“I think you might want to have a little lie down, dear.”
My mother is leading me back to my little, virgin bed. I’d protest, except that I can’t find the words. And I’m tired. Very, very tired.
I wake with a fierce thirst and a vicious headache. It’s dark. I’ve slept through the afternoon. I groan in self-pity. I’ve made such a fool of myself. I know that mother will be secretly pleased.
I want Peter. Except Peter isn’t here; my mother saw to that.
Sitting up is not pleasant, so I lie down again.
The room hasn’t changed since I left it seven years ago. I’ve changed so much since then that it seems incongruous for me to be occupying the same space that I did then. Peter is responsible for most of those changes. Living up to how he sees me, using the quiet space he provides for me to seek refuge in, has changed who I am.
Who would I have been without Peter?
Back before Peter, I’d never really been that comfortable with boys. It wasn’t that I was shy; it was more that I saw them too clearly and I didn’t like what I saw. For them, girls were trophies to show off to other boys. I used to imagine them at swap meets, talking to each other about girls like they were baseball cards: “Had her. Had her. Had her. Want her. I’ll swap you two Heathers for an Alicia.” But the worst thing was that, when it came to sex, they all seemed to want to be in charge although very few of them seemed to know what to do.
I knew enough about my own body to know what I wanted: where and how I wanted to be touched and for how long. I also knew the kind of body I wanted to do the touching: tall, lean, strong. Unfortunately, most of those bodies seemed to come with the supersized ego option as standard.
I tried a few anyway. It wasn’t hard to get their attention; I was attractive enough in a petite, androgynous sort of way, the challenge was to stay in control. The first couple of attempts were an education.
“Tall ’n’ Lean #1” put his hands everywhere but he didn’t know what to do with them. And he got irritated when I moved around. I was supposed to be his bendyfucktoy, something he could pose for his convenience. His dick was nice: smooth and hard; but he wasn’t interested in me touching it for long, he wanted to “slide it home”. I moved to climb up on his lap but he wanted me on my back. He wasn’t in me for long before he came. Then he asked me if I wanted to go get a burger. I realized I’d just had the sexual equivalent of a drive-thru meal: smells good, is over too quickly, and lies like a lump in your stomach afterwards.
“Tall ’n’ Lean #2” wasn’t interested in entering anything other than my mouth. He wanted me on my knees, looking up into his eyes. I had no objection to the idea in principle. It was corny but it had a sense of theater to it. What turned me off was him placing his hand on the back of my head and using my mouth like an extension of his hand. I’ve seen drains unblocked with more finesse. I had to grab his balls to make him stop. I thought he’d be angry with me, maybe even try to hit me, but he actually whined like a little boy, “What did you do that for?” It was the question I was beginning to ask about sex as a whole.
I decided to do some research before seeking out “Tall ’n’ Lean #3”. I went to Barnes and Noble to see what kind of books I could find on sex. I’d done the “Insert Part A into Part B” manuals and the Joy of Sex hippy-type manuals but they didn’t give me what I wanted. They were too much like cookery lessons and not enough like good food. I moved on to the erotica section and found The Story of O and The Taking of Sleeping Beauty. They definitely got my attention. Hours of it. The thing was, I didn’t want to be O or Beauty, I wanted to be the person doing things to them. Well, not them in particular. I wanted to be doing things to “Tall ’n’ Leans”. I’d lie in my narrow little bed, exhausted from my reading or listening to my parents having sex in the room next door, and I’d think about what it would be like to have that kind of control. Then I got to thinking about how I might make it happen. As it turned out it wasn’t that difficult but it wasn’t that much fun either.
I found “Tall ’n’ Lean #3” in a karate class. I’d signed up because I wanted to be able to protect myself, and because I figured the boys there would be more disciplined. He was beautiful, his sweat smelled good, he was a black belt, and he was older than me. I waited for him in the parking lot after class. I had decided to be direct.
“Would you like me to fuck you?”
He didn’t look stunned, offended, or even pleased, just curious.
