“Okay, tell me,” “he said, sitting beside her. Cranberry made a croak of a growl, and making two circles on Hillary‘s lap, laid down.
“Today, during the brunch, Wynona asked me what I bought at the auction. She didn‘t get to go, you recall-because of her niece‘s wedding.”
Shawn hadn‘t recalled, actually, but he nodded anyway.
“Well, after we ate and had our meeting, I offered to show the girls what we‘d bought. They were all highly impressed, indeed, as I expected… but when I showed them your chair Brenda almost fainted right then and there on your office floor!“
This Brenda, Shawn knew, was the busy-body head of their women‘s committee. He had never liked the woman and certainly didn‘t care for her prying around in his office. But he sensed whatever Hillary was leading to took precedence at the moment.
“As it turns out, Brenda had told the volunteers that the chair was not to be put up for bid at our auction! Not the chair or anything from the estate it came from.”
Shawn frowned. “Why is that?”
Hillary took a long breath and shook. “Oh Shawn, that chair turns out to have belonged to that Van Diers woman!”
Shawn had to search his memory several moments before recognizing the name. “Violet Van Diers? The writer that used to live up on Lacey Hill?”
“Yes! The one who wrote all those dirty books back in the seventies!”
A heavy foreboding crawled up Shawn‘s spine. “Died under mysterious circumstances, didn‘t she? And our pious police department dismissed it as suicide?”
“Who cares how she died? It was a mercy for the town’s reputation if you ask me.”
Shawn smiled nervously. “Okay, so my office chair came from her estate, huh?”
Hillary nodded. “Her cousin held it in trust until his death earlier in the year. His wife was trying to get rid of all that gaudy stuff the woman had left him. Can‘t blame her, no. But still -it was completely inappropriate for a church auction.”
Shawn felt the need to make an excuse to leave the room; to run to his office, but he forced himself to wait for Hillary to get to the point.
“So,” Hillary continued, “when I learned this I just couldn‘t keep that thing here!”
Her words sent a bolt of ice through Shawn‘s gut. “What? You got rid of the chair?”
Hillary took a very audible inhale of air and patted his knee. “I‘ve already ordered you a replacement from EBay. Much better than that old rickety thing anyway. A good blue seat fabric, too, instead of that tawdry red.”
Panic sped Shawn’s heartbeat. He shook his head, every pore pooling with cold sweat. His limbs began to shake and his voice rose for the first time in years, “You had no right, Hillary! No right at all!”
“You‘re being over-sensitive,” she replied curtly. “Besides, you bought it for charity.”
Fury dimmed Shawn’s vision. “How can you be so callous! God-freaking-damn, woman! I didn‘t buy all that other shit for charity- I bought it to make you happy!”
Her eyes widened and her regard was cold, contemptuous. “Nothing I own has ever came from some Jezebel! Of course I got rid of it! It was the only decent thing to do!”
Shawn envisioned himself grabbing his wife‘s throat and choking every bit of life out of her pious body.
“Where is it, Hillary? What did you do with the chair –the one thing I wanted for myself?”
“You are unbelievable, Shawn!”
He sighed and looked down and saw that Cranberry had turned in Hillary‘s lap and was now licking his canine balls. As Shawn stared at the dog it seemed he could feel the last vestige of his virility sinking away with every drooly swipe of the dog‘s tongue.
Hillary sighed and gave his knee another pat. This gesture was irritably condescending to Shawn; her rational smile unforgivably sanctimonious. His every sinew tightened and he turned his face from her.
“If you must know,” she said, “I called John Taylor and his son to come haul it off.”
Shawn‘s throat parched hotly, “John Taylor of Taylor‘s ScrapMetal?”
“Who else? I figured they might as well have it—”
Shawn‘s mind clicked off whatever it was she said next. Without a word he shoved her hand away and stalked out of the room and went into the kitchen where the telephone hung on the wall next to the back door. The phone book he picked up from the little table beneath it. He flipped through the pages until he found the number for Taylor‘s Scrap Metal, then punched the numbers into the phone.
