Sin Delicious

by Willow Sears

  They are propped on various chairs around the room now, meaning many of us have to stand. I’m exhausted and the copious wine intake isn’t helping, but I want to stick this out for as long as my eyes will stay open. They are hamming it up a little, since all of them are still in period costume and it’s difficult to sing seriously with frilly lacework at your neck. They are making up a song as they go along, in standard blues format: “Woke up this morning,” dah dee da da dah, “Found some scabs on mah balls,” dah dee da da dah, “Mah wife gone left me”, etc. Cas, as well as thinking up ridiculous lyrics, is also deliberately playing his harmonica increasingly off-key. Everyone loves it, none more than Sindee. She rocks back and forth in her chair near the singer, arms tight across her front as if trying to protect her ribs from the laughter she is struggling to contain. Then one hand has to clamp to her mouth to prevent the escape of hysterics that might draw attention to her. I, though, see the brightness in her eyes, the almost-tears of joy. I can practically feel the glow radiating from her, because of Cas. She is falling, falling.

  With no hawk-eyed Honey there to worry about they let their guard slip just a little. Between songs they lean in and chat, snatching this fleeting opportunity, both with smiles all across their faces. You can see that no one exists for them in this moment except each other. They are in a bubble that could burst with a big bang if walked into by an unseen returning wife. Sindee reaches out and puts her hand lightly upon his arm. To my knowledge this is the first physical contact they have made and I don’t have my camera with me to capture it. It must be lust, obviously. They haven’t had enough contact with one another for it to be anything else.

  More physical contact, however, seems to be on both of their minds. They look like they have every desire to find out just how right they are for each other, even if it kills a marriage in the process. I have a sudden urge to be elsewhere, that nearby a naked Raven Girl could well be doing some very rude things that I might want to see. However, I know I simply don’t want to be here when Honey comes back and sees that look in her husband’s eye. I am also aware that by taking myself off I am offering myself up as bait to lure the wife away from this scene. I am colluding with the cheaters just as Sindee asked me to. Guilt could make me stay but another part of my subconscious is reminding me that Honey is hardly innocent, if her pursuit of me is anything to go by.

  I head back out to the dining room since that is where Raven Girl was last seen. For some reason I expect to find her entertaining more than one gent, still covered in cream from her splatting. Either that or writhing around with Blondie or Cucumber Girl or both, for the delight of a watching audience – none of whom will be the band members they came here to see, since they are all making music elsewhere. By the grand main staircase with the dining room threshold in sight, out emerges a half-naked female and suddenly I am face to face with Mrs Honey Casanove. Her hair has been washed but not quite fully dried. The fancy gown has gone to be replaced with a sarong at her waist and above it a half-cut bikini top in pink. The rest is tanned, smooth nudity. I imagine it is standard Playboy mansion attire. Either that or she knows well that parties in places like this can easily end up in the fountain. She has her chest out towards me, trying to stun me with cleavage.

  “You’ve given me a hankerin’, Missy,” she says in that accent of hers. I wonder if she ever eats grits, like all them Southern folk do in My Cousin Vinny.

  “Oh, really?” I reply, returning her thin smile. “And what would that be for?”

  “I’m thinking I’d like to take you back to mah room, along with one of those there big, creamy cakes, so I can get you to sit your pretty bare butt right down into it and have you wriggling and squishing around so it’s all over you and all up inside. Then maybe I might set about licking you all clean again. What do you think to that idea?”

  I might look and sound confident but my legs are rapidly jellifying. There is no doubting her words have induced that familiar tingling action down below but hopefully I have my best poker face on and haven’t given her any sign. I let my smile recede, trying to seem nonchalant and thoughtful, as if weighing up her proposition fully. I let go her gaze and look purposefully down into her huddled cleavage. She instantly responds by drawing in a long breath, swelling her chest, lifting that magnet bosom which must have mesmerised a million eyes in its time.

  “I don’t know,” I say, eyes still down, trying again to look and sound all flirty and doing a pretty good job. “It sounds awfully messy to me.”

  “But it’s a good kind of mess, sweetie – the best kind.”

  “And what would Mr Casanove think if he caught us like this?”

  “Why, he won’t mind at all. He loves to see pretty girls fooling around together. It’s his favourite thing.”

  “And what would Mrs Casanove think if I wanted to fool around with her husband a little?”

  I could be opening myself right up here but it’s is a calculated gamble since I think I already have her measure. I am proved right. There is a flicker in her eyes, tiny signs of a threat recognized, of anger, of haughty indignation that I might be more interested in her husband than in her. She keeps her smile but a little coldness remains in the eyes.

  “My husband ain’t part of the deal, sweetie,” she says, struggling to avoid sounding too firm.

  My gaze is back on hers now and I pull my best eyebrows-raised expression of fading interest in her proposition, as if mulling over her words when in fact I’m actually choosing my next with care. When I say them I know I will already have turned and will be doing my best to sashay away towards the stairs, speaking over my shoulder, still with that little smile to show that I’ve enjoyed our little flirty time and that our business here isn’t necessarily concluded, even if privately I will be more than partially relieved to have extricated myself from the danger area.

