by Jay Lawrence
It was a hot August evening, and I'd been out chasing some stupid stray dog story, interviewing old ladies. The office was strangely deserted then I got a call saying that the gang was at a party at a house in Stretching and to get my ass over there. I can still smell that evening, taste it. Heat-softened tar on my sandals sticking to the sidewalk, leaving little tacky patches like black chewing gum. Summer city scents, dusty boulevards, the overpowering oily odor of a cheap Chinese restaurant. The sun setting, a mass of orange and scarlet over English Bay. I ducked into a liquor store and bought a case of beer then swung on over to the address on West Seventh.
Inside, the sitting room was filled with couples slowly dancing to Desmond Dekker's "Israelites." There was something almost surreal about the way they languorously stretched their arms in the air, their swaying bodies illuminated by the glow from a mercury vapor streetlight. The atmosphere was thick with smoke, a heavy blend of tobacco, pot and incense. I put the case of beer on a table and realized that I did not have a partner to sway with. As usual, she was left behind in our rented apartment, waiting for me to stagger home in the small hours, full of beer, cheap rum and charming fairy tales I couldn't recall in the morning, never fucking complaining about her absentee lover. As usual, I cast my roving eye over the feminine contingent of the gathering, hoping to find someone pretty and unattached. No such luck. I cracked open a bottle of beer and took a long thirsty drink. One of my colleagues thumped me on the back, already under the influence of a large joint.
"Hey, Peter. Any luck with the stray dogs?"
The pungent pot smoke made my eyes nip, and I blew it back at him. "You're a funny guy, Lou. I hear Rowan and Martin want you for their Laugh-In."
"Wouldn't mind, bud, if it meant having a go at Goldie Hawn."
I laughed at an incongruous mental image of short balding Lou McGrath and the ditzy blonde Hawn. "You murder me, McGrath."
"Talking of which, have you heard about that Sharon Tate business?"
"Yeah. God. You just can't imagine it, can you? A pregnant woman, for Christ's sake. A fucking eight months pregnant woman. What kind of animal does that sort of thing?"
"They don't know yet. I'll say this much. I don't like the look of that Polanski guy she was married to."
"Like him or not, you wouldn't wish that upon him, would you?"
The conversation was turning less than festive. I drained my beer and reached for another. The music had changed, from the heavy bass and reggae rhythm of Desmond Dekker to the chaotic guitar riffs of Hendrix at his best. "Purple Haze." I moved away from McGrath, declaring that I needed to find the washroom. I climbed the uncarpeted stairs, stepping over several entwined, mutually engrossed couples. The bathroom door had a large psychedelic poster – Peter Maxx-ish – pinned to it. Turn on, tune in, drop out. I pushed it open and was mildly surprised to find a girl inside.
Always one for a creative conversation opener, I said, "Hi."
She wore a long, Indian cotton dress, the kind with tiny tinkling bells sewn into the hem. Her feet were bare and she sat on the side of the bathtub gazing up at me with a quizzical look. Jimi's guitar reached a frenzied climax, and she smiled.
"I like Jimi Hendrix. Isn't he bisexual?"
An interesting rejoinder, preferable to the one I might have spouted about my zodiacal sign or whether I came there often. The girl had an accent of some kind. Celtic. Scottish, Irish. I tried to look intelligent as the effects of strong beer and second-hand marijuana kicked in. "You're not from round here are you?"
She laughed openly at me, as if delighted at the stupid question and held out her hands. They were covered with rings, all ethnic-looking, some vaguely occult. There was a silver pentacle and an Egyptian eye-within-a-pyramid. I wasn't sure what to do so I took her hands in mine and stared back at her rather level gaze.
"I'm not from anywhere, really. Well, I was born in Scotland. But it doesn't matter, you know. All that matters is here and now."
I wondered what she was on. Her pupils were dilated but that could just be from the dim-lighted room. I recalled my reason for being there and murmured would she mind if, etc. She rose to a delicate accompaniment of miniature bells and wafted past me in a cloud of patchouli.
"I don't mind. Oh no, I really don't mind. In fact, you'd be amazed at what I really don't mind..."
She slipped outside, and I wondered if she'd be there when I was done or enveloped in the arms of another who really didn't mind. I tended to my business, poked at my hair for a second and then left the john.
