In A Flicker

by George R. Lopez

  As she continued her oral exploration of his quivering torso, Maggie reached in then down, unbuttoning the top of his fine trousers. He quickly pulled away to stop her before she could go any further. He was a modest man. When it came to matters of intimacy, the shy nature he had as a boy was still very much intact. Interpreting his action correctly, not as rejection, her reaction to Ethan’s anxiety was sweet.

  “I don’t bite, love.” She spoke lightheartedly to ease his tension. “That’s extra.”

  Ethan didn’t mean to withhold his affections. He was lost, in uncharted territory, wandering into No Man’s Land. He blew out the candle nearest to the bed, allowing the other to remain as ambient light in the room, except for the soft glow of gaslight lamps shining through his window from below. Regaining his courage, Ethan stood directly in front of her, ready to take it like a man. Placing his palms upon her rather diminutive shoulders, there was room to spare. Feeling free to do so, he traced her hairline with his fingertips then sunk them into thick strands where they too got lost as did Ethan, his thoughts wandering with his hands. She pulled him down onto the bed with one solid tug, flipping him over in such a way that his legs dangled loosely off the side of the mattress. If it’d seemed a surreal trip to Wonderland prior to that instant, it was about to get real. This woman knew precisely what she was doing, a practiced methodology, multitasking even before it was a concept, let alone a word in the Oxford English Dictionary. She had it down to a science, a form of fine art.

  Removing his shoes so to streamline her confiscation of his trousers, Ethan laid very still, allowing her to work her magic. With each button undone came a kiss as he languished in her care. Leaving behind wet marks wherever she went, her supple tongue teasing him along, his skin tingled where damp as the cold night air intruded on a private interlude, though neither of them felt chilly as it swept through an open window. Maggie found the air as refreshing as her newfound client, Arthur. Slowly, but surely, his trouser buttons undone, one by one, she pulled them off, leaving him with just his not very sexy wool socks and stockings. Pausing to stare at what fabric remained, Maggie muffled the urge to burst into a girlish giggle once again. Trying to contain herself, Ethan quickly explained his predicament.

  “The fabric of the pants is itchy. These help keep the scratching under control.”

  His Maggie clone continued staring at the leggings as Ethan hurried, awkwardly removing them himself. She raised her eyebrows, nodding in approval overall.

  “Ya know? That’s good common sense.” She complimented his sense of utility if not his sense of style.

  She had him lay back once again as she straddled him. It took a few minutes for her to unbutton and remove her top layers, albeit slowly for his enjoyment, but once she did, Maggie waited patiently, allowing his eyes to linger, letting him absorb the exposed top half of her body. Ethan’s shyness returned with his embarrassment, as if he was staring at the beautiful bare shoulders, neck and breasts of the real Maggie, though he could not bring himself to look away, gazing submissively.

  She lifted his hands, pulling them toward her bosom, embracing the back of his head as he tenderly kissed her breasts. As he suckled, her breathing kept increasing in depth and pace. She latched onto a handful of his hair then pulled his head back, looking into his eyes as she continued to breathe through her mouth then she smiled at him. He leaned back once more while she reached up beneath layers of skirts and moved aside any obstruction to their joining with one another. She began moving back and forth, attempting to work him up a bit before entering her. He continued watching her eyes as she threw her head backward, moaning and breathing heavily. Leaning forward, Maggie rested her hand on his bare chest, letting her silken locks drape across her face, swaying over his as she thrust her hips forward and backward, harder and faster but then she suddenly stopped. Ethan was not becoming aroused. His subconscious mind wouldn’t allow him pleasure as it kept repeating in his head: “This isn’t real. She’s acting. None of this is truly her. No. She’s not my Maggie.”

  “Ya alright, love?” Awkwardly inquiring, she felt nothing down there from him. In spite of her effort, no sign of life.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong.” Indeed, he did know what was wrong.

  “Not to worry, love. Happens to the best of ‘em now and then.” She countered, hearing of these stories from other working girls. It never happened to her before.