  “Well, now – that isn’t very generous of you, is it?” I say, as I slowly make my exit as planned. “Giving me away but keeping him all to yourself. It seems to me that you’re very selective in your sharing.”

  “Sometimes it’s more than enough just to be watched,” she calls after me. “Sometimes the most exciting thing is in the performing. You need to find that out, sweetie.”

  I give her a lingering look. She is ten yards behind and standing her ground, trying not to look bitter at my departure because that would indicate a defeat. Here’s the thing: I know by not staying I’m leaving Sindee and Cas exposed. I should at least try to give them some warning, not just disappear off to bed as I am doing. However, despite my apparent brush-off I am well aware that Honey can see where I am off to, all alone. It’s not exactly an open invitation but it is more of a come-on than I suspected I could manage. Unless she has her own rules about going with girls only if her hubby is present then what stops her from biding her time and then sneaking up to find me when I am all tucked up?

  “Let me think on it,” I say, halfway up the stairs. No doubt I will indeed think on it. I won’t be able to prevent myself when alone in my room in the darkness. She wants to spank my bum and I will be there laid out with nowhere to run. Sure, she is not quite my type but that’s not the point. She is still stunning in her own right and that was a real-life proposition she just gave me, one we could be heading into right now if I had done what most normal single people my age would have done and acquiesced. How can one not imagine what might have been? He’s not my type either but just being near him gives you a buzz. He is proof that my soul hasn’t yet given itself entirely over to girls. I know a part of me wants him to conquer Sindee because if I’m doing my job properly then by rights I will be there to record the moment. I want to see this muscular, egotistical powerhouse all naked, doing whatever he wants to my friend, so close and so strong in body and personality that I might not have the means to resist if he reached out for me too.

  I get ready for bed and slide under the covers onto a cool sumptuous mattress. I’m eyes closed and my body is exhausted but my brain won�
�t yet slip into shutdown. How long would she wait? Parties like this can go on all night but she knows I am here. Perhaps she has already discovered her husband and Sindee getting lovey-dovey and has stormed off with revenge in mind. Perhaps she will stay for a bitter row, intent on reclaiming her property and with me instantly forgotten. What, reasonably, could I say to her to ward her off? Could I tell her about Elowen and that I’m not ready to desecrate those memories with flings that have nothing to do with love? What if she just told me I was being ridiculous and put me over her knee to prove it?

  I’m drifting when I finally hear the door click open. I keep my eyes closed and stay on my side, nestled well beneath the covers. I can barely hear the sound of clothes being shed. Was that a sarong or a ball gown swishing down smooth legs and crumpling upon the floor? I have my knickers on and that is my only defence. She won’t need the en suite because she is showered and ready for action. Her hair will still be damp, unless I dozed off and it’s way later than I think. Sindee should go in there but in times gone by when we have shared and she has come in later, too drunk to care for ablutions and mindful of not disturbing me, she simply gets into bed as soon as she is undressed. The covers lift and a feint breeze cools my bare back. Weight depresses the mattress. She slides in. I feel that same nervy sensation on the skin of my backside, stuck out towards her. She shuffles close, her naked body pressing to me, spooning me, her arm going around my waist. Then I smell Loverdose.

  “Are you asleep?” my friend whispers, right at my ear.

  “Yes,” I reply. Am I disappointed or relieved? My heart is going ten to the dozen.

  “Why the hell did they put the second floor so far above the first? That staircase nearly killed me!” She is giggling, tipsy. Her light-heartedness does not suggest that she has been embroiled in conflict with an enraged wife.

  “You are so unfit. I need to enrol you on a Zumba class or something before you die of stairs.”

  “I already have my own patented fitness regime,” she says, slurring a bit.

  “Oh yeah – and what is that?”

  “Fuxercise.”

  I roll my eyes and smile but she can’t see me do either. I think that’s it and close my eyes again to sleep but she is not quite ready to give in.

  “Cas is the best,” she says.

  “His wife thinks so too.”

  “Well, she wants you and I want her husband. It’s a perfect arrangement!”

  Once more I feel a little deflated that she is happy to give me away like that.

  “And that’s fine by you, is it?” I say.

  “Well, of course I’d be jealous of her. If I’d known all you wanted was a spanking, I’d have done it ages ago.”

  I tut and push backwards, trying to shake her off. I’m not going to get drawn into this teasing. She clings on and I give up. It’s not just the sting or humiliation of a spanking, I say to myself, since I have no concept of what that might be like. It’s the being taken and being made, of having no choice. The spanking is merely the method of defeating me, of demonstrating that I am not feared and have no power to resist. Why doesn’t she see this? We just lie there in the dark. I know her mind is full of him. Her pulse will still be racing. Her hand comes off my belly and she runs her nails lightly up my thigh.

  “Honey has gorgeous tits,” she whispers, so close to my ear that even these coarse words still have the hairs raising on my neck.