She sat on the top step of the stairs, playing with a strand of her reddish gold hair. It looked as if she had braided it into lots of little plaits when damp then let it dry that way. A style I'd seen a lot of lately that gave lots and lots of tiny crinkles. Her hair looked soft, as did her smooth pale skin. I sat down beside her, sensing strongly, the potential to become engrossed and entwined like all the other couples in the house. She was drawing me to her irresistibly and I felt like I was falling into some kind of vortex. I put my arms around her and kissed her as Jefferson Airplane hit the quadraphonic stereo system. Kissing the girl felt like a trip, like swimming in a psychedelic ocean. I kind of dived in and swam, down, down, down into the very essence of her, swirled around and span. The music was there but distant, a throbbing pulse to our embrace. The house, the stairs were there but somehow submerged. We were in our own world and I knew. I knew the moment I kissed her. She was the one.
Finally, we came up for air, and I looked into her eyes, blue like my own but a different kind of blue. Hers were lighter, very clear and bright. They made me think of summer and birdsong and lying on my back with the hot sun beating down on my face. My eyes are darker, a deeper, stormy water shade of blue. I thought of myself as the sea and her as the sky and then I wondered why the hell I was having these thoughts with an odd little girl I had only just met.
"I'm your nemesis," she said, smiling, as if it was a gift she was bestowing on me. "You know that, don't you?"
Like a fool, I nodded and agreed with her. She smelled so good. It wasn't the patchouli but the natural scent of her body, her smooth white skin, her hair. I buried my face in her neck and had a sudden sharp urge to nip her with my teeth. I wanted to eat her, devour her, swallow her whole.
"You smell so good," she murmured.
I watched her lips moving and I realized she was saying everything that was going through my mind. She loved the scent of my body. I smelled good enough to eat. Kissing me was like falling through space, timeless and gravity defying. For a silver-tongued devil, I was speechless. Her strong, little fingers were in my hair, winding strands as if she might never let me go. Something in me welcomed that thought.
"You are so beautiful," she said
Again, it should have been my line but, she spoke the words. I was beautiful? I glanced up at a nearby mirror and saw only the familiar guy with wavy dark hair – still out of place – a short beard and a broad set of shoulders. Maybe it was my shoulders she liked. I turned her head to one side and kissed her neck, savoring the shiver that ran through her and the way her flesh ruffled with tiny goose bumps beneath my lips. We had to go somewhere quiet.
"We can't sit here."
I rose, pulling her up with me. She clung to my waist, her head lolling slightly as if drunk or stoned, but I wasn't convinced she was either. We played hunt the empty bedroom, coming up trumps on the third landing door. Inside, we didn't bother to turn on the light as if bright illumination might be an insult. The girl was a soft, warm shape in the sandalwood-scented darkness, leading me on, drawing me in. I took her in my arms and it felt as if she simply melted into me. We were one, like a painting where the colors have run together, blue and yellow into green.
"Are you an acid trip?" I murmured into her ear and she laughed, delighted.
"I'm a time-traveler. I've come from the future to change everything. It was the only way."
"Of course."
Silly me. Well, I didn't care if she wa
s crazy. I wanted her. We kissed again, more intensely than before, tongues exploring each other's mouths, and I fondled her bottom through the fine cotton skirt. Instinctively, she arched her spine and ground her hips against my swollen cock. I needed to be deep inside her moist velvety heat, fucking her hard until we both saw stars. I rubbed myself against her stomach, letting her feel how much I wanted her. The driving beat of the Stones' "Gimme Shelter" filtered up through the floor. Freedom was just a shot away. Her warm hands cupped my erection through my jeans, stroked its length and then unzipped my fly. She sank to her knees and took my knob between her lips, delicately swirling the tip of her tongue in a tiny figure eight at the top of my shaft. My balls tightened, followed by an almost uncontrollable urge to come in her mouth. Her hands cupped my ass, squeezing rhythmically as she licked me. And then she stopped.
"What are you doing?"
I tried to keep my voice from breaking as she moved away from me, the entire universe centered in my cock. There was a rustle of clothing being discarded and she pulled me onto the bed. I could see her naked body, white and yielding, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her hands were between her thighs, touching herself.
