Marlo had the red bra and panties, the wet spot long since dried, and her mother’s worn slip in a box in the back of her closet. There were other red objects in it as well: a red toothbrush that she had used the handle of when she first learned to masturbate; the tight red T-shirt she had stolen from the very first girl she had had a crush on; a tiny, red nylon backpack that this club kid had given her after they had had the most amazing sex on Ecstasy.
“Go ahead, sit in it.” The owner of the chair motioned for Marlo to sit down. His voice was salty and smooth, rumbling over her like an earthquake. She jerked, arrested in her reverie of hungry thoughts and spilling memories. The man smiled. Marlo’s mouth made a tiny “o” – as if she wanted to say something but then thought better of it.
“It’s comfortable,” the man said. “I used to spend almost every night in it,” he continued wistfully, “but my new girlfriend is moving in and she hates it. She thinks it’s tacky. She doesn’t like red much. Well, it’s not like she doesn’t like red as much as she thinks that red should be used only for small things and kept away from big objects.”
The man finished his soliloquy and pressed Marlo’s shoulder forward a bit. She was surprised by his foray into the territory of red, having spent all these years thinking that she was the only one who thought about it. She was tired as well and sank comfortably into the chair. The chair opened up and took her in. It felt like a gigantic hug and she leaned back against it, hoping to glean all the love from it and soak it up into her own beating, red heart. She shut her eyes and leaned into it. When she opened them the man was standing there smiling at her.
“You like it,” he said, beaming. Marlo blushed, a deep pink. The man took one finger and brushed it across her cheek. She thought of scratches, welts, menses and bloodshot eyes. The man cocked his head and looked carefully at her as Marlo caught her breath. It was like he could read her thoughts, as if her mind was strewn with construction paper hearts and strawberry sauce.
Her obsession with red had swirled into a crescendo the year she had graduated from college. It was the first apartment she had ever had by herself. She had painted the walls red. She had cross-stitched her monogram on the pillows in a bright fuschia; her dresser and desk set were a rich mahogany. It was in that room that Marlo had spent nights alone wildly masturbating and nights with strangers that had accompanied her home. It was in this apartment, the one with cherry magnets on the fridge, that she had learned how to have multiple orgasms and what she really liked about sex.
Every sexual memory she had was related to the colour red. If it wasn’t available when she was having sex she would make it available – shoving her nail into a white shoulder and letting the red rise up to the milky surface of the skin. Without red, she didn’t feel sexy. As if the colour alone jerked something alive, she mentally compared herself to a sex puppet, with red holding the strings. The sexiest she would ever feel was when she put on her mother’s slip. She would get into bed wearing it, hiking it up around her waist and sometimes rubbing it between her legs. The first time she did this she felt sinful, as if she was participating in incest just by the use of the article of clothing. Often, that made her cunt even wetter, her heart beat faster.
The man was helping her get out of the chair. The long sleeve of his work shirt pulled up to reveal a tight, red undershirt underneath. Marlo swooned.
“I have to go,” she mumbled, pushing off him and hurrying away from the chair. The chair that this man had probably spent hours upon hours jerking off in, pulling on his long, hard cock until he reached nirvana.
“I’ll be out here tomorrow,” the man called after her, “eight to three.”
Marlo rushed down the street with her head held down. The man had been cute and she had been attracted to him but he had a girlfriend. It wasn’t something that Marlo liked to do. A young Mexican girl stepped around the corner, her white, plastic bucket full of thorny red roses leering up at Marlo like a demented clown with his grin smeared by the back of his oversized white gloved hand. It felt as if the world was closing in on her. Everywhere she looked there was a sign in red, a car, a flower, an apple. She bit the fleshy part of her palm, leaving red teeth stains and a smear of lipstick.
Her cunt was throbbing and her breath was shortening. She wanted to duck into a bathroom and get herself off, thinking about the man who fucked in a big, red chair.
The next day Marlo woke up early thinking about the chair, which starred in her dreams. It played the part of that couch in that commercial – where the cute guy photographs it thousands of times in thousands of different scenes. She played the part of the woman sitting in it. She imagined where she would put it in her apartment and how she would lie back on it, one hand moving furiously between her legs, the other gripping the arm as she clenched and came. She dressed, thinking of the man as she flipped through her closet – a black skirt, sweater and sandals, red lingerie set underneath.
She had thought long and hard about what she would do if the man asked her to go upstairs. Or better yet, if he had moved the chair into the garage, so they had to go someplace private to see it. Surely, he couldn’t have left it out on the lawn all night! If the man wanted her then that was his business. It had been months since she had gotten laid and the last night had gotten her more than ready for it.
As she walked up to the house she saw the familiar garage sale memorabilia. It was nine in the morning and she wondered where all these garage sale fanatics came from. She would never have gotten up for a normal sale.
She walked shyly up to the chair, then circled it, performing a lop-sided tango. The man saw her from across the lawn and smiled. Marlo’s stomach somerassaulted her as he approached. She didn’t see any way that they would be alone, and she had decided that she wanted to have him in this chair. Maybe if she bought it she could invite him over to visit it, but that was stupid, nobody visited a chair.
