You Are My Everything

by Edward Lee

  Ridiculous...

  At the rim of trees, the sun began to sink.

  "I can't believe it," Westmore muttered. "Thank you..."

  She smiled.

  He was about to get out with his camera when a chill caught him. Were the hairs on the back of his neck sticking up? The facade of the cryptic house, for only a second, seemed to have transformed into a collapsed, screaming face.

  "Um..." He fidgeted. "I think I'll wait til tomorrow to take pictures and have a look around. It's...getting dark."

  "Ain't nothin' wrong admittin' you ain't keen on goin' up there at dark. Me? I wouldn't go up there fer nothin', night or day."

  Yeah, this is...a little too unnerving for sundown...

  He backed up and proceeded back down the drive, ecstatic yet subdued. What would he find when he did look around?

  "Take this turn here. Then it ain't much farther."

  Westmore drove on. The high trees allowed only a smidgen of light. Part of his consciousness remained advertent on the woman, the other part on the house. My work's laid out for me now...thanks to her. He noticed then that a quick glance into the passenger-side rearview showed her bosom. Damn it... Eventually she'd get wise if he didn't stop. He felt like a cad: using her knowledge to forward his career, and using her body for masturbation-fodder. Man of the Year, yes sir. That's me.

  Ten minutes later, they turned onto a road with another howler of a name—HOG NECK ROAD— and not long after she guided him up a very narrow dirt lane that was scarcely more than a foot path. Darkness nearly swallowed them.

  "Here we is," she announced. "Don't mind the dark. I never leave candles burnin' if'n no one's there."

  "Oh, so your daughter isn't home now?"

  She shook her head.

  Westmore's headlights lit a long, L-shaped shack with strips of tin for a roof. Wooden planks composed the walls, darkened by some crude varnish; it made the structure look black. Westmore knew then that he'd truly penetrated another world.

  For some reason, the moment felt awkward, "Again, I can't thank you enough for giving me all this information about Crafter."

  "Why, it was my pleasure, Westmore."

  "Say, are there any motels nearby?"

  "Well, shore. A lot on the highway, but closer"—she touched her chin—"yeah, there's the Gilman House in Luntville. It ain't fancy but it's cheap."

  "Sounds perfect—"

  "And I'se sorry I cain't be more hospitter-bull. Only reason I don't offer ta let'cha stay the night here is 'cos, well, I still got some chores ta tend to."

  "That's quite all right. I'd never want to impose and, besides, you've already helped me in big way."

  Was it him, or did Easter, too, seem afflicted by some sudden, ineffable awkwardness?

  "Just let me grab my sack, and I'll git..." She turned rather cumbersomely to reach into the back seat where she'd stowed her bag. Then: "Aw, fer goodness sake!"

  "What's wrong?"

  "My dang sack fall over'n half the stuff in it plumb slid under the seat..." She strained, reaching back farther.

  "I'll get it," Westmore said. The dome light popped on when he got out and opened the back door. In the footwell he could see the disarranged items: some of the loose sheets, a rabbit's foot, an apple, some matches, an old pocket watch. He leaned over to pick it all up...

  His eyes flicked briefly upward. Easter was still leaning between the seats...

  Her pose was such that her smock's loose bustline hung low via gravity, allowing Westmore a near-perfect view of her bare breasts.

  That one-second glance seemed to last minutes. Here, that shared awkwardness collided, fusing the moment. Her breasts were so perfectly white they could've been luminous, contrasted by the large brown-pink nipples which seemed swollen. The image affected him like a shout.

  Westmore forced his eyes back down, to pick up her things.

  Damn, I hope she didn't catch that. It was with some clumsiness that he returned to the front seat with her articles in his arms.

  His heart actually shimmied. "You're a dear," she said, and began transferring the things back into her rucksack.

  That image of her caused him to think in slow-motion, a visual undertow, dragging him. He knew he should say something, otherwise the awkwardness would only intensify. "So...all those loose sheets are from old manuscripts?"

  "Oh, shore. Handed down through the family since olden times." Her graceful hands busied themselves in re-sorting the sheets of vellum. One sheet was filled with carefully drawn planetary signs, a pentangle, trines and sectiles, a divination chart.

  Without forethought, Westmore said, "Easter? Was that passage I read into the recorder...was it really a good-luck prayer?"

