Seeds Of Fear

by Gelb, Jeff

  Her friend answered, something Rob couldn't hear, and then they both laughed. Rob waited till the laughter died down before handing the blonde his business card.

  "What's this?" she asked, straining as she read it aloud by the room's dim light. " 'The Handyman— Your Sexual Stand-In. No money, no diseases, no questions. One hundred percent satisfaction.'" She looked at the card for a moment and burst out laughing.

  "You're kidding, right?" she managed between chuckles. "Sounds too good to be true."

  "What an opening line!" the brunette said, clucking her tongue in obvious disapproval.

  But the blonde extended her hand to him, noticing his perfectly polished nails. "Christine Kent," she announced. "You must have heard me complaining. I guess I should be embarrassed, but fuck it, it's just so depressing these days, you know?"

  "Chris!" Vickie was surprised by her friend's candor with this stranger. "Either you two know each other, or you have had too much to drink, girl!"

  "Neither," Rob said, making sure they had to lean in closer to him to catch his words. Baiting the hook, he thought, using his best radio voice to snag their attention. "I couldn't help overhearing Christine's complaint, and I decided to offer her my services."

  Vickie shook her head. "Sorry, Charlie, we're not looking for a gigolo. Nice try, though."

  Chris placed a hand on her friend's shoulder. "Speak for yourself," she said. "Your card says no money." She checked the card again and smiled as she spoke his name: "Rob, Is that false advertising?"

  He smiled. "Not at all. You might just say I'm a good Samaritan, offering my unique services to a select group of people like yourself."

  Vickie interrupted. "Chris, you don't know anything about this guy."

  "And he doesn't know anything about me."

  "But he's not even your type," Vickie argued, in obvious disregard of Rob's presence. "You can do better."

  Chris looked over the man who'd given her his business card. It was true he was no GQ model. His silk shirt was wrinkled, he wore his hair in an out-of-date ponytail (and it didn't look particularly clean, either), and there was some sort of stain on his jacket collar. Still, she'd slept with worse—an awfully long time ago, she reminded herself. Finally she answered her friend, "That's where you're wrong, Vickie. I think he's just my type."

  Vickie grabbed Chris by the arm. "Will you excuse us a moment, Mr. Studley Do-Right?" Without awaiting his response, she grabbed her girlfriend brusquely and walked out of Jay's earshot. He watched them argue back and forth, straining in vain to hear their words. He smiled as Chris turned to him at one point and winked. Finally they returned to his side.

  "So what's the catch, Rob?" Chris asked, exaggerating his name as if he were famous. "Do you have six months to live, a girlfriend you want to piss off, or are you a porn film producer?"

  He shrugged. "None of the above. I just take the stress and games out of finding a partner for the night." He took a sip of his wine. "You'd be surprised how many women welcome my offer with relief. It's sex with no strings attached. Tomorrow morning, we've both gotten something we want and we say good-bye, satisfied and with no regrets."

  "As easy as that?" she said as she reached for her glass of cranberry juice and vodka.

  "As easy as that." He placed a hand over hers as she grabbed the tall glass like a cock. He squeezed her hand softly and she gasped. The physical contact was electric.

  "I'm going to powder my nose," she said. "You get the car and I'll meet you outside."

  As they entered his apartment, he turned on a light switch that controlled not only the lighting but his CD player, which immediately fired up a Yanni CD at a comfortable background level.

  "Ooh—you do know the way to a woman's heart, don't you?" Christine cooed as she allowed herself to be led to his living room. Privately she winced; actually, she hated this sort of music. She glanced around at his apartment. It was drab, dark, and messy. It didn't look to her as if Rob Parvis had thought he was going to get lucky tonight.

  "Remember the rules." She spoke to his back as he retrieved a bottle of white wine from his refrigerator. "You show me the doctor's note you claim to have. I want to know the person I'm climbing into the sack with isn't dangerous."

  "Me too," he laughed as he showed her a computer printout of negative HIV blood test results that was indeed dated that day.

  "Fair enough," she breathed as she allowed herself to stroke the front of his trousers.