“Are you sure you mean it that way around? Most girls want me to fuck them.”
“I’m very sure.”
His eyes licked slowly over my body. Then he smiled.
“OK,” he said, like he was agreeing to grab a pizza, “but I have a question.”
“?”
“What’s your name?”
I blushed at that. It hadn’t occurred to me that while I’d been noticing the muscles in his forearm and the tight curve of his butt, all he’d been paying attention to was his karate technique.
My parents were away on one of their pagan weekends. Sex was the bedrock of their marriage; you only had to look at the two of them together to see that. The pagan weekends gave them the opportunity to concentrate on fucking each other’s brains out without worrying about making a noise.
I’d decided to have a mini-pagan weekend of my own. I brought “Tall ’n’ Lean #3” back to my house. I was more than a little nervous. He didn’t touch me or hassle me, but there was a confidence behind his eyes that was unsettling. I took him into my dad’s den and gave him the speech I’d rehearsed.
“OK, here are the rules. I want to fuck you. I want you to do what I tell you while I fuck you. If you don’t do what I tell you, the fucking will stop. Do you understand?”
It was supposed to be my first step to establishing mastery over him. He sat on the edge of my dad’s desk, like he had a right to be there, and said, “That speech would work better if you said, ‘I am going to fuck you. You will do what I want.’ You have to sound like you mean it.”
He slipped off the desk and on to his knees in front of me without breaking eye contact.
“Tell me how to serve you. Mistress.”
In theory this was just what I wanted. But he was laughing at me. It was gentle laughter, but laughter all the same.
“Shit,” I said.
For a second he looked surprised. He thought I was giving an instruction.
“I so wanted to tie you to my dad’s chair and tease you and fuck you. But it’s not going to work, is it?”
He stood up, lifting me like I weighed nothing at all and placed me on dad’s desk. I felt a little bit of panic and a lot of excitement.
“Your dad’s chair? How old are you, Helen? No. Don’t answer that. You’re a pretty girl, Helen, and a brave one. You know what you want, but you don’t yet know how to recognize who can give it to you.”
I’d known he was a little older than me but I hadn’t expected him to talk to me like I was a child. Who did he think he was, my camp counselor?
“Well, why did you come here then?” My eyes were hot with embarrassment.
“You sounded convincing in the parking lot. And I don’t mind switching from time to time.”
“Switching?”
“I’m a Dom, Helen. I normally do the tying up.”
“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
“No. But I think you need to learn to recognize a sub when you meet one.”
Then he kissed me. It was a slow kiss, passionate but friendly. It made me wonder what it would be like to be tied up by him. To let him do whatever he wanted. Then he wasn’t kissing me anymore.
“Gotta go, Helen. My name is Jon, by the way. I’ll see you at karate next week.”
I picked up a book from the desk and threw it, but it only hit the door closing behind him. I was mad at Jon for the rest of the day. Then I started to think about how things might have gone wrong: about the risks that I’d taken; about how gentle he’d been. Gentle and strong
. I could see why women would let him tie them.
Jon and I became friends but not lovers. He gave me things to read and told me about his life. I left the “Tall ’n’ Leans” alone for a while and concentrated on getting to college. I’d gotten through two more “Tall ’n’ Leans” in college before I met Peter, both of them one-night-stands, both of them left me feeling hungry and somehow cheated.
My head is feeling better, so I check my watch. Somehow it has reached 10 p.m. I’ve missed Thanksgiving and they’ve all forgotten about me. I hug my sense of hurt to me tightly. It serves me right that I’ve been abandoned. You see, I made a mistake. Such a big mistake. I gave Peter away to my best friend. I was so sure of him, you see. So certain that I was what he wanted. I thought I could lend him out. Share him with a friend.