  “Don’t,” I tell her, trying to sound firm. I haven’t stopped her hand from tickling my thigh.

  “Imagine sucking on them while she has her fingers inside you.”

  “I’ve told you she’s not my type.”

  I push back again in a renewed effort to stop the teasing. This time she goes with me, leaning almost onto her back so that my weight falls against her. I feel the squash of her breasts on my bare back. She keeps me like this, her nails now able to run up the front of my thigh. Still I don’t try to stop her. She collects my earlobe with her tongue-tip and holds it between her teeth, applying just a little pressure, enough to stop me pulling away and facing harm. She must be able to feel the tremor running through me. Then the nails are moving inward, the touch light, just grazing the thin material covering my crotch. I should wriggle free but I don’t. My breath is coming quicker. She runs one finger up the middle, my panties so tight to my slit. She does it twice, three times, and my puss is so wet and my underwear so pointless that suddenly she has slipped inside me, just the first inch of her middle finger and I am sighing and slumping back into her.

  I know she wants me to capitulate. This was further than she intended to go. She won’t ever do more without my consent. I will have to tell her to go on. Just one word and the finger will slide in deep, maybe with another alongside it. She will stir them around as I have watched her do to herself. She will get them wet and then use them on my aching clit, rubbing and then sliding back inside me, doing it over and over until I am writhing and gushing and coming. She slips back out of me and lets go her grip on my ear.

  “I wish I didn’t have to stop,” she whispers.

  Don’t then, I say. Go right ahead because I can’t bear the thought of you stopping now. Do whatever you want to do with me. Make it hot and make it rude and don’t stop until morning. Go right through my guilt and know that having done it the once I will have no basis for refusing you any other time. If I try to say no, then spank me so that I cannot speak. The wetness you have just felt tells you differently, so forget those other times I have told you that I am not ready. Forget all those things that in the morning I will recall with guilt. Do what you want and don’t even think to be gentle. Make it something I have to remember forever.

  The trouble is, I said all these things in my head, and not a single word of them came out of my mouth for her to hear.

  Chapter Ten

  Heart Pause

  Sindee is already up when I wake. She is quite adept these days at dealing with hangovers. She has to be. I’m sure at home she wouldn’t feel the urge to put make-up on for breakfast but there are hunky rock singers in the building so it’s time to keep them big guns blazing. I wonder what I’m going to do about Honey and her hankerings. I know the first thing she will ask me is whether I have thought about her proposition. What am I to say? I decide to put my hair in a tail and not even bother with eye-liner. If I’m looking like a badger she might hold off on her approach.

  As it happens there is a commotion going on downstairs. Phones are pressed to ears and people scurry about looking concerned. Ciggies are being dragged upon with real intent. The news, when we finally get to hear it, is shocking. The Coliseum All Stars’ bassist is in hospital, having suffered some kind of seizure. Details are hazy because he was not at the hotel when it happened. That was too boring. He was instead with some unknown druggie, out on the streets, sharing whatever narcotic mix that caused his sudden lapse into unconsciousness.

  Cas looks ashen. He is good friends with these guys. Mere mortals probably don’t know that the All Stars are essentially his band. He got them together, bankrolled their early appearances and recordings and got them with the right producers and media men. He helped write some of their first songs. He even named them. For all his input he never publically talks about the backing he has given them nor does his name appear in the credits on either album sleeve. However, rather egocentrically I feel, on the front of both album covers, because of the way the band name appears, with the first letter of each word in a different colour to the rest, reading downwards gives you ‘CAS’. He is a silent partner in the band, as well as their friend, and their presence on this tour is earning him even more bucks.

  His manager is trying to calm him and Cas is yelling out to get the fucking chopper ready, right now. The bassist is in a Dutch hospital and for all we know still in some kind of coma. Somehow Cas remembers that Sindee and I need to go with him, since that is where we are meant to be, with the rest of our band. Everyone else is to stay, including his wife. Another call comes
in informing us that the patient is ‘stable’. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. There but by the grace of God go them all. For just one split second I think it might be some sick ruse to buy the two singers some alone time together. Then another call comes in and the manager’s face drains of colour again.

  During his seizure the patient’s heart stopped and stayed stopped for some time. It might have been long enough to cause some oxygen starvation to the brain.

  “What the fuck does that mean?’ yells Cas, and the manager repeats this down the phone. Time will tell, the manager is saying, parroting what is being told to him. It’s way too early to find out if any permanent damage has been done. The patient is only a few years older than me. Someone I know, in my peer group, has had his heart stop on him. Somewhere on my camera is a photo of this guy, in his Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt, smiling sideways at me, one hand held out in my direction with thumb raised. The other hand is atop a kneeling Sindee’s head, and she has half of his solid bare erection in her mouth. I study her now, trying to gauge her reaction to this bombshell, but her concern seems to be for Cas and his worry. Imagine not being shaken by the news that someone who you once allowed to come in your mouth is now in this poorly state.