  "And you?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "You'll have to take your chances. You heard me—I haven't been laid in years. It would be pretty hard to catch anything. .." Her voice trailed off.

  "Why no action?" he asked, massaging her shoulders and allowing his hands to drop lightly to her small breasts, where he traced her nipples through the silk blouse.

  She whispered, "You said no questions, right? Let's just fuck."

  He raised his hands in submission. "Right you are." He popped the cork out of the bottle. "It's a Vouvray—a sweet French wine. I find it tastes especially good when licked off nipples."

  She shuddered at the statement. It had been so long. . .

  He unbuttoned her blouse, tugged it out of her pants, and tossed it on the floor. He gently guided her backwards to his couch, where she sat back against a cushion and allowed him to dribble the golden liquid on her tiny areolas. Then he lowered his head and slowly licked at the dark bumps of flesh, encircling one with his mouth and then sucking at it until it had grown twice its normal size. Chris sighed with pleasure and grabbed at his crotch, where she felt a medium-sized bulge. She was momentarily disappointed he wasn't even bigger, but she enjoyed the feel of a man's dick in her hands nonetheless.

  He continued to lick at her nipples, gently biting them and then sucking, kneading her breasts like bread dough beneath his strong fingers.

  By this time she'd slipped his pants down to his knees and was pleased to find he was wearing no underwear. She pushed him off her and made him sit down so she could pay attention to his erection. She smiled as she noticed the precoital fluid dribbling down his throbbing dick; it looked as if he hadn't gotten any in a while either.

  She decided to see if she could still throat; it was a talent she'd honed over the years, and she hoped she could still control her gag reflex. She took the head of his dick into her mouth and he squirmed in obvious pleasure. She kept going and was thrilled to discover that throating was almost like riding a bicycle. Once learned . . .

  He bucked like a bronco as she tickled his balls with one hand while tweaking his nipples with the other, throating him at the same time. He was already gasping for air like a fish out of water, and before she knew it, she felt his hot come spurting down her throat. She sucked him bone-dry, disconnected her face from his genitals, and smiled at him, a thin line of come dribbling down her chin.

  "Boy, you were eager for some beaver!" she chided playfully. But he turned away from her. "Hey, what's wrong?" she asked.

  "I.. . didn't expect to come so fast. Sorry."

  "I thought you said you got sex all the time. Maybe your card trick doesn't work so well after all."

  He turned back to face her and she noticed his face was red. Studley Do-Right was embarrassed, she thought with amusement.

  "It's not that, it's just. . . well, I didn't get to—you know—get you off."

  "So who's stopping you?" She pulled the drawstring and her pants slid noiselessly to the floor. She stepped out of them and glared at him defiantly, allowing him to notice that she too had neglected to wear underwear that evening.

  He gasped at her bare beauty and at his first-ever view of shaved pussy. He approached her slowly, trembling slightly, and finally allowed his hand to caress the soft mound of skin directly above her vagina, rubbing his hand up and down, exploring her innermost secrets with his eager fingers, slipping one, then two deep inside her. She stood as still as a statue as he finger-fucked her and he kissed her breasts while pushing his fingers in and out of her vagi
na. Then he replaced them with his again engorged dick.

  She moaned as he pushed into her and they started a love dance, still standing while moving slowly around the small living room, their every movement ecstasy to her supersensitive pussy. Despite her own preferences, she felt herself on the verge of coming. All too soon she was forced to allow herself to experience a thunderous orgasm while still standing and locked in his sexual embrace. The climax was better than she remembered, and a thousand times better than the orgasms she'd given herself over the years as she waited for the chance to fuck a man again.

  Finally her orgasm ended and she disengaged from him and fell back on the couch, catching her breath. He lay down next to her. She looked around lazily until her eyes spotted an ashtray.

  "Oh God, you smoke! I'd kill for a cigarette right now."

  "No problem," Rob said, reaching to open a drawer of an end table next to the couch. He sifted through it and brought out a pack of Winstons, displacing a book from the drawer. They both watched it fall to the floor.

  "Oh shit." Rob blanched as Chris read the title aloud.

  '"How to Seduce Women: A Failsafe Guide for Bachelors.'" She reached down for the book, but Rob caught her arm.