It started out OK. Barbara was sad and needed comfort, so I tied Peter and blindfolded him and then I shared him with her. It was fun. It felt human and loving. I was so proud of all of us. But the thing is, I get jealous. Just the way my mother does. I hate myself for it, but I can’t help it. I’d invited Barbara to stay with us, to join the Peter and Helen household. I knew they liked each other, but I was too vain to think it through. And then I saw how Peter looked at her. How he wanted her. It was my doing, not his. Peter followed my lead, trusting me to do the right thing, and I gave him away.
Except Barbara gave him back. Barbara gave him back. I don’t know if he’d have come back on his own. I must still be a little drunk. I’ve spent months carefully not thinking about this and now I’m crying into my pillow, afraid that Peter hasn’t really come back to me. I know that I’m not worthy of Peter. I’m not really the person he deserves. For weeks now I’ve been watching him, wondering if I’m living in a charade; whether Peter would rather be with Barbara but is just too nice to leave me. Maybe my mother was right to put him on the other side of the house.
“Helen?”
Peter is standing over me. I didn’t even hear him come in. I sit up on the bed, conscious of how red my eyes must be and how strongly I must smell of drink. I want to get up and hug him but I can’t make myself move.
Peter has brought the toy bag with him. I didn’t even know he’d packed it.
He places the toy bag on the bed beside me. Normally I choose the toys, but this time it is Peter who opens the bag. He takes out the strap-on. It’s a complicated affair. The strap that goes between my legs will push a dildo and a buttplug into me and leave a long thin curved black latex cock jutting out from my belly.
“I’d like you to use this. I want us to make some noise.”
Peter wants me to fuck him, and he wants everyone to know it’s happening. Joy spreads through me like liquid sunlight. Peter wants me.
He’s been watching me figure it out. When he sees my smile start, he kisses me. I am Sleeping Beauty being brought back to life. Except I’m going to reward my prince by reaming his ass as hard as I can.
I take the strap-on from him.
“Strip, Peter,” I say.
He sheds his clothes calmly but quickly. He is already hard. I make him wait while I shrug out of my clothes, then I stand with one leg on the bed and tell him to tool me up. I mean to sound stern but I can’t keep the joy out of my voice.
Then it starts for real. Peter lubes me slowly and thoroughly and straps me tight. With both holes full and a strong black cock thrusting in front of me I feel powerful and as randy as hell.
“Get on your back on the bed, Peter, and hold on to your ankles.”
I love the sound of that. Love the calm excitement with which he obeys. He doesn’t ask why he’s on his back when he should be bent over. He does what I tell him.
I spread lube over my mock-cock, place my finger and thumb around the base of Peter’s erection and push hard into his anus.
“Keep your hands around your ankles, Peter.” Then I make the noise he’s been waiting for: in my best rodeo tones I shout “YEEHAW” and we’re off.
I ride him hard enough to make him buck on the bed. I keep his cock in my hand like a joystick or perhaps a saddle horn, squeezing it as I pound him. The harder I push into him the deeper the dildo rises into me. When I’m close, I slap his hands away from his ankles, lift his feet up over my shoulders and fuck for depth. The bed is bouncing now.
“Wank, Peter. Wank hard.”
His hand moves eagerly on his cock. I am so close that I’m groaning as I grind into him. The heat of his sperm splashing onto my belly pushes me over and I growl my come at him.
I pull out of Peter’s poor abused asshole and collapse on top of him. I feel strong and whole and loved.
Peter holds me gently and whispers, “Welcome back, Helen.”
It turns out that the bed is not too narrow if we lie like spoons. As I fall asleep, I remember that I’m still wearing the strap-on, but I’m too tired to move.
We are both sore the next morning but that doesn’t stop us grinning at one another.
“Do you think they heard us?”
“Your parents’ bedroom is next door isn’t it, Helen?”
We both laugh.
At breakfast I wait for my mother to say something. She discusses the weather and asks if we really have to leave straight after breakfast, but makes no mention of our exploits. As we say our goodbyes, mother hugs Peter and says something to him. I miss the exchange because I have a crying baby in my arms at the time.
When I’ve driven as far as the freeway, I ask Peter what my mother said.
“She told me, you were lucky to have me.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that you would always have me and that I would always give thanks for that.”
