face. He shook his head, waving his hands back and forth. “No, no! I’m okay,” he sputtered, “some other time, maybe?”
Mr. Abiba’s large fist crashed into the dirt floor, raising a cloud of dust. We jumped. “Nonsense,” he shouted, “Take the lady now, my man!”
Apparently the lady in question did not have a say in the matter.
I crouched on my blanket, naked and shivering. I’d never been so alone in my entire life.
Never.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about that magical touch.
“Valerian,” said Mr. Abiba, his tone icy. “One must never leave a lady waiting.”
Valerian moved onto my blanket, avoiding my gaze. He reached for me, touching my shoulder apologetically. He leaned in and kissed me but he was nervous, I could smell it all over him. I felt sorry for the guy—why had Mr. Abiba been so curt with him? It didn’t seem necessary. I kissed him once, twice, three times, and he responded with a shy smile. He lay on the blanket, pulling me down with him.
“Good,” breathed Mr. Abiba, leaning forward, “that’s it.”
Valerian and I. We tried. Really we did, but only a small percentage of our former fire was there—a tiny, miniscule percentage. With work, maybe Valerian and I could ignite a bigger fire. A bonfire, even. We kissed and kissed, and after a bit our hands began roaming over each other’s bodies, traveling over my rigid nipples, over his rapidly hardening cock. Moving down my belly and around his bulging chest muscles. Massaging breasts and thighs—massaging the ache of my abortive session with Logan right out of me. Massaging lust back into me. And it was working.
I put a hand on each side of Valerian’s face, looked into his eyes and nodded.
“Yes?” he whispered. His color was back.
“Yes,” I said, kissing him.
He nudged my legs apart with his. He lowered himself onto me, his chest on my chest, surprisingly heavy. I liked the way he felt—so different from the others. His shortish, fatish cock—I was beginning to be quite a connoisseur of cocks—was sweet, so sweet, so goddamn fucking sweet as it entered me.
I closed my eyes, enjoying it, enjoying him.
We moved together, getting used to the feel of each other. I reached up to his head and ran my hands through that short spiky hair of his, remembering how much I’d wanted to play with it. Our bodies took on a rhythm with each thrust. With each moan we became better acquainted.
It was good. Not ass-fucking good. Not magical finger good. But good.
And it was getting better.
All was not lost, not at all! I smiled up at Valerian and my breath quickened. He closed his eyes, his face a mask of concentration, his neck veins bulging. Fascinating, how people looked when they were making love. How intense their sex faces. Perhaps I would paint a series of sex faces. There was nothing like that on display anywhere. My series of sex faces would be the first—people would love it! I smiled at the thought, tightening my knees around my new lover, raising my hips to meet his.
My volcano was a raging beast within me—wild, getting ready to blow—I was so close, so close, so close, and then…
“But I cannot see her!” cried Mr. Abiba.
Not again! Dear god, not again. Couldn’t the man just let us fuck in peace?
“Valerian! You are blocking my view!”
Valerian and I stared at each other, unbelieving. Goddamn it. Just as the sex got good. This time, I swear, it hurt.
“I want to see! Move out of my way!”
Valerian raised himself onto outstretched arms and leaned to the side, hitching up one knee for support, causing some minor cock slippage. He frowned. He maneuvered his hips against me until he was securely inside me once again. Cool air brushed my belly, my breasts, chilling all the places his warm body had covered me a moment before.
“Is this better, Mr. Abiba?” Valerian asked, his voice thin. “Because I can move a bit more to the side if you want.”
Mr. Abiba must have given the go-ahead, because slowly, tentatively, Valerian began fucking me again. But the magic was gone. It wasn’t enough. He was touching me. Sort of. His cock was in me, one leg rested on mine—yes, there was contact, but the magic was gone. I wanted him on top of me. I wanted to feel his weight, to have his chest on mine, to have his heavy body mash my breasts. I wanted to work to breathe.
<
br /> But what Mr. Abiba wanted was more important, wasn’t it?
Damn him.
I gazed into Valerian’s eyes, knowing it was me Mr. Abiba wished to see, that it was mywrithing body he longed to witness in the throes of passion. “Ignore him,” I told Valerian, moving only my lips, hardly even making a sound.
“I can’t,” he answered in the same manner. “Angie—I can’t. None of us Guides can. We’re all but slaves.”
Had I heard him right? Slaves? Surely not!
