"Secondly, let's not be rigid about our roles—Jamey, don't snicker, it's unbecoming. You know what I mean. Women, feel free to embody Pan; there are all sorts of phalluses in the cabinets at the side of the room. And men, remember you don't need any extra equipment to embody the Goddess; lubricants and lotions are also available in the cabinets.
"Thirdly, the Coven has already completed the solemn part of the ritual, so—everybody?—just relax and have some fun."
She caught Whistler's eye and nodded. He and Lourdes rose from their seats in the middle of the top tier, and holding each other's hands for balance, with their feet sinking into the soft cushions, they descended tier by tier until they were standing next to Selene. "Our host and hostess have volunteered to kick things off," she announced unnecessarily, then closed her eyes and held both arms out from her sides, palms up—St. Theresa again.
Whistler knelt on one side of her, Lourdes at the other; they pushed up the sleeves of her gown, and then with his scalpel Whistler opened a small vein on one wrist while Lourdes wielded a miniature Luzan machete on the other. Together they performed the trick at which Nick had so excelled: they filled their mouths with blood, then turned to the serried ranks of witches and vampires, and let a few ceremonial drops trickle down their chins before swallowing the rest.
They drank for another few seconds, then closed the finely slitted wounds with a firm pressure of their thumbs as Selene slowed her breathing and heartbeat to assist the clotting. Then she opened her eyes and addressed the assembly: "By the way, dearies, I almost forgot—I'm still under my vow of celibacy, so I'll just be a spectator tonight."
Whistler, ever the gentleman, led the others in a disappointed Awww. Selene bowed, and swatted him across his crimson-swathed behind before hiking up her robe and ascending to the top row of the keeping room, just under the lozenge-shaped domed ceiling, which had been newly painted with a pastel frieze of nymphs and satyrs—the usual gambol—no vampires. The colors, turquoise sky and mango sunset clouds, were pure Maxfield Parrish, illuminated by glowing panels of light all the way around the base of the dome; ducts set between the light panels wafted in warm scented air.
By the time she'd turned around, Lourdes had already pulled her robe over her head, eliciting a gasp from the rapt audience. Her belly had a three-month curve that formed a shallow S with her as yet rounded ass; her breasts were swollen but still high, only beginning to hint at the ripe pear shape they would bear at fullness, and the aureolae distended, outlines blurred.
Another gasp as the Creature found the placket at the front of Whistler's robe and came poking through; then delighted laughter from the spectators as it grew, and grew. And grew. Lourdes dropped to her knees and took it in her mouth; the laughter of the spectators was now sprinkled with expressions of wonder, and doubt—could she eat the whole thing?—that turned to applause as she gracefully deep-throated the Creature. "Put that bad boy away," called one of the witches.
Then Whistler reached down and gently drew Lourdes to her feet again; they embraced; he bent his head to hers; she opened her mouth wide and soft and he entered it with his tongue. As the blood came on, they found themselves aware only of each other. Lips still locked onto hers, Whistler bent slightly and swept one arm behind her knees and the other behind her shoulders; he lifted her into his arms and laid her down carefully on the mats.
She raised her knees for him; he pulled his robe over his head and knelt between them, then lowered himself to enter her, belly muscles clenching as he fought for control with the Creature. The others had fallen silent—the room was quiet except for the hum of the air ducts and the lubricious sound of the Creature sliding slowly into harbor, inch by slippery inch.
Lourdes opened her eyes to see Whistler's face close above her, his iron gray eyes staring into hers as their lower bellies bumped; he shifted his hips down and forward so that the head of the Creature brushed her sweet spot. When he arched his back and bent his head to her left breast, she held it up for him in her palm, hefted it and fed him the dark distended aureole, so swollen with her pounding blood, the skin so thin and tender it felt ready to burst. He stretched his lips around the rim, sucked hard, pushed his tongue against a nipple swollen to the size of a thimble.
