by Christian, M
Kathy wasn't even thinking about what she was doing and why she shouldn't be doing it and what it all meant; she'd given Anne free rein. And the lack of control and responsibility freed the girl to truly experience and enjoy the wickedly erotic situation she'd never have initiated on her own.
Anne dropped Kathy down to her knees on the threadbare carpet and flicked her tongue at Sid's mushroomed hood. He jerked, groaned. She gripped his dick at the hairy base and twirled her tongue around and around his purple crown. Before catching it with her teeth and biting into the soft, thick meat. She swallowed the bloated cap and started sucking on it, a woman ... possessed.
She pushed her head forward, taking Sid's vein-popped shaft into the wet-hot cauldron of her mouth; deep into her mouth. He bucked, jamming his hood against the back of her throat. She hardly gagged, like she'd been blowing men for kicks for years. She moved her head back and forth, rapidly, shiny black hair flying, sucking hard and long and nasty on the man's pole. She felt fingers claw at her hair, bite into her scalp, Sid's heartbeat thundering away in her mouth.
Kathy was overwhelmed by the wild sexual sensations – the sweaty, musky smell of the man, the salty taste of him, the suffocating feel of his huge cock crowding her mouth and stuffing her throat, bulging her cheeks. But she was sharing the sensations with another, so that kept her shaking knees from giving way completely, falling to the floor in a faint.
She urgently wet-vacced Sid's cock until he just couldn't take it anymore. Then, with the instrument of her impending pleasure properly primed, she spat him out and climbed to her feet, brushed the thin straps of her dress away from her porcelain shoulders. The dress tumbled down to her waist, exposing her heaving, handful breasts. Sid quickly cupped them in his warm, strong hands, and she breathed, "Yes!" surging with tingling heat.
She thrust out her chest, urging the man to really feel up her tits. Which he did, squeezing the soft, sensitive flesh, tweaking, rolling the stiff, cherry-red nipples between his fingers. Before swallowing a reddened breast almost whole and nursing on it.
"Oh, God, yes!" she moaned, shivering with electric delight, watching Sid disgorge her one sopping breast and then swallow up the other.
He sucked and sucked on her tits, on her nipples, making her head spin and her pussy smolder. And when he bit into a glistening bud with his strong, white teeth, lightning bolts of joy crashed through her body, zapping her clit. She was wet and willing for anything by the time he finally pushed her back on the bed, shoved up her dress. He was all over her, his body burning against hers, hands mauling her tits, breath steaming into her face, cock plunging into her pussy. "Yes, fuck me! Fuck me!" she screamed. Nothing was repressed now; Kathy-Anne was wide open and wanton, the two women as one, grabbing onto Sid's clenching buttocks and imploring him to fuck her harder, faster, desperately thrusting out her tongue and tangling it with his. The bed creaked, squeaked in frantic rhythm to their thrashing, the pumping, pounding friction sending the both of them sailing.
"Fuck, I'm coming!" they wailed in unison, all three together.
He blasted his white-hot ecstasy deep into her being, shuddering with each explosion of semen from his ruptured pipe. As towering orgasm welled up from her cock-pistoned cunt and tidal-waved through her trembling body, drowning her in bliss. Again and again and again.
* * * *
"I want me some more," Anne said the next morning, grinning at Kathy across the kitchen table.
Kathy's coffee cup clattered down into its saucer. "What!? You said once you got your ... orgasm, you'd leave!"
Anne shrugged. "Three times is not enough."
Kathy glared at the apparition. "I won't do it again."
"Oh, you'll do it again, all right, sweet cheeks. In fact, Sid's coming over here tonight. Assuming he's got the guts – or at least the hard-on. You invited him over after the fireworks last night, remember?"
"You mean you invited him," Kathy groaned.
* * * *
"So, what'd you think?" Kathy heard Anne ask, using her voice.