"Make me come first. Before you fuck me. Lick me the way I just licked you."
Oh Jesus. Of all the things the girl had to ask for, it had to be that.
"Make me come. I want you to kiss me down there. Please."
Her voice changed, the whole mood of the moment altered perceptibly, like reality rushing in as an anesthetic wears off. The girl writhed before me, her creamy thighs parted, a surprising insistence honing the edge of her to something sharp, almost venomous. My wraith-like nymph had turned into a little snake. Mick Jagger sang on downstairs, the bass line pulsing beneath my feet, pounding in time with the blood in my veins. Freedom was just a pussy-eating session away.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
She sat up, her question a dainty steel stiletto that caught me somewhere in between my stomach and my crotch. I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her arm, an ineffectual gesture of appeasement. Her flesh felt firm, the boundaries between us intact.
"I'm sorry. It's just that I don't like it. I'll do anything else. Well, almost anything." I laughed sheepishly, a hollow sound in the uncarpeted room. I could just make out Che Guevara, staunchly gazing down from the ubiquitous poster pinned to the closet door. There was a long pause. I wondered what she was thinking. Suddenly, the scent of sandalwood seemed poignant rather than exotic and arousing. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper, as dry as dead leaves.
"You'll never change. What do you want to do with me? What really turns you on?"
I traced the gentle curves of her shoulders with my fingertips, relieved to feel her respond with an excited little jolt. A thought came to me. Hell, I knew what really turned me on. I'd known that since I was in short trousers. I patted my thigh.
"Lie, face down, over my knees."
In a moment she was there, her round bottom thrusting up to meet my hand. Had she been spanked before? I ran my fingertips down the length of her spine then bent to kiss the nape of her neck. She shuddered and ground her hips against my thighs, making fucking movements. I placed my hand on her silky cheeks, not spanking, just caressing her and she pushed her wet cunt towards my fingers. I rewarded her with a sharp smack on her wriggling, bare bottom. She cried out, but I knew it was more in pleasure than pain. I wasn't going to give her a serious over-the-knee session. Not the first time. The thought of there being a second time made me catch my breath. I began to spank her, firmly and fast, first on one cheek, then the other, then both together, covering every inch of her lovely Celtic skin with stinging smacks. The warmth started beneath my fingers, then intensified and spread – a rampant wildfire in her smooth cool flesh. I drank in her squirming scarlet ass cheeks, her flushed face, her lips parted in that delicious blend of shock and desire. I grew hard again. Then harder still. She writhed over me, spreading juice from her swollen pussy, and I slapped the backs of her thighs, making her gasp. Pre-come oozed from my cock as her frantic movements massaged it. I loved having her naked, acquiescent body over my knees. It was how it had to be. She was mine.
Breathless with lust, I began to lecture her, punctuating each stern phrase with a sly swat near her slick little cunt. "This gets you hot, doesn't it? A good bare bottom spanking from Daddy."
She leapt like a fish out of water, and I grasped a handful of her soft, fine hair, lifting her head and murmuring in her ear. "I know you like it."
I was only old enough to be her brother but she nodded and moaned. My God, I thought, I've found her. My naughty little girl. A stream of childhood games and adolescent fantasies flashed through my brain, images long suppressed for fear of being branded a pervert. Was it normal to get off on spanking young ladies?
"Fuck me, Daddy!"
Christ, if I was twisted then she was deviant too. I pushed her onto the bed and she crouched on all fours like a dog, head down, hot bottom raised to greet my bursting cock. In a few seconds, I was deep inside her, shafting her hard from behind, swiftly draining my balls in a shouting climax. Fuck! What couldn't I do with this girl? We were a kinky dream come true. Visions of depravity danced in my head. Breathing hard, I turned her over and held her close. To my surprise, she was sobbing quietly, her face damp with tears.
"What's wrong? I didn't hurt you, did I?"
She shook her head, and I kissed her softly on the nose. Suddenly, she seemed very small and vulnerable. Had I stirred up some latent father complex with my Daddy routine? Or was she simply coming down from a trip?
"You won't understand. I'm not even here, not really. I just came from the future–"
"To change everything. So you said. Was it a success?"