Mr. Abiba’s voice slammed into us. “Valerian, you only have four minutes. Are you planning on giving the lady an apex?”
Valerian turned around to look at his boss. “Four minutes? Really?” he asked in a small voice.
“Yes. Finish the deed.”
But Valerian couldn’t.
My poor sheriff. He tried. He tried so hard.
He kissed me and kissed me and sucked my breasts and worked on his cock with his hands, to no avail. Then I tried and fared no better. His cock got smaller and smaller, his desperation bigger and bigger. His sex face was replaced by an anguished face.
I had my own problems. My wild passion face—I assumed I had one—had been brutally replaced by an unresolved needface,and I thought I would cry with the utter misery of it.
And then we heard it.
A sigh. Loud and long and hopeless. Mr. Abiba.
It was over. Valerian and I pulled apart. There wasn’t much left to pull apart, truth be told. His erection was long gone. Withered away. Mortified into oblivion. We sat up. I huddled next to him on the blanket, racked with furious trembling, shaking with all that pent-up desire.
And I was close—this close—to blaming it on Mr. Abiba.
Mr. Abiba got slowly to his feet. He smoothed the wrinkles from his robes, dusted off the fine fabric, stretched his arms, his shoulders, his neck. He sighed again. Logan and Geoffrey huddled together, as far from Mr. Abiba as they could get on their small blanket, wary.
Then Mr. Abiba looked up. His troubled eyes rested on me. “You are angry, and I cannot bear for you to be annoyed. I cannot. You are a plum of a woman. Lush and juicy and ripe for the taking. Any man,” he glanced at Valerian, “almost any man would be pleased to make love to you. Come to me, my dear girl—let me hold you, let me take your hurt from you. Allow me to help. Please.” He held out his arms.
I went to him. Lord help me.
He hugged my naked body to his chest and smoothed the sex-mussed hair from my face. He wiped tears of frustration from the corners of my eyes, then gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. He put a hand on the small of my back, his skin cool and dry on my own. He pressed me tightly against him, not minding that I scrunched up his robes with my hot, sweaty limbs. The pendant he wore, twin to mine, rested against my neck. I sighed in pleasure even as my nude body quivered with unfulfilled lust. Mr. Abiba closed his eyes and breathed deeply, serenely. He breathed in. Out. In. Out. In. Out. He kissed the top of my head.
How I adored him! When would I get to have sex with him?
When?
He shook his head, as if he’d read my mind. He put a finger to my mouth and gave me a sad little smile that said, as clear as day, although no sound passed his lips, No, no, my little plum. I’m not allowed.
My heart fell.
He ran a finger down my cheek, just as he had earlier. Then, tenderly, he leaned over and kissed me. This time I thought I heard a quiet, sad voice, almost as if it were inside my head. I’m not allowed, my dear, and what a shame it is!
He sighed.
After a moment he waved for the others to join us. Geoffrey and Logan, and then Valerian stood up and came near. Mr. Abiba gathered us all in the loving, caring circle of his arms. There we stood, four very naked people and Mr. Abiba in his flowing robes, all of us swaying together in the dim room. It was nice. So very nice. Healing, even. Relaxing. With his expert help, the frustrated lust drained from my body, and I was at peace.
“There, there,” Mr. Abiba said quietly, “All better now?”
I nodded, suddenly exhausted. I felt weak, as if all the energy in my body had been drained along with the sexual yearning. I wasn’t even upset any more. What had I been so worked up about anyway? There was nothing wrong. Nothing at all.
I closed my eyes and sniffed deeply, filling my lungs with Mr. Abiba’s cinnamon scent. When I opened my eyes again, the ghost town was gone. We were back in Logan’s room, in front of the fireplace. It was over. No more tumbleweeds blowing down dusty, windy streets. No more windmills in the distance. No more slatted wooden buildings with swinging wooden doors and blankets in the corner. No more carefree sex with three horny, playful men. I hugged myself, feeling bereft. Would I ever see our ghost town again? For that matter, would I ever use the Storybuilder Tool again?
I had to—I had to share this with Josh!
Mr. Abiba patted my back, then stepped away. “I thank you for your generous invitation,” he said solemnly. “To all of you I give my deepest gratitude. Witnessing your passion has been such a treasure, such a joy. I cannot thank you enough. The calling card game has been a resounding success.” He bowed formally from the waist, his robes swishing against the floor—and then his gaze fell on me. My breath caught in my throat at the desire in his eyes.