  The questioned startled her but only in an amused way. "It's all a matter'a terp-uh-tay-shun..."

  She laxed back in the seat now that her items were properly stowed. "Folks see diffurnt things diffurnt ways."

  Westmore listened intently to her words while looking intently at her monumental bosom.

  "'Tis funny..."

  "What?" he droned.

  "'Bout how hot yer interest is in ole Crafter"—she was cradling the rucksack like something prized—

  "but you should'a heard how Grandpop Orne laugh about him."

  "About Crafter? I'm not following you."

  "Like I tolt ya, Crafter were just a dabbler—

  "Right. A novice necromancer. I think the better word is probably mountebank. He fancied himself a sorcerer but he was really just a..."

  He laughed softly. "A nutty old man."

  "'Zactly! But, see, my Grandpop Orne?" She patted the rucksack, then her big crystalline eyes re-found Westmore's. "He weren't no novice, no sir."

  "So you're saying...your grandfather was a real warlock?" Westmore asked in a surprisingly neutral tone.

  "Yeah." Now her eyes drilled into his. Her smile beamed. "You believe that, Westmore?"

  "Why not?"

  "But it's like anything—there's black'n white, good'n bad. Grandpop use what he know in a good way, Crafter didn't. Makes ya wonder, don't it? I was thinkin' 'bout that earlier when I was walkin' ta that 'lectric store..."

  Whatever the mesmerization was that had been going on...it suddenly snapped. "Wait a minute. You walked all the way from here to the Best Buy?"

  "Oh, shore."

  Westmore eyed the odometer. "It's probably fifteen miles!"

  "Naw, ain't but eight're nine cuttin' 'cross," she dismissed. "Workin' and walkin' is somethin' I'se used to. It's good fer the soul'n good fer the body." Were her eyes suddenly more intent on him? "Nice long walk ever day's the best way ta keep fit." A downward glance appraised her abdomen. "Ain't gone ta fat yet like a lotta gals my age," and then she shook her head. "Fastest way ta lose yer man is go ta fat but, a'course, bein' in good shape still didn't help me none..."

  "You're a very beautiful woman, Easter," Westmore said spontaneously, then nearly gagged. What am I saying! She'll think I'm making a play for her just after she tells me her husband's DEAD!

  Her voice softened. "That's nice'a ya ta say. You really are a nice man, Westmore, and I'se in debt ta you fer more than you can know."

  Westmore was still recovering from the gaff. "What?"

  Yes, her eyes were more intent on him, and her smile too.

  Uh-oh, he thought when her hand opened on his thigh.

  "You made me feel so good today..."

  "By reading the prayer into the recorder?"

  "Naw, you know what I mean, Westmore," and that's when—

  Oh, my God...

  —she dropped the straps of her gown. In a single instant, with no warning nor inkling, Westmore was looking at those large, perfect breasts, their nipples pointing right at him.

  Her hand rubbed his thigh.

  "What make me feel so good, Westmore, is the way you been lookin' at me all day..."

  Westmore could've howled. His face turned hot as a car hood in the sun.

  Easter squealed
a laugh. "Why, Westmore, you're blushin' somethin' fierce!"

  "I-I—," was all he could stammer. His face collapsed into his hands—he'd been caught, red-faced, red-eyed, and red-handed, using her for a visual scratching-post. "Holy shit, Easter. I'm so embarrassed. I... I just don't know what to say..." and what could he say? The humiliation made his face seem to beat like a heart.

  She kept laughing; she was getting a real kick out of this. Her fingers touched his chin, raising his gaze back up, and there they were again, those magnificent breasts, pucker-nippled. Her abdomen displayed essentially no fat, only fine creases caused by her pose. The vision of all that perfect white skin seemed hallucinotic to Westmore. In her years, her skin had lost some elasticity but even that was attractive.

  Eventually, he croaked, "I'm sorry, Easter. I have been eyeballing you all day—it's no excuse to say I couldn't help it, but—shit..." He gulped. "You're just...so...beautiful..."

  "Hush, now," she enthused, and then her left arm was about his shoulder and she was pulling his face to her breasts. Her voice declined to a whisper. "That's a lovely thing fer you ta say. My husband Noot, he used ta say it all the time. Just you now...go on ahead'n suck these..."

