Siren's Garter: Issue One August 2016

by Miriam F. Martin

  “I must owe something,” Pete said. He pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “Just feels wrong otherwise.”

  “What kind of woman do you take me for?”

  “The kind I’d take home to mother.”

  “Aw, how sweet.” Cheryl lightly smacked his cheek with her fingertips. “But before that happens, my apartment is upstairs.”

  A tense, silent moment passed. Pete folded the Ben Franklin in half, gaze downward as if pondering life’s mysteries. Cheryl held her breath, wondering what would happen next. Would he respond to her come-on in good humor, and they’d laugh it off like good friends?

  Did she need her toy tonight?

  Pete reached out, and shoved the money down her low-cut tank top, inside her bra just above the lace. Her heart hammered against the touch, his fingers warm and rough.

  “I finish here in an hour,” Cheryl said.

  “Can’t wait,” he said. “Gives me enough time to sober up.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” she took his hand and leaned forward as if to kiss him. “One more thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Brenda,” he said.

  “I promise one thing,” said Cheryl. “By the end of the night, you won’t remember her name.”

  3

  The next hour passed uneventfully, but tense. Cheryl cleaned, taking breaks only to stretch her aching back and legs now and then. A hot shower would hit the spot, but she couldn’t help but think about the spot she hoped Pete would hit.

  He used the restroom twice, and drank two more cups of bitter sugar-filled coffee. He talked with Bob the bouncer, watched the late night talk show on the big screen TV, and relaxed in a way he hadn’t earlier. Before the coffee, he’d been either slouching or sitting upright as if a pole had been shoved in his ass. Now he was poised, confident, shoulders thrown back, but at ease.

  Cheryl tried hard not to stare at him. Staying busy helped. There was a floor to mop, glassware to get to the dishwasher, prep work for the next shift.

  Then she’d take a sip from her now cold and stale coffee, and stare at Pete through the mirror. Watching him laugh at the TV, dump more sugar into his java, run his fingers through his thick hair.

  And then she’d see Bob in the mirror too, shaking his bald head and chuckling. He worked fast, a skip to his step, taking out trash and wiping down tables as if giant red devil were lashing him to move ever quicker. Maybe he had someone waiting for him at home.

  The whole time, Cheryl wondered: Would Pete mind if I showered first? Could I get him into the shower with me? Do I want to do that? Should I shave my twat? Would he like that?

  The hour dragged on for an eternity of questions with no answers, and then it ended. The last drunkards left. Bob bid her a good night with a knowing wink. Cheryl tossed the coffee mugs on the dish-line for the morning crew.

  “You ready?” she asked, keys in hand.

  “What do you think I was doing in the bathroom?” Pete said.

  “Draining the booze out of your system.” She locked the front doors and punched in the code on the pad for the security system. “And that better be all you drained, mister.”

  He shrugged, hands in his front jeans pockets. “It’s mostly gone.”

  Cheryl rolled her eyes and yanked one hand out of his pocket. His palm was warm and sweaty. She led him through the kitchen, past the ripe smells of burnt meat and fried food, up the back stairs with the creaky steps, unlocked her apartment door, and pushed him inside.

  “Mi casa, su casa,” she said, waving one arm gracefully about.

  “Lovely place,” he said. “Not what I expected above a bar.”

  “What you expected? Lava lamps and shaggy green carpet?”

  When first moving in, that had been what the place looked like. Since, she’d blackmailed Robert into painting the walls and putting down a cream colored carpet, giving the old hangout a clean and fresh, homey smell. Not an ounce of remorse passed her brain, since the apartment needed a remodel to match the downstairs renovations.

  Cheryl kicked off her tennis shoes at the door, and Pete did the same. The main room was small and cozy, big enough for a three-person sofa, a TV, some tables, and a whole lot of books.

  Pete pointed at the bookcases lining the wall adjacent to her thirty inch TV. “More like, I didn’t expect a library of law textbooks.”

  “Oh, you know. Girl’s got to have hobbies.”

  “So you’re a law student?” he said.

  “Cliche.”

  “But awesome.” Pete’s dark, Italian eyes lit up. “Guess you weren’t joking about being in court.”