The sensation of the hard nipple pressing back into the soft tissue of her breast was excruciating; her hips lifted from the mat as she struggled to engulf the Creature and pull it deeper within her, somehow deeper though their groins were already pressed so tightly together that their pubic hairs were meshed like Velcro. She began to moan, and heard an answering groan from deep in Whistler's chest that vibrated sympathetically at the center of the breast in his mouth as her orgasm began to build.
Whistler and Lourdes beckoned to Cheese Louise to be the next embodiment of the Goddess; her great breasts and hams rolling and shifting beneath her crimson robe like a sack of basketballs as she stepped carefully down to the floor of the amphitheater, Louise crooked her finger for Josephina, the newest witch, to join her.
Selene watched from the cheap seats in the upper tier as the brown-skinned Luzan girl in the shiny new forest green robe rose from her seat and bowed gracefully; on her way down to the mats Josephina detoured over to the cabinet to select a toy, and retrieve her razor-edged utility knife. Josephina may only have been a witch for a few weeks, Selene had to remind herself, but she'd been a Drink since she was three months old.
Louise had plunked herself down cross-legged on one of the mats, with Whistler and Lourdes reclining on either side of her, resting their cheeks against her enormous robed thighs. Josephina walked around behind Louise and positioned herself above her, then with her left hand pinched her own left earlobe hard, and before the sensation of the pinch died away made a quick slit in the earlobe with the blade of the utility knife, stooping downward as Louise tilted her head back to catch the first drops of blood in her mouth.
The more she drank, the farther back Louise leaned, her breasts shifting to the side beneath her robe; the farther she leaned, the lower Josephina stooped, until finally Louise was lying on her back on the mat with Josephina lying on her belly, drops of blood falling like grace notes from her earlobe directly into the soft sucking mouth.
Selene had to sit on her hands to keep from touching herself as the slim Luzan pinched off her wound, then rose and walked around past Whistler to stand between Louise's feet, which were spread as wide as the crimson robe permitted. Then Josephina lifted up the front of her own green gown to reveal a small black phallus, much smaller than the Creature but beautifully molded into a pert upward curve, and detailed right down to the swollen veins and ventral channel.
So engrossing was the spectacle of the young girl sliding the robe up past Louise's thighs and spreading the great legs with her hands, kneeling between them, and inserting the hard rubbery tip of the phallus gently between the lips of Louise's sex, that Selene hadn't noticed Lourdes's departure from the sunken stage until she was beside her. "I'm not copping out on you," Lourdes whispered. "But Nanny Parish says I have to be more careful now—no more all-night all-comers until after the baby."
"I understand, dearie," replied Selene, patting her on the knee of her robe; they watched together as Whistler positioned himself behind Josephina. "Thanks for keeping me company."
Josephina may have been overacting a little as, sandwiched between Whistler and Louise, with the head of the Creature poking her pussy from behind and the base of the phallus rubbing her clitoris in front, she raised herself on her elbows to survey the ranks of witches and vampires. "Now who shall it be, who shall it be, who shall it be?" she asked out loud, then eeny-meeny-miny-moed Mr. Augie as if by random, though all the witches knew he had bribed her dearly for this place on her dance card.
Augie descended ponderously to the mats (without blood he exhibited none of the vaunted fat man's grace), drinking his first witch blood of the night from a silver flask: he'd always loved the bitter shiny aftertaste of silver and blood. As he reached her, Josep
hina slid out from between Whistler and Louise. Whistler stayed on top of Louise, greedily gathering her breasts up onto her chest under her robe and nuzzling his face between them while the Creature nuzzled against her soft belly. But they were both already looking up to the bleachers for the next Pan and Goddess.
Augie was oblivious to all of this—he only had eyes for Josephina, who had disrobed, and lasciviously masturbated the curved dildo a few times before unsnapping the leather harness around her waist. When it had fallen at her feet Augie gasped: she had shaved her pubic hair for him, and her little pussy was brown and bare as a walnut. He sank to his knees and buried his face between her legs. I could die happy now, he thought to himself, spreading first her pale brown outer lips, then her pink inner lips with his thumbs, and entering her with his tongue.