By the end of the conversation with Taylor a numbness had fallen over Shawn. It blotted the anxious sweat on his flesh as he hung up the receiver and quietly kindled the wrath in the core of his stomach to a low flame. He was aware when Hillary walked in moments later; but whatever she said might as well have been static on a radio. He watched as Cranberry ran past him and stood up on his hind legs at the back door. The dog danced with a disquiet whine but Shawn couldn’t care less if the little beast pissed on the floor or even just dropped dead there.
Hillary laughed and walking over, wrapped her arms around Shawn’s waist.
“Who would have thought you‘d grown so fond of some silly old chair,” she cooed. It was a bubbly, girlish coo, which before would have turned him on instantly. “You can still surprise me, Shawn Murphy!”
Shawn heard himself speak and his tone sounded even and rational to his ears, “John’s already dismantled it and had the pieces crushed. Seems his wife fancied the cushion fabric enough to use it as a property marker.”
Hillary’s smile broadened and she kissed his cheek. “Now see? You‘ve done your good deed for the day!”
Shawn felt his mouth form a smile. “I suppose so. Guess I should be happy that Mrs. Taylor found some use for it… and grateful to you for ordering a good replacement.”
Hillary beamed with approval. Shawn knew by her nod that she was now done with the conversation and expected the same from him.
She gave him a peck on the cheek and turned to get a drink of water from the sink faucet. As her glass filled with water she related the gossip from the committee meeting, the updates on their re-vamped winter agenda.
And as her babble gushed on, Shawn smelled something close by. He thought he felt the walls sigh and then something move close to him. Its presence filtered the shock from his system, pushed the numbness to a distant plane.
It brushed by him moaning softly and imparting a relief intense and all-consuming. As the temperature in the room silently rose and air grew humid and heady with sweet, decadent musk, Shawn‘s eyes were drawn to the movement in the foyer. He caught a glint of translucent black hair and silken flesh. And as the contours and hues misted into the air again he felt it move toward him. It caressed his face and released a sigh, breezy as satin that sent a tremor just as soft throughout the foundations of the house.
“I hope you don‘t mind,” Hillary said, “I thought we could clean out the fridge of food the ladies left behind.”
Before he could reply Hillary suddenly realized Cranberry was begging to get outside. She made an apologetic sound and rushed to open the door.
As the dog flitted out, Hillary’s eyes raised fretfully to the sky. Heavy, threatening clouds were rolling over the neighborhood from the east. “You hurry now, baby!” Hillary called after Cranberry. “Looks like a storm‘s a-coming.”
Shawn didn‘t even look twice to know she was right. He felt the change in his very marrow. It made the blood course through his veins like that of a young boy standing on the threshold of manhood. He followed the sense of purpose suddenly upon him so clear and sweet. It led him out of the kitchen and down the foyer.
The door of the office stood ajar, and as Shawn pushed it open the ripe musk engulfed him. He shut the door and looked around the dim, still room. A moment later he heard her lusty sigh and felt her whirl about him.
Freed of whatever shackles that had consigned her to the obsessed chair, she danced now in liberation. Her naked t
high grazed his hip as she spun, her soft hair whipped his arms. A silvery laugh filled the room and Shawn watched as the neat piles of papers and the cup of pencils were sent flying across the top of his desk.
The air grew sweltering and thick with her scent. Shawn felt his breath being sucked away. But just before he lost consciousness the door flew back on its hinges. She lit out of the room, slamming the door back behind. Shawn heard the foyer floor beyond sigh beneath her passing, the walls popped and shuddered as if evening had descended on the house for the very first time.
Shawn thought of nothing but how wholly satisfying she had felt and tasted the night before. He could not wait until the succulent lips he had kissed would explore the rest of him.
A moment later he heard Hillary‘s startled cry from the kitchen. This was followed by a heavy thud on the floor. Hillary tried to cry out to Shawn but her voice was halting, weak, bubbling with horror now instead of patented cheer.