Sid glanced around the tiny living room – his former living room – his eyes even shiftier than usual. "It's great. Yeah, great..." His voice trailed off, the bad vibes and memories of the old place shutting off his patter. He didn't quite know what to make of the fact/coincidence that his latest conquest just happened to dwell in the same house he and his less-than-dearly departed wife used to live in.
Kathy strolled up to the man, pressed herself longingly against him, astonished at her reckless aggression, and not astonished; she was of two minds on the subject. She was wearing a slinky black dress that was thin enough to be tear-away, a pair of black pumps, and not a stitch more. Sid's jeaned cock hardened against her soft, warm stomach, cutting off the flow of blood to his addled brain.
They excitedly kissed, frenched, their tongues entwining familiarly, picking right up where they'd left off the prior night.
"Let's take this party into the kitchen, huh, lover?" Kathy felt compelled to say.
She led Sid by the bulging cock into the cramped kitchen, and they embraced again, their bodies melding together, the heat blast-furnace strong. And as he levered his hands in between and grasped her brimming tits, and she rubbed his cock through his pants, her mind blurred with an idea even more radical than hot kitchen sex.
She reached over to the stove with her free hand and picked up the cast-iron frying pan that lay on a coil. And even as her pussy flooded with sticky wetness, Sid diving a hand down and rubbing her muff while he sucked on her nipples, her mind filled with the decidedly unerotic thought of smacking the man over the head with the heavy skillet.
Anne's presence was overwhelming on her home turf, and the vengeful woman's mind overpowered Kathy's weakened mind, and flesh. The frying pan rose up over her head, over Sid's bent cranium.
"No!" someone screamed.
Sid froze. He stared up at the upraised cooking utensil poised to rain cold, black iron down on his skull. "What the ...!?" he mouthed.
Kathy's arm trembled violently, the lethal ladle riding up and down on the tides of the battle for her soul. Sid just watched, hands still on the girl's tits and bits, too horny to get the hell out of there.
"No!" someone screamed a second time.
Kathy, shaking like a grey cell in a mindstorm.
The head-stover crashed down – onto the floor.
Kathy broke loose from Sid and Anne and fled the haunted house, feeling more and more like herself the further she ran.
* * * *
"You tried to get me to kill him!"
Anne stopped her floating back and forth. "Uh, yeah, that was the plan, dollface. Hello?"
They were in the backyard of the old house, Kathy refusing to go back inside, Sid long gone.
"But why? You were going to get what you–"
"I want it all!" Anne turned on her, with the full force of a woman scorned. "I want that cheating bastard all to myself in the afterlife, giving me what he gave last night for all of eternity. No one else tagging along for the ride." She sniffed at Kathy. "I figure I'm owed."
"I'm not going to murder Sid," Kathy stated.
"You don't have to. I'll do it for you."
* * * *
The clear-eyed, hard-headed businesswoman made the necessary arrangements over the telephone the following morning at work. And when she arrived back at the crumbling old house haunted by the oversexed spirit, after work, the demolition crew was there waiting for her.
Kathy felt more than heard something curse her to kingdom come and beyond when she gave the order and the wrecking ball caved in the walls and the roof collapsed. As the house that was never truly her home was reduced to a pile of dusty rubble.
She felt no remorse or self-recrimination at giving up the ghost. Just relief – sweet, sweet relief. Anne had gotten what she wanted, haunted. And then she'd gotten greedy. And now Kathy had given her what she deserved – a nice, long, peaceful afterlife safely away from the living.
&nb
sp; Kathy checked her watch. Sid would probably be at the bar by now.
She strolled off in that direction, a sexy young woman no longer spooked about exploring and experiencing the joys of the physical world.
A girl only lives once, after all.
A ROCK AND A HARD PLACEJ. T. SEATE
Some would say I have more bats in my belfry than a Gothic church. You can be the judge. My name is Allen Pierson. I have a grown son and a dead wife. I took an early retirement shortly after Carol died. I didn't mind my quiet life terribly as I'd always been drawn to the image of a man alone – the Raymond Chandler character with a single room apartment, a bottle of cheap hooch, and a personal sense of justice. I, however, had a comfortable home, a well-stocked bar, and my own set of screaming liberal views by which to live. Close enough to Chandler, I decided.