  She guided his mouth directly to a swollen areola. Westmore felt mindless; he sucked desperately and found that once he began he didn't ever want to stop.

  "Yeah, just like that," the spirited whisper returned. "All fellas like ta suck a gal tits—takes 'em back ta their babyin' days"—now her left hand stroked his hair—"when they didn't have a care in the world. No stresses, no hardships, no worryin'..."

  Westmore kept sucking, indeed, like a baby seeking safety and comfort the only way it knew how. The faint musk coming off her skin intoxicated him; his erection squirmed in his pants.

  "Umm-hmm," she uttered when her right hand began to smooth circles over his crotch. "I'se thought so...," and then, "Ummmmm. I like that..."

  Westmore was sucking harder, engrossed in the nipple's dense texture, marveled by the way it swelled even more.

  Now, as she rubbed his crotch, she whispered very pointedly, "Like I was sayin'. It made me feel good knowin' how'se you were lookin' at me. When most fellas look at me, well, I just don't like it at all, but you? You're so diffurnt, Westmore. The older a gal gits, the easier she can tell. In a manner'a speakin', lust is like nekker-mancy—there's good...and there's bad. Your lust ain't all hateful'n selfish like that'a most men. That's what I'se talkin' 'bout. The hankerin' you have fer my body, it's a nice thing. It's good. And I say that's so refreshin' in this day'n age..."

  But Westmore barely heard her. He just kept sucking, his eyes closed, his arms around her as if he were clinging to the only post over an abyss.

  Her whisper kept descending, "See, part'a me'd shore as hail like ta take ya in my mouth or just up'n fuck the daylights out'a ya—

  The word fuck in his ears nearly caused him to orgasm.

  "—but odd as it sounds... I'd feel like I were cheatin' on Noot." Her flesh jiggled when she uttered a chuckle. "A silly notion, I know. Even though he cheated on me all the time, and even though he's dead now, I'd feel I were bein'... unfaithful. That make any sense ta you, Westmore?"

  Westmore nodded in his daze. He was lost in her flesh and her scent and her lilting voice and of course her hand rubbing him into a slow frenzy.

  The hand rose, unbuckled his pants, pulled down his fly. Now her whisper could barely be heard; it was a ghost of a whisper, an apparition: "But I don't reckon this'd be unfaithful," and then her lips moved right against his ear. "Hitch these down now." Another chuckle. "And judgin' by what's goin' on in yer pants, I don't figure you got any objection..."

  Without ever taking his mouth off her nipples, Westmore pulled his pants down.

  He quaked at the feel of her hot hand immediately squeezing his genitals. The ooze of pre-ejaculant was constant now, and it was this that she used for lubricant. She ringed her thumb and index finger and, in excruciating slowness, began to stroke him. His legs tensed, his buttocks was rising off the seat. He wanted to just keep sucking but when she sensed his moment, she nudged him away and whispered, "Just lean back now so's I can watch. I love ta watch a fella come..."

  And come Westmore did—spontaneously. He gasped, neck craned, and when his orgasm was triggered, it felt like his cock was heaving semen out, jettisoning it. The conduction of every nerve in his body went awry, and his erection just pumped and pumped and pumped. Easter squealed a laugh at each bumper-crop spurt, the first of which hit him in the chin, the second in the hollow of the throat, the third all over his shirt at the solar plexus, then the rest on his belly. He just lay there, stupefied, as the dozen-plus spasms finally abated. His groin buzzed. He couldn't move.

  "My word, Westmore!" she exclaimed like a mother playfully scolding a child. "Just look at this mess you make," and she moved her face closer to his splattered shirt. The shirt was sopped. "You must'a been all pent up judgin' by all'a this cum,.."

  Her words titillated him. His eyes rolled when her hand diddled with his spent testicles. He noticed that her eyes were sharp now, her face alight in some indulgence. She moved even closer to the seminal mess and moaned, "Just you let me clean all this up but— mmmmm, I just so much love the smell of a man's nut...and the taste too. Cain't imagine why, all yucky'n slimy as it is, but... It just jangles my bells," and then—

  Oh, this is just too hardcore, Westmore thought through his crushed post-orgasmic daze, because now her lips were sucking the globs of sperm off his chin and throat, then lowering to suck all the mucoid splotches out of his shirt fabric. Well, he thought, this definitely takes the cake for Middle-Aged Male Sex Fantasy Come True.