  “Wanna give it another go? Try again?” Kind and sympathetic to his plight, the young lady wanted to complete the task for her client. It was her job, after all.

  “Perhaps another night?” Ethan responded as he rose and sat on the edge of the bed, hurriedly putting his pants back on. He was lost in thought, thinking too much.

  “Yeah, anytime love.” Taking her cue from him, she began to get dressed again. “Th’ girls know me as Abby. If ya ask ’round they’ll know where t’ find me.”

  Ethan asked what he owed her without looking in her eyes, his head down. She told him the meager amount, a pittance for her, which he immediately remitted, five times what Abby expected. She briefly objected, politely so, noting his refusal of a refund promptly issued. In gentlemanly custom, with very little said between them, Ethan walked her back downstairs. A hug goodbye, he closed the door behind her. Off she went, disappearing into a foggy night. The itching had returned everywhere. He’d put on his trousers without the protective stockings. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

  Two more times over the next six days Ethan heard an impromptu knock on his door during the late night or early morning hours. Abigail would return. Ethan knew it was for nothing more than money. He was likely the most generous customer she ever had. In spite of it, he was delighting in her companionship. After trying again to arouse his loins with no success, they’d talked. The second return visit she stayed the night and they slept together, just slept until late in the morning, wrapped in one another’s arms. Ethan enjoyed bringing her coffee. They sipped their morning brew as he told her of his college days, a few adjustments to the era so as not to divulge any secrets. Abby told her untrue stories too, speaking of her intentions to someday go to school, improve her circumstances in life; they both knew it wouldn’t happen. For a brief time she exited the room, returning with a pair of kitchen scissors, shears for Ethan, explaining how she’d fancied herself a decent barber in earlier days when she routinely cut her two brother’s hair. It was Ethan’s first haircut since his arrival. An intimate liaison, she circled him over and over, leaning into him as he remained poised quite still in the desk chair centered in the room. Supple breasts mere inches from his face as Abby kept snipping away, allowing them to stroke his cheeks from time to time, the common haircut transformed into an alluring interlude playing out in slow motion, a scene he memorized and would never forget. Whether it was her intoxicating presence, her body so close to his own, or perhaps because Abigail was holding something so sharp in her hand, so close to his face and neck, Ethan found it sensual, erotic, a thrillingly dangerous moment for the of both of them, had Abby known whose hair she was cutting.

  After her third paid visit with Ethan when he tried eel pie for the very first time, Abby’s treat, as he’d done before, he walked her to the front door then said goodbye before returning to his room. Once behind the door, he crossed over to the window facing Bakers Row. From there he could clearly see Abigail talking to a man across the street, no doubt an interested midday customer or perhaps she was making plans for an evening rendezvous. Ethan felt no possessive tendencies toward Abby. What he saw had no effect on him it that way. In fact, as the man talking to this imposter Maggie felt some entitlement to grasp her by the waist, pulling her closer into him, Abby showed her reluctance to oblige him. Ethan felt a sensation long absent from his loins; a visceral stimulation he had not felt in quite some time. He was achieving arousal by watching the controlling way in which that brute was manhandling her, testing the water to see how deep he could go. Their encounter appeared to be more o
f a power play by the man, not the woman. He might well be one of the local gang members attempting an extortion. Indeed, she was younger than most on the streets but she was a clever lass and a manipulative woman, as well. She knew these streets and how to handle herself. He felt no sense of impending doom, of her being in any sort of danger but his imagination hoped differently. Besides, he’d have to abide by the non-interference directive. Abigail’s knight in shining armor couldn’t intervene on her behalf if he’d wanted to help. Smirking, he thought, “I’m off the time clock.”