I try to imagine the expression on my mother’s face when she heard that. I decide that it would probably be one of approval. Thank God for Peter, I think to myself. Then I start to look for the next rest stop. I want a quiet place where we can do a bit more thanksgiving.
Bodies of Water
Cecilia Tan
Her skin is more sensitive now, she’s sure of it. As the water trickles over her back, she can feel every drop, each rivulet tracing a line down her back like a fingertip caress. Water never felt like this before, not even in the most luxurious shower.
She remembers the shower at Argyropoulos’s palazzo. One of Steve’s rich investors, taken in by the adventure of treasure-hunting, he had not only bought in to the expedition company but insisted the team stay at his palatial home while they were landside. She barely remembers what the bathroom looked like, only that the shower was such a luxury – hot water, dry towels – after three weeks on the ship sifting through sand-covered artefacts and always being damp.
It was one morning when getting out of that shower she had seen the blue speck on her skin, just glimpsed it in the mirror on the underside of her arm. No, no it can’t be . . . she thought to herself. It was blue like a spot of spilled ink, just like Jackie’s, just like Karros’s. She refused to believe it. In a few hours she would be back on the ship, and they would be that much closer to solving the mystery of the wreck. The fact that Karros was in a hospital in Athens and Jackie was on her way to the CDC in Georgia affected her only slightly. Not when we are this close! she thought. She felt sure they were on the verge of a breakthrough.
The wreck was a mystery, and that was what mattered most to Lydia. When she had gone into archeology she had thought she would be sifting dust in an Egyptian desert or hacking through the Yucatan jungle. But there was pioneering work being done in undersea archeology, and her fiancé Ambrose had hooked them up with Steve to do a few voyages. No matter how much he claimed he wasn’t a treasure hunter, Steve still hoped for a large haul of gold to pay back his stockholders with. Ambrose hoped for prestige and fame. But Lydia just wanted the answers to questions history had left for them.
Her arms are crossed over her chest, but the water flowing down her back feels so good she wants to reach up into the stream. She lowers her hands, her fingers sliding over her skin,
and she shivers in delight. She has never been comfortable in nakedness, but now she forgets modesty as she leans back to let the water spatter onto her breasts. She reaches up and spreads the water between her breasts, over her nipples, her neck and lips.
She had argued with Ambrose over the origin of the wreck. That morning at the palazzo, before they had set sail again, he had picked a fight with the other archeologist, a young man named Tomson, Will Tomson, who had speculated that if they couldn’t find evidence for a Mediterranean culture who whaled, who was to say the cargo came from the same place as the ship? Ambrose had practically bellowed at the man, “What sort of twisted logic is that? You’ll never get anywhere with thinking like that, my boy. You’ll spend your life on one wild goose chase after another. Simplify!”
Lydia had been pretending not to hear the exchange, putting sugar into her coffee with slow deliberate spoonfuls, and stirring so that the spoon did not clink against the side of the mug. But when it had come to that she had stood up, and approached their table.
Ambrose had put his hand around her hip as she came over, proprietary as always. But he took it away again when she said, “It very well may be that our explanation is going to be a complicated one. Where did the whale oil come from? Where did the ship come from? They may well be two different answers.” As she walked away, she could feel Ambrose’s usual daggers in her back. She would pay for defying him later, she was sure of it. But no matter the consequence, Lydia could not allow an incorrect or foolish statement to stand.
And they certainly had to consider every option. This wasn’t like the Spanish galleon they had recovered off the continental shelf last year, doubloons and rare artefacts and a diary clearly revealing the date of her voyage. No, this wreck was older than any ever found, probably 3,000 years or more, and nothing they had brought up yet had matched their body of knowledge. There were amphorae and other jars they expected to be full of olive oil. But some were found with their seals still intact, and when opened they were found to be whale oil. Some of them were strangely fragrant, as if perfumed to last over centuries, millennia. The scents of some civilization older than any they had previously encountered. Staggering.
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