Soon there was no more room on the mats, and the orgy had begun lapping its way up the tiers of cushions in a tide of green and red robes, of pink and white and brown bodies, of hair and breasts and phalluses of all colors, both flesh and rubber, and bare feet sticking out here and there at odd angles. When the tide began bumping against their feet, in the persons of Sherman and Catherine, Selene and Lourdes left the orgy room by crawling around the top of the outer tier, then descending past the writhing bodies to the door, which was blocked by a striking couple.
Henderson, all six feet six inches of him, had spread-eagled himself in a standing position in the doorway, anchored against the door jamb with both hands while January clung to the front of him, both arms around him, both feet off the ground, impaled on a cock as improbably long and thin as its owner.
"Excuse us? Henderson? January? Coming through?" But there was no getting the attention of two vampires entwined on blood; Selene turned to Lourdes and shrugged, then dropped to her knees and crawled out of the keeping room through the portal of Henderson's bare legs.
Lourdes followed her; in the hallway outside the keeping room they rose from their hands and knees and fell laughing into each other's arms. "I would kill to watch Henderson fucking Cheese Louise," said Lourdes, when she could talk.
"Come down to the kitchen with me, dearie," replied Selene. "For some reason, I feel a craving for a popsicle."
TWO
Nick had been thinking about it all day that Monday, the twenty-third of March. Not exactly fighting it—just thinking about it. At work—a conference with the gene splicers south of San Francisco. At the A.A. nooner in Daly City. In the rush-hour traffic. Plenty of time to think about it there; he even reached for his car phone once or twice. At the N.A. meeting at Mandana House. Then, once he got home, he teased himself for another hour, forcing himself to sit through dinner—a Cornish pasty from Noble Pies—because he tended towards stringiness if he lost too much weight. Stringy pecs: heaven forfend.
He ate in his white pine breakfast nook, working with one hand on the acrostic puzzle he'd saved from Sunday's paper and shoveling in the meat-pie with the other. Most un-Nick-like behavior. Pasty crumbs all down the front of his salmon pink Polo. Brushing them would leave grease spots, so he grabbed the shirt by the neck and shook it, leaning forward.
Then he teased himself a little longer: he made himself sweep the crumbs off the beautiful blond hardwood kitchen floor. He would have started the dishes, but the still small voice inside told him he'd dicked around long enough. Without further delay he marched upstairs to his bedroom, took the cordless phone off the charger, lay down on his bed, unsnapped his tailored 501's and punched the fateful eleven-digit number.
It picked up on the second ring. "Hi, big boy."
"Hi," said Nick wryly.
"If you're into S&M, press 1; if your pleasure is—"
"I love it when you talk dirty," Nick said—but did not press 1: the trouble with the S&M calls, you could spent fifty bucks talking about the hardware alone. And Nick wasn't interested in leather or steel or rubber. Just a voice, a connection, the dirtier the better, then release, and at least a blessed spasm of forgetfulness.
The "call waiting" signal bleated in his ear before Nick had a chance to choose a subspecialty. Annoyed at the interruption, but grateful too, enjoying the faint flush of guilt he so rarely managed to indulge in nowadays, he broke off the first call. "Hello?"
"Hi Nick. Bev."
"Hey Bev. Zup?"
"Huh?"
"What's up. That's how the kids say 'What's happenin' ' nowadays. Zup."
"Oh. I called to tell you I decided to drop by the V.A. meeting tonight."
"That's fine—I've told you a dozen times, Bev: I appreciate what you did, walking out with me, but I don't want you screwing up your program on my account."
"That's not what I wanted to tell you. I only went to ask them to reconsider about you—"
"Thanks, but—"
"Will you please just hear me out? What I called for, there wasn't any meeting."
"No!"
"Yes indeedy. I asked the woman at the desk, she said they hadn't been meeting Mondays for a couple of months, anyway, and when she checked the book for me, turned out they weren't meeting at the Senior Center at all."
"Maybe they found another room someplace?"
"Maybe. But I started calling around when I got home, and I couldn't reach a single member. Sherman finally returned my call about twenty minutes ago—he's going to meet me after the M.A. meeting tomorrow night—said he couldn't explain over the phone."