  It was crystalline clear, painfully so, yet another moment of epiphany for Ethan LaPierre in his ongoing process of illumination. He was a voyeur. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him. For the last several years he’d been training to be exactly that, a Scope. His duties in the respective Flicker projects primarily included these proclivities, an ability to watch events in history unfold. In the case of Ethan’s task, it was to watch murders being committed, to spy on tragedy porn in its rawest form. Trained in this, he’d wound up participating instead of watching from the shadows, a safe distance, undetected. It became immediately obvious why he had an arousal, looking down at the scene below. It explained his flaccid dysfunction with Abigail. Calling her Maggie by name did not help nor would anything else because his only interaction with women since being here was violent by his own actions. He started rubbing himself harder against an edge of the desk through his trousers, looking on. The feeling faded too quickly because the encounter below had abruptly ended with Abigail shoving away from the bloke then storming off down the street. Ethan had an intimate internal glimpse of who and what he had become and it wasn’t what he expected to see in the metaphorical looking glass. Perverse thoughts he entertained were paramount in his mind to the exclusion of all else, savoring the self-reflection.

  Over the next few days Abigail did not visit him. Ethan kept silent vigil, peering out the window through most of each passing day to see if he could spot her on the street. When he wasn’t reading or in the kitchen preparing his food or drink, he was watching for her with every glance, a peripheral turn of the head, certain she would return to him eventually, likely due to reemerge once she had run out of funds. He wanted to see her but Ethan was not deluding himself, either. Theirs was a business arrangement, first and foremost. He longed to talk with her, to explain his dilemma, this newly acquired and very specific taste of pleasure. She had been so patient with him their first three times together when he failed to perform. Of course, the money helped with any impatience she struggled with, as it was surely her main motivation for returning again and again. He was certain they could find an amicable solution, a proper price to compensate her for his unusual request, a fee for service rendered elsewhere, in the arms of another man. Ethan’s discovery of his unique inclinations and appetite, a penchant for voyeurism was a tendency he simply could not ignore.

  The very next night Abby did indeed return to his room, as predicted. A familiar knock on the door sent a surge of adrenaline pulsing through his veins as he leapt up from his desk to answer the call. The poor darling was sporting a blackened eye, a battle scar from yet another dangerous liaison on the streets of Whitechapel.

  “Please don’t ask.” Abby interrupted before he could begin an inquisition.

  “Wasn’t going to mention it.” He responded, easing tension in the air. He knew the badge of defiance most likely came from a thug on the street, a sign of the times and the tough life she lead.

  Abigail walked in then over to the desk to lay a few items down as she rambled on about her day like she had just returned home from work. In the meantime, Ethan went to lay down on the bed. Turning to face him, she let out a remark of shock.

  “Bloody hell, Arthur! Yer socks are filthy! Looks like ya been walkin’ ‘round without any shoes on fer days!” In fact, her assessment was correct.

  Taking the initiative to pull them off his feet before he could resist, he laughed. Ethan could imagine his 21st Century Maggie doing the same thing in his apartment at Oxford. She balled them up and threw them near the pitcher on the dresser to be washed later on, then opened the top drawer, searching for a fresh pair.

  “I’m not paying you for changing my socks, you know!” Ethan joked.

  “On the contrary, sir, I should be the one payin’ for the honor!” Abby’s rebuttal was adorable. She sifted through his underwear, looking for a matching pair.

  “What’s this?” she said, still sifting and searching.

  “What’s what?” Ethan asked curiously.

  “This.” Abby repeated, holding up the tin can in which the wrapped, preserved kidney of Catherine Eddowes was contained, saturated in cheap red wine.

  Ethan felt a jolt of electricity fly through his entire body, a high-voltage call to attention. He’d known it was still in there, destined to make its historical debut quite soon, just forgotten about in the moment as his mind was elsewhere, lost in thought, consumed with another fixation. Any story concocted would lead to more curiosity, which could lead to horrible consequences for both. He decided to rely on his ever present friend, Time to bail him out of this oversight.