Following Carol's long illness and eventual demise, I searched for new endeavors to occupy my time. I began to take photo excursions to thwart the empty hole in my life, admitted or not. After one such outing, I was startled at the results. Under the red glow of the darkroom bulb, my pictures were different. The compositions I'd arranged through the lens were slightly off from the prints coming off the developer, but they were better for it. The textures, the subtlety of light and shadow were fantastic.
"Am I totally nuts?" I asked the walls. If I were a hard-drinking man, I'd start looking for bats on the walls instead of bats in the belfry. But the shot that sent me directly to the liquor cabinet for straight bourbon, no water, was one specific photograph.
It revealed a young woman, caught in profile, partially hidden behind a huge boulder. I was sure no one had been in the photograph when I shot it. If I were to choose some flight of fancy, I would have chosen a naked water-sprite flitting around in the print. There was no misty quality to the woman's image. She was dressed simply in a soft sweater and faded jeans. A pretty girl – very pretty and young enough to be my daughter.
And the Lord's truth is that she existed. The next day, while sitting in an ice cream joint eating lime sherbet in a cone, I saw her sitting three tables away. Her reality jolted me. No ghost. No mirage. Flesh and blood.
This moment was pivotal in my life. Had I known the consequences, I can only speculate if I would've had the willpower to act differently. I finished my cone, got up, and walked to her table. She lost her faraway look as her eyes met mine.
"I'm sorry," I stammered, "but I believe I know you." I stared dumbly at her, not thinking of anything to add.
"You think so, huh?" She said it with a friendly smile that revealed perfect teeth to compliment her bright green eyes.
I hadn't expected such a warm reception and plunged on. "Yes. You're my rock lady."
She laughed, her gaze never leaving mine. "Your rock lady? I've been called some funny things before, but never that."
Her hair bounced with a natural curl. Her eyes were brilliant and riveting making me first think of glass then of emeralds. The greenest eyes I'd ever seen, offering an ocean of desire I could only dream of. Of course, I fell in love instantly.
"Can I sit down for a minute? I'm dying to tell you about the rocks, which I hope aren't just in my noggin."
Tilting her head as if observing some new curiosity, she seemed to be thinking it over then glanced at her watch. "I have to go, but you can walk with me if you like."
"Sure. That'd be great."
We walked toward a park. I wondered again what this encounter meant. Maybe it wasn't the girl in my pictures after all. Maybe I was just being a stupid middle-aged goose.
She clutched a book to her chest like a schoolgirl while we walked. "So what about me and your rocks?"
"You don't remember being my photo subject yesterday? Outside of town?" I said as casually as I could, matching my steps to hers.
She stopped, looked at me inquisitively, and then laughed again good-naturedly. "I'm sorry," she said with a little gasp. "I've never been anyone's model. My last pictures were not very flattering." She looked away momentarily and then back at me coquettishly. "And you photographed me? You devil."
A child lurks inside most men, alert to an opportunity to cast the drudgery of routine aside. Pushing ahead, feeling rakish, I told her, "I've never had a more pleasing subject, nor one I wanted to shoot again more desperately."
She told me her name was Michelle Masterson. She was twenty-five years young. She claimed to be finishing a graduate program while working part-time. Sure, she had a face and body to die for, but there was something more. I took her for a science student rather than a student of the arts. The eyes seemed so wise.
Carol had been a brain of sorts. She was a high school teacher, but all that knowledge hadn't helped when the big C ate her alive. Knowledge, that's what it was about Michelle. Knowledge lay behind her tempestuous eyes with some strange insight only she could know.
Meeting Michelle, along with the seemingly impossible photo of her, was like a conduit to a younger time when my youth was in flower. It told me to pursue this will-of-the-wisp. Since my wife's death, I had sheltered myself from the outside world through my camera. The Raymond Chandler bit was a copout from the reality of facing a solitary existence and as Michelle and I spoke, I felt a thread between us grow stronger. Something about her – a look more sensual than a touch, a tone more meaningful than words.