When at last the sound of it died away and the walls began to settle again, the office door swung open. A gust of wind passed through the foyer from the kitchen. Shawn broached it without effort and as he entered the kitchen saw that the back door was wide open. It was refrained from shutting because of the crumpled mass of livid flesh and teal print chiffon that barred the threshold.
A small, round head popped up and made a plaintive whine. Cranberry sniffed his Mistress‘s body and then looked to Shawn. The dog‘s eyelashes fluttered anxiously.
Shawn almost felt sorry for the pampered beast. He crouched down and held out his hand, trying to coax the dog inside. But Cranberry bristled and backed away. And as the rain released beneath the rumbling clouds, the little dog disappeared in the downpour.
Shawn did not see where the dog ran off to, nor did he wonder about it later as he called the ambulance to report his wife‘s fatal apoplectic fit. The medics arrived just as the clouds parted. They offered Shawn their heartfelt sympathies and asked if he had a minister or any family members he needed called.
Shawn declined their kind offers. The sweet musk that wafted like incense through the house was all the condolence he needed. That, and the delicious privacy that awaited after they left.
The Youth of Passion
By
Desiree Erotique©2008
Elsa lifted the glass from her desk and raised it from habit to her lips. It was still empty, and she growled at her own stupidity. So, with a parting glance at the monitor she scooted back the chair and took the glass into the kitchen. Setting it on the counter near the sink she went to the fridge and took out a can of cola. As she pulled back the top and took a drink she felt the heaviness behind her eyes. She was tired; exhausted, actually, from writing on the new novel. With a glance at the clock over the stove she realized with shock how very late it was: 4:17.
The old house was sleepy quiet itself. Elsa could hear her husband’s soft snoring from behind the curtain that separated the little kitchen from the master bedroom. She knew she ought to be in bed; not just because she’d surely written enough in twenty-four hours, but if Robert got up to go to the bathroom he’d catch her awake.
She was supposed to be in bed by twelve-thirty every night. But this new novella had really possessed her thoughts. The words flowed like pristine water; a storyline she contended was probably better than anything she’d written in quite a while.
She had pondered about this since the conception of the story. Elsa was the mother of two grown children and in a few months would be a grandmother, too. While not the type to mourn the passing of her youth, she did think she often simply ignored it. But just before her Muse had birthed this story she’d celebrated her forty-fifth birthday.
The reality had sunk in, and often lately she’d grown depressed at the idea of growing old. As senseless a thing as old age was, and as desperately she resented that senselessness, it was descending, faster with each day. And sometimes, if she dared to let her defenses and ration go, she could become filled with the terror that just perhaps she was too old to enjoy sensuality and sex as much as she did.
She worried she was too old to be so easily turned on by her husband; she wondered if maybe instead of writing sizzling romances and sensuous fiction she should be writing: staid, sensible stuff... the kind of fiction that a middle-aged author with two grown children was probably expected to write.
These ponderings, of course, were short-lived. Elsa had taken good care of her skin and health and many people said she looked much younger than she was. And she sure enjoyed the sensual relationship she still shared with Robert.
He was older by several years than her, and heck, he still chased her around the house when he wasn’t exhausted by his own job obligations. Besides, she still felt young, much younger than her mother acted at this time of her life… much younger even than Elsa would have thought possible at this stage of her life.
But no doubt about it, right now she was pooped. So pooped the words on the monitor were blurred. Sometime ago she’d brushed her teeth and taken her long red hair out of their braids and brushed it, moisturized her face and put the cats out for the night. All she had to do was get into bed now, where the comfy covers and the warmth of Robert awaited. These thoughts were more tempting now than even the pull of the new storyline.
With a yawn she put the glass down and walked back into the den. She saved the document and clicked the word program off for the night. With a quick run to the bathroom she made her way to the bedroom. As she pulled the curtain back she heard Robert turn over on the mattress. She held her breath, standing still as stone, and a few moments later heard him inhaling and exhaling in long, deep breaths of the sleeping.