  “I’m second year. With luck, I won’t need the bartending gig much longer.”

  “Good,” he said. “I mean, for you. I did similar stuff when I was a student. Waiter, retail clerk, other things I don’t want to mention.”

  “Oh?” Cheryl dropped her keys in the crystal ashtray, on the hickory hutch behind the sofa. “Anything I’ll see you in court for?”

  “Naw, nothing like that. Just didn’t care for those jobs.”

  She yanked on his dress shirt, the silky smooth fabric slick under her fingers, and maneuvered him to the sofa. One leg folded up beneath her, she sat first. He followed suit, tilted away from her at an angle.

  “What do you do now?” Cheryl didn’t entirely let go of his shirt, his chest and ab muscles firm under her touch. Pete tensed when she wandered near his belt.

  “I own Eighth Street Books,” he said, clutching her hands in his. “Not far from your school.”

  “Really? Do you carry law books? Maybe I’ll stop by sometime.”

  “Maybe I’d like that.”

  “Maybe?” Cheryl inched closer, still keeping a safe distance.

  “Well, assuming you don’t kill me tonight. Otherwise, yes.”

  “What if I kill you only a little bit?” Closer. Enough to sneak a peck on the lips if she chose. Far away enough to retreat if she creeped him out too much.

  “La petit mort?” he said.

  “Oiou,” she said, eyes half shut, lips so very near his. Electricity fizzled between them.

  Pete cupped a hand behind her head, bringing her the rest of the way.

  He kissed her first.

  A sweet, gentle peck, followed by the press of wet lips and his tongue. Blood rushing to her head, Cheryl shivered in the excitement. Every nerve raw and frayed, she loosened to the rhythm of his kissing.

  It had been far too long since she’d last been touched like this.

  Fumbling about with limb and body positions, she climbed onto Pete, into his lap, her legs straddling his waist. She pinned him to the couch. No escape for him now. Pete wrapped his arms around her torso, bringing her into his warmth, like a cocoon.

  Lips locked, fingers shaking, Cheryl teased the buttons of his shirt, not quite getting two undone. The skin underneath was smooth like polished glass and burnt fiery hot. Shaking with frustration, Cheryl pushed herself away. She hadn’t noticed she stopped breathing. Each pant hurt like a rough tickle.

  “This,” she said. “This is your last chance. To escape.”

  Pete grabbed her forearms, sliding his hands up the dragons’ bodies.

  “Which way to the bedroom?” he said.

  4

  Cheryl dragged Pete into her bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt along the way, as best she could at any rate. She hit the light-switch with her elbow and yanked off her top.

  The room was just big enough for a queen size bed and a night table. It smelled clean, the floor had been vacuumed not long ago, and she’d made the bed this morning. Not bad for an unplanned one-nighter.

  She pulled back the bed covers.

  The curtains were still open. She went to the window, fingers on the drawstring to close the blinds. Outside, the full moon shone bright.

  Pete touched her shoulder blades, tracing the curved lines of dr
agon tails to her arms. He pushed her hair out of the way, and kissed her neck, right below the ear. A tingly, raw sensation settled into the pit of her stomach and spread out across her body, into her limbs.

  Stranger things happened on full moon nights.

  Cheryl dropped the blinds and closed the curtains. Half turning, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his dress shirt down his shoulders. Pete pulled her in, kissing her, exploring her mouth with his tongue.

  A belt buckle loosened and rattled. Cheryl dug her fingernails into his hair, yanking and pulling his head about to kiss him deeper. A zipper unzipped. Pants dropped to the floor. Silky boxers rubbed against her bare stomach.

  Pete was already hard. The tip was wet.

  He pushed her to the bed. Cheryl gasped for breath, undoing her own belt buckle. Eager, sweating, fingers not entirely functioning right. Pete helped her with the zipper and yanked off the tight jeans one leg at a time. The black lace panties slid off too.

  She reached out and pulled down his boxers. His cock flopped out, springing at attention. Pete was just the right size, above average, a big mushroom head, a tight ball sack.