  “It’s a preserved heart. Open it!” Ethan boldly asserted his claim, offering Abby access with a facetious grin. He was too clever by half, going the way of half-truth. He was playing his part flawlessly. To have said a kidney was stored in the container might trigger a memory for her when the “From hell” letter went public. Thinking quickly on his feet, even when lying flat on his back, practice makes perfect and he played her perfectly.

  “Ugh. Stuff that, love.” She placed it back inside the drawer. “Pro’bly the other socks y’ave yet to wash. At least in there, they won’t stink.” Finally matching two socks, she closed the drawer. Instead of sliding them on his feet she balled each one up and threw them at him, laughing as she did. Abigail jumped on the bed then kept jumping all around Ethan chanting in a girlish tease: “Dirty sock man. Dirty, dirty sock man. Yer feet stink. Yer a stinker!” She dropped, straddling his hips, ready to give it another go, more than willing to try again.

  “Ya wanna?” Knowing she’d be paid regardless of whether or not she asked, it was her suggestion, secretly hoping he would agree. Having grown quite fond of a rather shy, odd gentleman, her inquisitive nature was about to be sated. Ethan was ready, too...ready to tell her what he needed, what he desired from his new mistress. Breathing deeply, attempting to calm his angst before making an indecent proposal, Ethan had spent several days preparing for this unique request of Abigail.

  “I have to ask a favor of you.” He began tentatively, a slight tremor in his voice. “Please understand, you are free to deny me, no hard feelings. Say ‘no’ if you want. I’ll completely understand.” Speaking the words aloud was as foreign to him as the appeal he was making of her.

  Sensing the seriousness in his demeanor, Abby sat straight up, looking down on Ethan with wide-eyed wonder, perplexed and enticed in equal measure. Most of the men she serviced were quite predictable in their sexual interests and pleasures. She knew this was something “different” by the expression on his face. The price they’d pay kept a roof over her head. The price she paid was monotony, bored to death by the same old tricks night in and night out. For her, it was all an act. For him, it was as well, but the role he wanted her to play for him on the stage below, on the street outside his window, well, it may prove to be too difficult, a bit too bizarre for her.

  “What’s ya pleasure? What’ya have in mind?” Awaiting his answer, Abigail’s anticipation made her playful. Open to suggestion, she was excited by the prospect.

  Gazing up into her eyes, Ethan mustered the courage by drawing a deep breath then blowing it out, puffing up his cheeks with the force exerted.

  “I’d appreciate it if you would return to the street in front of my window, across the way where I can see you from here and allow the next man who approaches you to rough you up a bit.” He said it all in one single, solitary breath.

&n
bsp; “What d’ ya mean by ‘rough’?” Abby didn’t skip a beat. She’d been around and had heard of, if not experienced the depravity of men firsthand, backhanded from time to time. Though she didn’t really expect it of Ethan, Abby wasn’t shocked by very much anymore. Most women in the profession have a history of abusive men in their lives from the start, many relating violence with affection. “Normalcy” was assessed on a case-by-case basis, factoring in the complexities of human emotions and experience. This request wasn’t so far off the grid.

  “Nothing you’d be uncomfortable with, I assure you.” Ethan explained further, making his case based on an assumption that she had endured such behavior in the past and may be willing to again, if the price was right. “I will reward your efforts, I promise you that, lass. It’s the only way I can, well, you know.”

  “And are ya gonna come to me rescue and save me from the bloke then?” She asked with a ‘ damsel in distress’ expectation of some drama in her life.

  “Um, not exactly. No.”

  “Well, then where might ya be?”

  “Uh, watching from my window.” Ethan asked more than suggested. She fell silent, staring at him for a moment before she got up, sliding off of him. Ethan thought he’d blown it, that he went too far. He stood from the bed in his bare feet and followed her over to the desk, thinking Abby was about to gather up all her belongings and leave his residence before this sordid discussion went any further. There she stood, staring out the window. His intention was to apologize for the lurid suggestion and ask her to forgive and forget what he’d said but before he could, she spoke quite candidly regarding the proposition.