  "Please," he said, obvious strain in his voice. "Don't."

  "Is it yours? Let me see it." She shrugged his hand off her arm with surprising strength and flipped through the book's pages.

  "Oh, this is great," she said sarcastically. "This is priceless." She held the book up for him to see the page featuring the "Handyman" business card. "I don't fucking believe it! You got all this from a fucking book!" She laughed at him. "Where's the page that tells you what wine to use on nipples? Or how to do it standing up?" She threw the book down in disgust.

  "I've been had," she said as she stood up and gathered her clothing. "Well, it serves me right, I guess, for being so anxious myself. I mean, I just got out today, so you can imagine how horny I was after eight years in the asylum."

  Rob was quickly putting on his pants to hide an erection that had faded with embarrassment down to a dick that was smaller than he could remember having since he was in grade school. "What. . . what did you say? What do you mean?"

  She took a deep breath of smoke into her lungs, held it for a second, and exhaled in his face. "Eight years—that's a long time to waste away. But they were convinced I was crazy for killing my boyfriend Rob." She blinked twice. "What did you say your name was?"

  "R . . . Rob."

  "Rob. Well. Of course." She thought about that for a moment, chuckled to herself, and then continued: "My Rob, he was a liar too. Told me he wasn't having an affair when he was actually fucking his secretary. Are you fucking your secretary too, Rob? Did you use the book on her too, Rob? I can't stand liars, Rob."

  Slowly she placed the pack of cigarettes in her purse. "Thanks for these, Rob. You remember what I said before?"

  Stunned that she'd found him out, stunned by everything she'd said, he could barely concentrate on her words, as she repeated softly, "I said I'd kill for a cigarette."

  As she removed the long, razor-sharp knife from her purse, she stepped menacingly toward Rob Parvis, once a lonely, desperate bachelor, soon to be deceased.

  Christine Kent and Vickie Wayne sat at the bar, sipping cranberry juice and vodkas. Chris spoke first: "First round's on me because you won the bet. How'd you know I'd kill him?"

  Vickie shrugged. "It doesn't take a brain surgeon. As soon as you said his name, I knew he was a goner. I just hope you cleaned up after yourself."

  "The place is spotless, I promise."

  Vickie shook her head. "You really are crazy, Chris."

  "That's what they said at the asylum, till I convinced them otherwise. Took eight years, though. Needless to say, I'm still horny."

  As if on cue, a short, overweight, sweaty man with thick glasses in a dirty Grateful Dead T-shirt walked up to them, glass of beer in one hand, business card in the other. He handed the card to Chris.

  "Oh shit," Vickie said as her friend read aloud: "'The Handyman.'"

  The man nodded eagerly. "That's me. I couldn't help hearing you mention how horny you are."

  Christine put up a hand to silence him. "Well. . . Matt," she said, exaggerating his name, "I'm sorry, but I've already read that book."

  She laughed as she dropped the card into his glass of beer and turned away from the man. A look of disappointment spread across his face.

  "Shit," he cursed. "I just can't get lucky."

  Vickie eyed him for several seconds before responding, "Mister, you don't know just how lucky you are."

  AIRHEAD

  Michael Newton

  Tar baby don't say nothin'.

  Where the hell did that come from?

  It took a minute, Larry Gaskins thinking hard, before he got it. Uncle Rastus. No, that wasn't right, but it was close.

  Forget it. He had work to do.

  The thing that made him think of Uncle What's-his-name just then was Sucky Suzee. Not that she was black or anything. To hell with that noise. But you couldn't beat her when it came to keeping secrets. She was Larry's favorite kind of woman when it came to noise, in fact. Bitch never said a word.

  Of course, she couldn't, really, since she had no tongue, no vocal cords, no lungs.

  At that, she was a bargain. Fifty-seven ninety-five, plus tax, and Larry never had to feed her, never had to buy her drinks or clothes or gifts or any other fucking thing.

  Because the lady was inflatable.

  She wasn't absolutely lifelike, granted, but the industry had come a long way since the fifties, when you paid your ten or fifteen dollars for a blow-up doll that looked like Howdy Doody, with the tits and features simply painted on, no hair and precious little satisfaction for your money.