  Cheryl clung to him, legs wrapped around his. Sucking and licking his nipples, she stroked him one handed, gliding gently up and down his shaft. She stroked the tip, feeling the ridges and the hot, sticky precum pouring out of him. Pete shivered and gasped and pulled her hair.

  The room heated up. Boiling hot. Fingers pressed into her shoulders. Pete pushed her onto her back. He placed a pillow under her head, and adjusted his body over hers. She spread her legs, letting him kiss her, hoping for more.

  One finger on her clit, Pete rocked her steady. Her body tightened, heart pumping fast, every part of her numb and sensitive at the same time.

  Her pussy became wet. He massaged her faster, dipping a finger inside, pulling out. She wanted to stroke him. Get his cock inside her. Something… but she was trapped underneath him, at his mercy.

  Finally, slow and gentle, Pete slid deep into her, stretching her out little by little. Cheryl gasped when he was balls deep. She clung to him by the neck, wrapping her legs around his waist. A sweet moment of sweaty bliss passed, face to face, lips touching but not locked, bodies pressed together in a hot mess.

  Cheryl bucked against him, wanting more, now. His breath was sultry hot. Still, quiet, moving only a nudge, Pete rotated his hips. She closed her eyes to slits. Every nerve in her body screamed for attention.

  One more kiss, sweet and wet. And then Pete pumped. Again and again, faster. Rougher with each thrust.

  He slowed, catching his breath, letting her catch hers, and shared a kiss. Pete took her hand, his fingers entwined with hers, and he pinned her to the bed with his other hand in her hair. The bed squeaked and moaned under their bouncing. She breathed in short gasps, her heart pounding faster and faster.

  Time blurred and slowed for Cheryl. Their skin made thwapping noises. Louder, harder. Closer.

  Her pussy tightened and spasmed around his cock. She shuddered against his body, her orgasm rattling her to the core.

  Pete pulled out inch by excruciating inch. Still holding her hand, he stroked himself. Face tensed, brows pinched together, he squeezed her hand tighter. A hot spurt erupted across her stomach, across her bra. Some of it sprayed on her chin. He sighed, relaxing back into her embrace, pressing his semen between them.

  Another kiss, this time lazier, half-hearted with no tongue. Pete flopped over on his side, opening his arms, welcoming her to sleep.

  She laid side by side with him, warm fluids from both of them coating her body. Settling into his arms, something crinkled underneath her, near her breast.

  Cheryl slipped two fingers into her bra, and pulled out the hundred dollar bill Pete had tipped her. Chuckling from exhaustion, she flicked the money away and closed her eyes.

  THE GIRL BEHIND THE COUNTER

  Jason had gone to the Quickie Mart gas station every Thursday through Saturday night on his way to the job at the cinema. It was cheaper to buy a sandwich and soda at the station than at work, even with the employee discount on concessions. Then every night on his way home around three in the morning he'd drive back and stop again for some late night munchies.

  Only rarely did the redhead chick get a night off. Jason at first was nice to her, always in a hurry to get to work. After a few months of that job, he learned he could afford to be a few minutes late. So he'd be nice and chat with the girl for awhile, since it seemed like she was often bored and lonely at the gas station. She had a nice handful sized rack, pretty skin, and an ass to die for. Her name tag announced her as Miranda, he noticed one day while taking a quick glance at her perky breasts.

  "So," he said, "Miranda."

  "Yes?" She checked out his box of candy and soda and tapped her nails while he slid his card.

  "Hi."

  "Hey you." Her smile was to die for. He wondered what her smile would look like in the low lights of his bedroom when he got home from work. "You want something?"

  "No, I'm good. Just wanted to say have a nice day."

  "Have a good night." She smiled again, this time forced and coldly professional.

  Jason cursed himself out on the way to work, nearly tail ended a woman, and ran through a red light. He'd screwed that up, and couldn't have gotten any worse. What a dumb ass, he kept thinking and telling himself over and over. Pretty young girl all alone and being friendly to him. And he didn't have the balls to ask her on a date?