As I watched her, smiling and talking, she looked like a model out of an L. L. Bean catalog. She was a great deal closer to the age of my son than to mine, but a father figure was definitely not the image tickling the funny monkey in my mind.
"I've got to scoot," she finally said.
I pulled myself together long enough to ask, "Would you consider meeting me for lunch so I could show you the picture?"
She puzzled over the question. Now I was being mushy. Michelle was thirty years my junior.
She flashed another smile. "Sure, why not, Mr. Pierson. How about you give me your number."
"That'd be great," I said but my hopes plummeted. She won't call. First she found me to be a curiosity, now she's trying to gracefully escape. All these feelings of inevitability were just so much bunk.
I dashed off my number on a card. She took it and then offered her hand. I grasped it and shivered at her touch.
"Well, nice meeting you. I'll give you a call," she said brightly and continued through the park.
"I'll polish off my portfolio along with your picture," I said stupidly after her.
Off she went, out of my life I supposed. But if so, why the photo and these feelings? I had little choice but to wait and hope she would call.
* * * *
My phone rang at one the next morning. "Lo?"
"Mr. Pierson?"
"Yeah, this is Allen."
"You were sleeping, I guess. I'm sorry."
"That's okay."
"You've probably forgotten me."
Pause.
"This is Michelle Masterson. We met yesterday."
"I remember," I said calmly, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might jump out of my mouth.
"I know it's late, but I was thinking of you and well, I have a situation I'd like to discuss. Do you have time to see me?"
"Uh ... sure. When's good?"
"It needs to be tonight."
"All right. Where can I meet you?"
"I'm not really much for going out. Would you mind if I came to your house? I promise not to take too much of your time."
Would I mind? Come and never leave would be okay. "That'll work." I gave her my address.
"After dark then."
Needless to say, I slept little and thought of a hundred reasons she might've called. Not having just fallen off the turnip truck, I weighed the possibility that her problem would be one designed to take advantage of my obvious interest in her. I won't be taken in by any sort of scam, rock girl or not.
Whatever her motives, I sung in the shower that evening, shaved carefully, sloshed mouthwash until my tongue stung, and plucked my favorite shirt from
the closet. It had been a very long time since I'd devoted this much attention to my appearance. I mixed a drink, put on a Nat King Cole CD, the lyrics suggesting an era when falling in love hadn't been complicated by the sexual revolution, multiple marriages, spousal support, or the approval of one's therapist. I tried to sit casually at one end of my heavily stuffed sofa.
Darkness followed twilight and I waited. At a quarter to eleven and after too many drinks, I'd started to turn out the lights when I heard her knock and wished that for just tonight, I could cast off twenty-five years. I proceeded to the door and peered through the peephole.
My porch glittered upon Michelle's hair. It cast a golden glow as she stood outside, expectantly. Her long black hair fell around her face, perfectly setting off her cocked head and impish smile. I opened my world to her.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mr. Pierson. Complications in getting away."
Determined not to utter, "No problem," I roguishly said, "Ten minutes more and I would've been naked and wet. Thank goodness you made it."
"Oh, I'm really sorry. If it's too late, I understand."
"Of course not," I said smiling. "No problem." Old habits die hard.
Wearing a short skirt and no jacket, I couldn't help but admire the shape of her legs as well as her décolletage.
"Oh, Mr. Pierson, what a gorgeous house. It suits you."
"Yeah, I guess it does. Would you like the nickel tour?"
"God, I'd love it, but it's so late, thanks to me."
"Tell you what. Let me get you something and we'll do a quickie tour. What can I offer you? I have tidbits and some rose."
"You're so sweet. I wasn't about to come over with my belly flattened to my backbone. But I'd love some wine."
Fetching two glasses and a bottle, I poured and we took our first sips.