“You’re back,” he proclaimed triumphantly.
“Yeah,” Marlo nodded her head shyly. “I was wondering . . .”
“Come with me,” the man interrupted like an excited child, tugging on her shirtsleeve. “I have something to show you.”
Marlo followed hesitantly, she didn’t want to leave the chair, lest someone else bought it, but she did want to see what the man had to show her. She wondered where his girlfriend was.
“Who’s watching the sale?” she asked.
“My neighbour. We’re co-selling,” he grinned, his tongue flicking against his teeth. Marlo melted and followed him inside.
He pulled her into a room that had been made into a library. Inside were three of the exact same chairs – all different colours. Marlo gasped.
“Great, huh?” the man asked, excited.
Marlo wondered why he was showing her this. But then he pulled off his shirt to reveal a bright red T-shirt underneath. Marlo staggered backwards a step. And the man caught her.
“I knew you would love it,” he whispered, heavy in her ear.
Marlo felt his strong arms wrap around her as she sank into a kiss. She opened her eyes to watch the man’s shoulders heave under the red shirt. He pulled her down into one of the chairs so she was sitting on his lap, facing him. His hands were quickly on her tits, his mouth on her neck. He began to take off his shirt but Marlo put her hands on his, “No,” she said firmly.
He looked at her, a bit puzzled, but shrugged in agreement. When he went to remove her shirt he met with no resistance. Soon they were almost naked, minus the man’s red shirt and Marlo’s crimson underwear set. Marlo slid off his lap and knelt down between his legs. There she stroked his long, thick cock before deftly placing it in her mouth. One hand massaged his balls as she continued sucking his cock. He pulled lightly on her hair, tugging harder when she moaned.
Marlo felt the man growing rock hard before she pushed herself up and rejoined him on the chair. She straddled him gleefully. Again he tried to remove his shirt; again she wouldn’t let him. He went to unhook her bra, confusin
g Marlo when he took it all the way off. But once he began sucking on her nipples she didn’t mind. His tongue flicked them gently until they were hard as cherry pits. Marlo slid her panties over to one side and the man slid on a condom.
Soon she was lowering herself on top of him, slowly opening for him. She was tight and he opened her. He slid one hand up her back, supporting her as they began to rock, their momentum increasing as they moved back and forth, up and down. Marlo looked down to watch his large cock slide in and out of her wet pussy, framed by the silky red panties, so dark they looked like blood. The sight alone got her going. She pressed down harder on his shoulders and used her stair-stepper leg muscles to push her up and down, harder, faster. The man began to pant; both hands were helping her move up and down, like a piston in an engine.
He thumped her harder, deep inside. Marlo screamed. A blood-curdling current of wavy red passion. Her cunt clenched, her thighs shivered, her back arched. Marlo came, her eyes squished shut so all she could see was white dots on a black background. The man came as well, pushing so deep Marlo thought he would surely spurt up into her stomach.
She collapsed on top of him. He brushed back her sweaty hair.
She slowly climbed off him. He groaned audibly as he pulled out of her. She got dressed silently, as did he. They both stood in that awkward after sex moment, looking at their feet, playing with shirt sleeves and rings.
“Well,” Marlo said slowly, “I want to buy the chair.”
“The chair?” the man repeated blankly.
“The one for sale. On the lawn. The red one.”
“Oh,” the man brightened, “that’s not for sale.”
“What?” Marlo exclaimed, her eyes widening, her brain spinning.
“Oh, my girlfriend let me keep it. I love these chairs. It’s the only place I can . . . you know . . .”
“What?” Marlo asked, suddenly feeling used and offended.
“The only place I can do it,” the man said quietly. “I thought that’s what you wanted too,” he added as an afterthought.
“The chairs?” Marlo asked incredulously. “These ugly old things? I only liked the red one. I don’t care about chairs,” she spat, exasperated.
The man looked as if he might cry. Both walked out through the house, shame-faced and confused.
When they stepped out onto the lawn they immediately noticed one huge difference: the red throne chair was gone, four indentions in the grass were the only sign it had ever even existed.
The man and Marlo walked as if asleep to the spot where the chair had been. The man choked back a sob and Marlo closed her eyes and shook her head, already missing the hot nights she never had.
The man’s neighbour walked up, wagging two crisp hundred-dollar bills. “I got two hundred for that crummy old thing,” he bragged. “Can you believe it? Some woman almost orgasmed when she saw it. She told me that she always wanted a red chair, paid two big ones on the spot and hauled it off. What a freak . . .” The neighbour handed the dumbstruck chair man his bills and walked away, shaking his head and mumbling about weirdos and good luck.
The man and Marlo stood silently, mourning the loss of what could have been. The man handed Marlo one of the hundreds. As she took it she swore she saw a tear in his eye.