Very quietly she undressed completely he liked her sleeping in the nude and tossing her clothes on top of the chest near the wall, slipped under the covers beside him. The sheets were cozy cool, and as she scooted up against Robert her skin tingled to feel his warm flesh.
She trailed her fingertips gently down his muscled back, and felt the waistband of his briefs. She was struck by a fierce pang of desire. But she wouldn’t be so bold or thoughtless to wake him up. Even if this was one of his rare weekends off from work, the poor man needed his sleep. Besides, she was the sub in their relationship, he the Dom, and her desire was his to fulfill at his discretion.
She closed her eyes and snuggled close to him, and laying her arm over his waist, she knew only a moment’s pleasure in the virile fragrance of him before sleep overcame her.
Light was weaving through the bedroom shades when she woke up. She had to run to the bathroom, so she got out of bed and took her robe from the closet handle. Slipping it on, she dashed out the room when she met Robert in the kitchen. He was standing in front of the counter, still dressed only in his briefs. He turned and gave her a little smile. She smiled back and noticed he held a pot of coffee.
“You’re so sweet,” she said. “I can make that for you.”
“No, almost got it done. You going back to bed for awhile after you pee?”
She giggled. He knew her so well. “Yes, Master.”
“All right,” he murmured, and stepping toward her, kissed her lips. Then he whispered in her ear, “But after you’re up, we have something to discuss, little lady.”
She was curious, but her head still too groggy to even try to guess what he was hinting at. “Okay,” she said slowly, “Anything wrong?”
“Nothing to worry about just now. You go to the bathroom and get back to bed.”
She hugged him happily and hastened toward the bathroom. When she was finished she ran back to the bedroom, passing by Robert and blowing a kiss.
“Make sure you take that robe off before you crawl back under those covers,” he called after her.
Elsa obeyed and got back into bed. She was asleep again in no time, and dreamt of the novel she was writing. The main hero –the tall, blonde Viking, Olaf- was riding his chestnut steed through a forest all aglow pink and white with the new hues of spring. Elsa saw him ride until the
wood opened upon a sunny glade.
And there, lying in the green grass peppered with dandelions, lay Olaf’s naked slave-girl, Wenda. She was gazing at the clouds above, oblivious to everything but the dandelion stem she twisted between her long fingers. Olaf dismounted the horse and tied the reigns about a near pear bough shading the boundary of the glade. As Olaf strode toward the young woman Elsa sensed he wanted to talk to her about some dire news pertinent to the storyline.
He knelt and Wenda’s face brightened to realize him there. Just as Olaf began to speak, Elsa felt Wenda’s complete happiness for this man who had made her his love slave. Strong, handsome, even humorous at times, and oh so protective and wise. Olaf was the man Wenda had wanted to find all her life.
Wenda sat up and laced her arms around Olaf’s neck. And as he began to speak his face grew shaded and blurry under the warm sunlight.
“Time to rise and shine,” Olaf said, and Elsa felt herself become one with her heroine. She stared adoringly at him, and before her very eyes his features changed. The fair handsome face looking back at her was darker, more familiar; the face of one whose deep brown eyes made her body shiver and grow warmer at once. Her pussy quickened with desire and her juices spilt wantonly.
“What do you want, Master?” Elsa/Wenda cooed.
“Wake up, Elsa, wake up now.”
And suddenly the glade and the characters vanished as Elsa’s eyes fluttered open. She was lying in bed, and Robert sitting beside her, regarding her with the same look she’d seen in the dream. She couldn’t imagine what caused that he looked so handsome even out of his state trooper’s uniform; dressed in blue jeans and black tee-shirt. His bronze skin smelled fresh from a shower, and she noticed that he’d given his head a good shave so his scalp was smooth. She reached up and touched his heavy mustache. Elsa had always thought it lent a regal, sexy touch to his good looks.
“Hello,” she smiled.
Robert arched an eyebrow. “Hello, my naughty slave girl.” His displeased tone made for a fearful pang in Elsa’s breast, and she grew nervous under his unflinching, stern regard. She was grateful when at last he spoke again, “Did you feel rested?”
Adieu, Bonjour Page 3