  Sucky Suzee measured five foot six when Larry stood her up, and she had blond hair cut to shoulder length. He favored blondes, and if the hair was artificial, what the hell could anyone expect?

  She had a nose, eyelashes, curly pubic hair, and perky little tits with half-inch nipples. Anything beyond a mouthful's wasted, as the old man used to say, and Larry liked them slim, young, blond.

  For dress rehearsals, he decked Suzee out in sexy underwear he bought from catalogs. The size had been a problem, to begin with, but it helped that he had samples, pilfered over time on visits to the Laundromat. The blouse and skirt were strictly K Mart, chosen for economy instead of style.

  The only reason that he dressed her up at all, in fact, was so that he could practice for the main event, when clothes got in the way.

  He used a rubber knife for their rehearsals, to avoid the risk of damaging his silent partner. Hold the floppy blade against her throat with one hand, while he cranked the left arm up between her shoulder blades. She had no joints per se, and you could twist the limbs at crazy angles, but he tried to keep it reasonable. Nothing that would knock her out or cripple her right off, if she were flesh and blood.

  It got a little awkward sometimes, since he only had two hands and liked to grab her from behind. The knife helped, though, and Larry practiced speaking with authority.

  "Don't fight me, bitch! You scream or try to get away, I'll cut you!"

  Make believe she whispers No, please don't, all panicky and teary-eyed, the way he likes it.

  Larry didn't fuck around with buttons. Rip the blouse and feel around a little bit, enjoying silk against her skin before he yanked the fancy bra up to expose her tits and pinch the nipples. Foreplay. Use the knees to force her legs apart and ruck the skirt up on her ass. No panties on a trial run, since he doesn't like to shred the good stuff, but he still goes through the motions. Snatch and grab. An awkward moment with his zipper, but he always manages to get it with a little fumbling, bring the one-eyed monster out to play.

  The rest of the scenario is flexible. Sometimes he nails her in the ass, bent double, with her head down on the floor. He rolls her over sometimes, so that he can watch her face while he is fucking her. Sometimes
he forces Suzee to her knees and lets her live up to her name. The blade beneath her chin reminds her not to bite.

  The only drawback with a mute is that she can't provide the sound effects that Larry craves: the sobbing, pleading, whimpering, that go with fear and pain. No matter. He makes up for the deficiency by talking to her while he works.

  "You love it, don't you, bitch? I know you love it. Let me hear you say it. Say it!"

  Stiffening, Larry shoots his load in Suzee's ass, cunt, throat, whatever. Sweating with his eyes closed. Winding down. Sometimes he takes her through the paces more than once, imagining that he has time to change positions. You can never really tell, before the Main Event.

  When he is done, each time, he has to practice killing her, a slash across the throat.

  No witness means no case.

  Their sessions always leave him slumped across his conquest, whipped and sucking wind. It takes a while for the sensations raging through his mind and body to recede, like murky water swirling down a drain. It still needs work, the bounce-back, just in case he has to flee in haste.

  No problem. He has time.

  The Main Event would only fly when Larry felt that he was ready. In the meantime, there was Sucky Suzee. They would whip each other into shape.

  Relaxing as he helps his playmate back onto the bed.

  "You know you love it."

  Watching Karen is his second favorite pastime. Five weeks into the surveillance, he can spot her from a distance, on a crowded sidewalk, by the way she squares her shoulders, flicks her hair back, swings her hips with each long-legged stride. If struck blind on the spot, he reckons he could track her by her scent.

  Obsession. The perfume, that is.

  Her hair is different from the style she wore in court, more casual, a bit provocative. She doesn't have the haunted look that he remembers from the trial. More self-assurance these days, thinking she's invincible.

  But Larry means to wipe that smug look off her face, and soon.

  She had been lucky number seven, and the first to offer serious resistance. Screaming. Kicking. Scratching. Putting him to flight. The pigs came out of nowhere, cruising on routine patrol. He was about to ditch the ski mask when they pinned him with a spotlight, ordered him to freeze.