"Do you trust him?"
"If you asked me that question a couple months ago, I would have said yes without a hesitation. But now? I don't know."
"Do you want me to come along?" There was a pause. "Bev? I said—"
"I was thinking, I was thinking. I'm pretty sure I'll be safe—after all, it's Sherman, not Whistler. But I'll tell you what, I'll stay in touch with you by phone. And if I haven't called you by, say, midnight…"
"If you haven't called me by midnight, what?"
"I don't know. Come by my place in the morning and put a stake through my heart."
"Ain't funny, Bev."
"I'm from the Bronx, Nick: I can handle Sherman."
"To put it in the language of your people: Bronx schmonx. You tell Sherman that if I haven't heard from you by midnight, I'm going to call the cops and report you as a missing person. And give them his name and address. Tell him that before you even give him a hug. Because personally I don't trust any of them—there's not a one of them that's a match for Whistler."
"Hey, I'm still clean."
"Me too. Take it easy, Bev. Thanks for sticking with me."
"You take it easy too, Nick. Talk to you tomorrow."
When Nick leaned over to replace the handset of his phone in its cradle, he noticed his dick lolling pinkly out of the fly of his black jeans, still undone from the first call. He hadn't a trace of lust left in him, but decided to try and masturbate anyway, if only for the sake of his prostate. Feeling sorrier than dogshit in the rain, he reached into the drawer of his bedside table for the now well-worn Dicks of All Nations, and began thumbing through the deck.
But it was no use—the cards only served to remind him of Betty Ruth. They'd bumped into each other once since that night at his house—he was on his way in to the 7:30 meeting of M.A. at the Berkeley-Albany Recovery Center; she was just leaving the six o'clock A.A., wearing a puffy down jacket over baggy jeans, so he hadn't been able to tell whether she was pregnant or not—and when he'd started to speak to her, she'd turned away.
The memory of how she'd turned away—with revulsion, it had seemed to him—pretty much finished Nick off for the night. He didn't even have to stuff his penis back in his jeans: it had shrivelled up backwards like the empty socks of the Wicked Witch of the East, until it was about the size of a rock shrimp.
THREE
At the end of the prayer that closed the Tuesday night meeting of Marijuana Anonymous, Sherman rushed across the circle and threw his arms around Beverly. "Bev, I'm so sorry we never got in touch with you about moving the meeting. If I'd even dreamed you want
ed to come back…" He hadn't shown up at the Recovery Center until after the opening prayers of the M.A. meeting, so this was their first chance to talk.
She stepped back from his embrace. "Tell me first, are you on blood?"
"Of course not."
"Where was everybody last night?"
"At the meeting. We're holding it at our houses, in rotation."
"Why'd you move it? And why couldn't you tell me that over the phone?"
"Same reason: Whistler." He drew her aside, away from the literature table where the ex-potheads were signing up on clipboards for Service assignments. "We should have figured out by the way he tossed Nick across the room that night that he was on blood, but it wasn't until he'd already seduced poor January that we figured out how he'd tricked us." He seemed sincere enough, if somewhat agitated. "Bev, he'll do anything to subvert the fellowship."
"I'm glad you've finally figured that out. Now how about letting Nick back in?"
"Absolutely." Then his high-colored face fell into its familiar puffy pout. "If you think he wants to have anything to do with us again, that is, after the way we treated him."
This time Beverly extended her arms and gave him a hug. "I'm sure he will. Let's call him together."
He glanced up at the clock on the wall at the Recovery Center—it was half past the Eighth Step. "I'm in kind of a hurry—I'm meeting Catherine over at Chez Panisse in half an hour. Tell you what, why don't you join us for dinner, and then we'll call him afterwards."
"God, I'd absolutely adore to. I haven't seen Cathy in ages. But Chez Penis?"
"Just the cafe upstairs. Cathy worked there for years. Oh, and Toshi's the chef tonight. Come on, it'll be fun. My treat—by way of apology."
"Okay, you twisted my arm. Just let me say goodbye to a few people, get a few numbers."
"Meet you in the parking lot—I could use a ride anyway."
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