  After several minutes, the shirt had been sucked clean. Easter's ever-present smile turned slightly lewd now; the click of her throat as she swallowed made Westmore's penis cringe.

  "That was...shit. Just great," he uttered, parched. "Thank you..."

  She laughed, helping him pull his pants back up and re-fasten them. "Ain't no need ta thank me fer jerkin' ya off. It ain't no big deal..."

  Speak for yourself... He looked at her one more longing time as she pulled her smock back up and, more than anything, it was unconscious when he grated, "You really are beautiful, Easter..."

  Her smile beamed as a tear glittered in her eye. "That just makes me feel heavenly 'cos it reminds me of what Noot used ta tell me all the time, and the way you been lookin' at me all day? Same way Noot used ta look at me..."

  Westmore was stifled. The entire ordeal—and the entire day—seemed so odd, unlikely, and fascinating.

  She rechecked her rucksack, making sure the memo-corder was there, and then some sadness seeped into her smile. "It's time fer us ta part, Westmore. We won't be seein' each other again, but...thank you fer all ya done."

  Westmore stared at her. "I'd like to stop by sometime. I could...take you to dinner or something," but then he winced at the ludicrousness of what he'd said.

  "Naw, see, with Noot dead now, I'll be movin' on— movin' out the area I'se mean..."

  He didn't know why, but her response seemed either stilted or ominous. He wanted to ask her where she'd be moving to but then he realized that would be futile. It would put her on the spot, so all he said was, "You have my best wishes."

  "And you got mine!" the spirit of her voice returned. She gave him the tiniest peck on the lips. "And good luck with yer book 'bout Crafter..."

  He laughed despondently. "The only reason I'll be able to write the damn thing is because of you."

  But her eyes narrowed suddenly as if through some reflection. "Well, wait a sec. Now's that I think of it..." She rummaged through the rucksack and from the binder slid out the loose manuscript sheets and her grandfather's phonetic translations. "It just now come ta my mind that I don't need any'a this, so..." She offered him the loose—and possibly priceless-sheets. "I want you ta have 'em."

  Westmore was waylaid. "Easter, there's no way I can accept those sheets. They're your most
valued family possessions; they're your heirlooms."

  "Naw. Please make me happy'n take 'em. What I need 'em for? But, you, you got a interest in 'em, and smart as you is—a book-writer—you can study 'em and one day find out what they'se all about."

  "I can't take them," Westmore said as much as he would like to.

  "You can, Westmore. It's only 'cos of the way you are, that's how I trust ya with 'em. It's best that you have 'em, and Grandpop Orne'd shorely want ya ta have 'em. I trust in my heart that a good person like you'd never use none'a this fer somethin' bad."

  She put the sheets in his lap.

  As he stared at them, he could hear his own watch tick. I can't! his thoughts thundered, but when he looked up to object, Easter was already out of the car. She closed the door and smiled in through the window.

  '"Bye, Westmore. May all yer dreams come true..."

  He opened his mouth to speak but she was already fading away, blending into the moon-tinseled dark that cloaked her ramshackle abode. She waved briefly at the front door, then was gone.

  Westmore let out the longest sigh of his life. He started the car, gave the house a final glance, and drove away.

  ***

  You're beaming when you come back into your shack. The after-taste of Westmore's jism seems to hum in your mouth. You feel light on your feet, not because you gave a man an orgasm but because he wanted you to. You're determined now, and confident, that you can make Noot want you to as well.

  Because, even after all of this heartbreak, he is your everything.

  Blubber thunks into the front room, his warped, corpulent face glowing faintly from the candle he holds. "Hi, Blubber. I'se back like I said I'd be."

  The boy stares, drooling.

  "You put Linette in the ground?"

  He nods jerkily, and snorts, "Gyuh-gyuh-gyesss."

  "Thank you, Blubber. What a fine boy you are." You set down the rucksack on the table Noot built with his own hands. You remove the little recorder, and also the fifty-six dollars that your daughter had earned so filthily. "Oh, I'se plumb fergot. Take this money'n buy yerself somethin' tomorrow. It's fer all ya done fer me," and then you give it to him.