Truly Scrumptious
Mark Ramsden
It is not that socially acceptable, yet, to talk about male domination of submissive females. It still looks a bit nasty to the uninitiated – because many educated people are still in thrall to the 1970s idea that men are all secretly Jack the Ripper. They seem to think, because of some bad-tempered college girls, that the hand-spanking of a willing female leads inexorably to torture and murder. And I’ve just breathed further life into what should be a rotting corpse by now. Never mind. I was a lettuce-eating liberal myself once, before reality reasserted itself. Even I need to have a disclaimer before I can tell you about gently warming Truly Scrumptious’s tight little bottom cheeks with the palm of my right hand. While slowly insinuating the fingers of my left hand into her moistening cleft until . . . but that would rob the moment of why it was so interesting in the first place. If we don’t know who Truly Scrumptious is, none of the other stuff would matter particularly. And it’s not the same if you’re not just a little bit in love, now is it?
Her real name is Holly but I wanted to give her a new name; Truly – as in Truly Scrumptious. My son had recently forced me to watch Chitty Chitty Bang Bang far more often than was good for me. The name of the attractive nanny seemed to fit her very well – as she was and is gorgeous – although I didn’t learn the “true” significance of “Truly” until later. Her habit of telling the truth, always, no exceptions, was refreshing but sometimes made you long for the traditional system of saying whatever caused the least grief.
I lost my heart to Truly on our second meeting.
I was already smitten the first time I saw her, when she walked on stage during a slave auction at an S/M club. She had short black hair cut any old how. Her smile was wide and salacious, full-lipped with a cute little gap in her front teeth. Some of the others were arranged in the traditionally haphazard British manner. I found this honest and endearing, like her charity shop clothes. I might have a shaven head and some serious tattoos but I’m an old hippy at heart – like my wife, Katrin. And like Truly. Although they are younger and considerably easier on the eye.
Even in a night club Truly wore almost no make-up and her only accessory was a school prefect’s badge on her jacket lapel. The lettering read “Perfect” instead of “Prefect”. I couldn’t argue with that.
Her blue eyes seemed to be saucers full of nourishing liquid. Or were they shot glasses full of some ferociously strong hooch? I had been off the hard stuff for some time, being married. But you never really get over the craving, you just decide life’s smoother without it. Or you keep telling yourself that till you believe it . . .
After my wife and I had bought her company for the price of a few pints of foul British beer we had the option of some lewd chastisement – to which she had already assented as part of the auction. But instead we talked about what it felt like to offer yourself to strangers. Even in the safe confines of a fetish club it was still an edgy thing to do.
Then we talked of her recent romantic entanglements. She preferred sex with other women’s men. It seemed to me that this bizarre preference was in order to shield her from commitment, although she dressed it up in a lot of nonsense about breaking the shackles of conventional morality and no one being anyone else’s property. Fine. But not everyone believes in what used to be called free love. In fact, very few people do. Not only is there no such thing as a free lunch there may not be free love either. Although you probably have to be over a certain age to find that out.
Later that evening I dipped my head between her legs and licked and nuzzled her for what seemed an eternity – time having melted due to some pure MDMA powder, a substance that had yet to drive me mad with overuse. That would come later . . . or was it the loss of Truly Scrumptious that pushed me over the edge? This was long before the blizzards of e-mail, the endless phone calls, the hopes, the wishes, the dreams.
The day after the auction Truly Scrumptious turned up at our flat. She looked different in daylight, but still warm and cuddly and smart and cute and lovely in a manner that was hers alone. There can sometimes be nasty surprises when you meet people who have bewitched you in the flattering light of night clubs. Especially with the aid of Ecstasy. Luckily she was still beautiful. Her features were still fine enough to stand being foregrounded by the scruffy student haircut. I was already very fond of her by the time she had sat her bejeaned bottom down opposite me.
Over freshly ground coffee we discussed, briefly, bands I had never heard of, politics I had long since abandoned and why consumerism meant the end of the planet. I had lived long enough to prefer central heating to squats with broken windows so I let her talk. And I had thought the same at her age so I couldn’t really complai
n.
She might have disdained consumerism but seemed to like trying out whatever new therapy had just been invented – the more the merrier. Although they didn’t seem to fix whatever it was that was wrong with her. She worked for a charity but played very hard indeed – sex, drugs, fags, booze. Truly had a light Northern accent but appeared to have a vaguely genteel background. Just like me. And she was actually scanning her way through our many bookshelves.
“You’re a writer!” she said, eyes shining.
“Not any more,” I said. But not so retired that I don’t want people to read what I have already produced. My books are left where our visitors can see them. No one ever picks them up. But Truly had found one of the novels and was flicking through it avidly.
“What are you writing now?” she said. She actually wanted to know. I was already lost – not yet “in love” – but afflicted with something or other. Something heart-shaped anyway.
“I packed it in,” I said. “But you write.” She raised her eyebrows.
“How did you know?”
Probably because anyone other than an aspiring writer would have ignored the book. She was looking a little awestruck. I was obviously psychic. It is amazing what you can do with a bald head and a bit of enigmatic silence.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3 Page 3