  He went through the motions at work, taking movie tickets, checking out pretty girls with dates, smiling at children. He made short work of the late night clean up and punched out before his boss could ask him to stay late. She was always on him to stay later, to help her clean up or something. He didn't want to fulfill her fantasy of having him in the theater after hours. Not like he wouldn't do her, but he was already pissed at himself for screwing up with the cutie at the Quickie Mart.

  Back at the gas station, he picked up a few groceries. Miranda stood behind the counter, looking bored and tired. "Jason, buddy."

  "Hey Miranda," he said. "How'd you know my name?"

  "I'm psychic, of course," Her smile turned bright and cheerful, white teeth and pouty red lips. "I can see it on my screen when you swipe your card. Going to your next job?"

  "Nope. Home for the night and I intend to sleep in for a few days. Why are you here so late?"

  "No ride. Besides, I could use the extra hours."

  "I hear you. Hope your ride shows up soon. Not exactly the kind of place I'd like to work at night."

  "Fuck's sake, no. But my ride totally canceled on me at the last moment. The night auditor is here, but is taking a nap since I'm stuck with him."

  Jason slid his card through the machine and hit credit. "Hey, I can give you a ride. If you want."

  "Really?"

  "Unless you want to stay here with the napping auditor?"

  "I'll wake him up and get my shit."

  "I'm parked out front here." Jason pointed to his Civic through the front window. "I'll wait up."

  Miranda thanked him profusely, her smile getting bigger as she ran off to the back room. Jason packed his groceries in the trunk and sat listening to the radio for what seemed like forever. Snow fell, he adjusted the heat, turned the wipers on, turned up the defroster. He wondered if maybe this was a bad idea. And he kept reminding himself that he was just being a nice guy to a lady who needed some help. This wasn't a date, wasn't an invitation to sex. Just take her home.

  And then go home and watch late night movies all night while eating frozen pizza. Sounded like a lovely night. Such a lovely night that he had been repeating every night for the last few years. He entertained the possibility of bringing Miranda back to his place, at least for a moment.

  As soon as she walked out of the gas station with purse in hand, he threw that idea out the window.

  Jason spared a glance at her profile—long red hair tied in the back, pale face in the sharp lime securit
y lights, small nose with a piercing that seemed to shine in the dark. Miranda glanced up and down at him as she buckled her seatbelt, and he turned his focus to reversing the car and driving. No use admiring a pretty face while running over a garbage can. Maybe he could sneak a kiss on the cheek before she told him good night. He imagined the scene in his head a little to clearly—her eyes up at his, small hands on his torso as she leaned forward to accept the kiss...

  He swerved to the right, an angry bystander flipped him off on the sidewalk. "Sorry. Long day I guess."

  "Sorry to keep you up late."

  "I'm a night owl normally." He leaned his elbow on the window and brooded. "Nope. Long work day, maybe. I was distracted."

  Miranda laughed, a sweet curly laugh, deep and womanly, somewhat like a child giggling at a secret. "Distracted by what? The guy in the Packers shirt?"

  Jason couldn't help but smile. He raised a palm up and shrugged. "You know me. I'm a sucker for anything Packers."

  "Is that so? Well, you'll love my apartment."

  "Let me guess," Jason raised a finger, "green wallpaper. Favre posters. Yellow carpet."

  "So close. I prefer Doug Flutie as an idol. But I do have a Favre poster."

  "I like you already. Did I mention that before?"

  "You didn't." Miranda looked out the window, and hummed to herself. Nothing was said for a few minutes, Jason struggled to find more to say—he wasn't really much of a football fan, but he appreciated a girl who knew sports. Why the hell didn't he ask her out yet?

  "You want to do something? Monday and Tuesday is my weekend."

  "Maybe I have a boyfriend."

  "I didn't say candle light dinner with wine." He scratched his nose, heart sunk to the bottom of stomach. Why were the pretty girls always taken? "I'd say a movie, but I work at a theater. Spend enough time there as it is."

  She laughed again and slapped him on the arm. Her laugh was beginning to sound like a siren call—lovely and deadly, and something he needed to keep in perspective before he had a pissed off boyfriend with a shotgun chasing him down. "I'd say we could hang out at the gas station, but I spend a lot of time there."