His cheeks were flushed.
“Use liberal amounts of the salve I gave you, my dear Angela. After your workout just now, I daresay you’ll have need of it.” Mr. Abiba began to leave, then turned around to say one last thing. “I do hope you’ve had fun.”
He left. I stared at the door, perplexed. Why wouldn’t I have had fun? Tools were fun. Games were fun. Ghost towns were fun.
And sex.
Sex was always fun.
Why wouldn’t it be?
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’d stopped naming the color of everything, and I hadn’t even realized it.
I said as much to Josh.
“Weird,” he said “that’s just weird. You’ve done that forever, ever since I’ve known you.” He frowned. “You know what else you haven’t been doing? Having sex…with me.”
It was the next evening. The calling card game and the ghost town seemed like the distant past, as if they’d happened days and days ago, last week sometime, not yesterday. I was in the Fine Arts Room putting finishing touches on my first wall painting, a glorious beach scene, which I’d been working on since seven o’clock that morning. Josh was visiting me, checking my progress. All day long I’d been possessed by a fiery need to paint, paint, paint—so he was right. I hadn’t had sex today. Not with him, not with anyone.
“I’ve been busy,” I said.
It was true. As well as my almost-completed landscape, I’d painted a series of portrait sketches directly on the adjoining wall. Jonathan, Vane, Josh, Zora, Rhonda-Lynne and Tim had all given me a few minutes of their time. I’d also blocked in background colors for a second wall painting and dashed off an outline for a third. And worked on the composition for a fourth. The Fine Arts Room was coming together. Mr. Abiba would be so pleased.
“Josh.” I pointed the brush at him. “You haven’t exactly missed me, though, have you?”
He was lounging on a mat, holding hands with Zenith. He leaned over and kissed her tenderly. “Ha. Very funny. I suppose you could say I’m keeping busy too.”
They looked sweet together, my husband and my lover.
“So there you go.” I dipped the bristles in Raw Umber paint.
I’d attracted quite a crowd. Nikki leaned against the far wall, watching my progress, cradling a cup of Zettia’s tea. Tim stood nearby, gazing at her as if he’d like to fuck her on one of the mats, right there and then. Geoffrey had wandered in half an hour before looking for Jonathan, and stayed to watch me paint. Five people may not seem like much of a crowd, but when those five people are fondling and kissing one another—and also engaging in other, more adventurous things—it can be rather distracting. Amusing, but distracting.
Not that I was complain
ing. I quite enjoyed the show. But I was too involved with my work to join the shenanigans. Later, maybe.
I took three steps back from my painting. Squinting, I held my brush out horizontally, using it to measure and correct the line where seashore and skyline met. There was a lighthouse off to the far right, just like the view from the North Tower. In various degrees of completion were clouds, waves, beach, dune grass and endless sky.
I dipped my brush in a puddle of paint, Flake White mixed with Cobalt Blue and a touch of Yellow Ochre with the tiniest smidgen of Lamp Black—there! I could still name my colors! Then I applied it to a small section of sand dune.
“I can’t believe how fast she works,” said Zenith.
“You should see her in her studio,” said Josh. He kissed her again. Gave her right breast a quick friendly caress. Tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Splattering paint everywhere and making an awful mess. Good thing she put down those drop cloths before she started.”
I smiled a private little grin, my back to them again. Of course I was working fast—there was so much to do. Walls and walls and more walls to fill with my creations! Colors, and more colors! I wished I had that beautiful Tennenbach brush, the extra-wide one, to help cover the large areas, but no matter. I’d make do with what I had. The area I’d just painted begged for more Yellow Ochre, so I put on a thin layer. The addition of Yellow Ochre demanded a near-by scumbled area of Raw Umber. Which I did. And that change made it clear that tiny speckles of Cadmium Red would bring out the Yellow Ochre section I’d started with. One thing always led to another. It never ended. Making art was a never-ending process where everything depended on everything else. A process made all the more difficult because I was doing it without a big brush.
“She’s in the zone,” said Josh, “she probably can’t hear us talking.”
“I can hear you talking,” I said, not really listening.
“Hey, Angie,” said Zenith, “I like the shape of the beach. It looks just like the view from the reading room.”
I squeezed a dollop of Ultramarine Blue onto my palette. “Thanks.”