Her pale eyes gleamed faintly in the darkened room.
"I don't know. I won't know for sure until we meet again. I'm like a kind of silent note, you see, caught between the rhythm and the bass line. You can't hear me but I'm there. I will return."
I stroked her hair, breathed in her scent. She seemed calmer. Downstairs, "Light My Fire" by the Doors had popped up on the stereo. I didn't miss the irony. Was my world ablaze, thanks to an odd little Celtic girl who seemed to occupy an alternate universe and willingly called me Daddy as I spanked her bottom to a rosy glow?
"I'll wait for you," I said and, strangely, I meant it. She was mine.
MILLY'S MAKEOVER
Milly was a lazy homemaker. She had left school with quite a reasonable collection of exam results but somehow none of the courses on offer at the local college had appealed to her, none of the jobs advertised in the newspaper were of interest. She got married a few weeks after graduating, to a nice reliable guy named Bill, and settled into domestic bliss, still wearing the slightly smug smile she'd flashed around on her wedding day along with the diamond band on her ring finger. Bill was a good guy; he'd take care of the financial side. All she had to do was keep their little house reasonably clean and tidy, do the laundry, cook a decent dinner for Bill to come home to. She could cope with that. But as the months passed, the neat new duplex began to grow shabby and grubby with neglect. The laundry basket overflowed with Bill's dirty socks and shirts. The carefully home cooked meals steadily morphed into microwaved TV dinners. Milly herself grew plump with lack of exercise and her thick brown hair looked oily and unkempt. Bill began to get rather annoyed.
"So, what's the deal here, Milly? You think I'm going to work my fingers to the bone, ten hours a day, to come home to a plate of crap and a wife who looks like something the cat dragged in?"
Milly burst into tears and rushed upstairs to their bedroom. She knew he was right but somehow she had just let things slide. Her natural state wasn't dynamic. She was one of life's observers, not a doer like Bill. She lay on her stomach, sobbing loudly into the rumpled, unmade bedcovers, hoping that if she made a big enough fuss he'd give in and feel sorry for her then they could have sex and make up. When she looked up, Bill was standing
by the bed looking down at her, a surprisingly steely glint in his eyes. She hadn't noticed that expression before. He had always seemed such a mild-mannered sort of guy. An odd sensation began in the pit of her stomach, akin to butterflies. What was he thinking about?
"Go take a shower and wash your hair, Milly. We're going to have a little talk and I don't want to talk to a scarecrow."
Milly sat up, outraged. "How dare you call me that! That's the meanest thing I ever heard!"
Firmly, Bill took his wife by the arm and pulled her into a standing position.
"You want your bare bottom spanked, letting things get into this state. Look at those dirty clothes in the corner."
Bill placed his hands on either side of his wife's head and pointed her face in the direction of the unwashed laundry. Milly found herself blushing with shame.
"And when was the last time this dresser got dusted?"
He ran an imperious fingertip along the surface of a nearby piece of furniture, leaving a narrow trail in the dust. Milly's cheeks burned.
"It collects so quickly!"
"Not that quickly, Milly. I'll bet this hasn't been touched in months. Go take that shower."
Milly glared at her husband, bursting with the sort of pseudo-indignant fury that can only be borne of deeply rooted guilt. "I wish I'd never married you, Bill Phillips! If I'd known how insensitive and ungrateful you are..."
"Yeah, right! Tell that to the Marines. Now, get in the shower. I'm not going to tell you again."
Milly burned with humiliation. She knew she was in the wrong but somehow, perversely, that only spurred her on to greater heights of self-righteousness. "You can't tell me what to do, Bill Phillips. You don't own me. This isn't the Victorian age."
Her hands moved to her hips and Bill thought what a child she was. It was really quite amusing, if tiresome. Suddenly, he recalled a dog-eared paperback novel he'd discovered, many years back, stashed under a bunk in his parents' travel trailer. As a curious twelve year old, he'd been fascinated and a little shocked by the story it contained, all about a man who spanked his errant wife. Something clicked in his brain. That was it. He had to put Milly across his knees. It had to be more than an idle threat. It had to be a reality. He knew she wouldn't alter her behavior until he did. She was too damned lazy to be cured by a mere lecture.