But her pelvic thrusts had nothing on what she was about to do; in each dance, she found a moment when she knew Bobo wasn’t watching and dipped her hand down into her bikini bottoms and brought it up with a see-how-wet-I-am? look; that always brought a cascade of bills and a guarantee of a dozen well-paid lap dances when she came off the stage. She figured if the weird old guy wanted blue, that was as blue as it got, so she slid her hand sensuously down her belly and tucked it between her spread legs, staring up at the balcony and screaming along with the lyrics: “Drink and rob and fuck like hell!”
She gave Creepy Old Dude the little tongue-swirl that so completely addled Happy Henderson, then slipped her middle finger into her mouth, and – Whoa, she actually was wet, which she hadn’t really been expecting but it was kind of nice. She did it again, slowly, sensuously, down her belly and up over her tits and into her mouth, wetter this time. She could hear a steady wave of howls erupting all around her; funny, she didn’t remember any howling on this particular live recording.
She stood, spun with the chair, leaned over and spanked herself hard in time with the music as she ground her crotch toward the chair, pumping, writhing, undulating. It wasn’t ballet, but – damn! She was enjoying herself. More howling erupted; when she spun around for final round of chair-humping, she got dizzy, smelled liquor, and could have sworn …
Lacy backed off and abandoned the chair, hearing it crash over the edge of the stage. She ran to her MP3 player and hit STOP. She looked around, her eyes dazzled by the lights; for a second, she had this creepy feeling like the theater was full, like the howls were coming not from the boom box but – then it was all gone. The sounds echoing through the theatre as in a single instant the power went out. It was the goddamn fuse box again; this old theater had wiring from hell. The lights died in a few long seconds with a hot orange fading glow.
Lacy stood there dizzy in the dark, trying to get her bearings.
But it sounded, as the soft echoes pulse, like the cheers and howls from the MP3 player died even more slowly than they should have, while up in the balcony, she could hear the sound of her lone spectator stomping his feet, clapping, howling, wolfwhistling. “Bravo! Bravo! Bravo! Lacy! Lacy! Lacy! Lacy LeTush, bravo!” The voice faded slowly into the cavernous black of the ancient theater. Then everything went dark and quiet and the black closed in around her. Lacy felt her heart pounding.
“Hello?” she called out. All she could hear was her own nervous panting. “Hello? Creepy old dude?”
She didn’t get an answer.
Lacy groped around for her clothes. She had never before put on a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt so fast. She hit Main Street running for her car, and didn’t even check to make sure the door of the Chimera was locked.
Lacy tried not to freak out; hey, she was sleep-deprived, and sometimes that makes things weird.
She did think hard about her routine, however, and about what a huge pain in the ass Happy Henderson was. In the end, she decided that the screaming control queen could bloody well go fuck himself.
And for all the warnings he’d given Lacy, Hap was distracted enough that night that he didn’t even notice when she slipped Armando the DJ a burned disk of “Drink, Rob and Fuck” to replace “Minnie the Moocher”. She handed it over along with a $20 bill, and told Armando to blame it all on her when Hap hit the roof.
“With pleasure,” said Armando, and put the disc in the stack. “It’s always good for a laugh when Hap freaks out.”
Oh, she’d wear a G-string, all right – no point in completely shocking the straights. But pasties? She’d call it a wardrobe malfunction. If she spun her boobies just right, maybe she could make her pasties hit Happy Henderson in the face when they flew off at the first chorus of “Drink, Rob and Fuck”.
Maybe the old man was right: she’d get her headlines, and Hap Henderson would get to hit the roof, which he seemed to love. He’d fire her, and the incident would enter the long burlesque history of the Chimera in some infinitesimal way; she’d be stuck working the Stang and spending Tuesday nights riding a unicycle while having naked ketchup fights on stage to the strains of fourth-rate punk bands. At the moment, that actually didn’t sound so bad.
Maybe she’d even come up with a new routine. The Courtney Capricious Burlesque Ordeal could really use a little pole-dancing.
She’d worry about that in the morning. Right now, Lacy LeTush had some pasties to loosen.
Blind Tasting
EllaRegina
They called themselves the Montridge Eight, after the metropolitan area suburb in which they lived, a 39-minute commute to the city, and though the name sounded like an underground terrorist group from the 1960s, their most incendiary efforts had involved turning on a Viking stove or lighting a Weber grill. A four-couple gourmet cooking club, the Montridge Eight met once a month, their homes revolving as venue, to travel the world gastronomically, one country and cuisine at a time. Creative professionals all, they were detail-oriented: an evening’s theme would extend well beyond the food, to the decor, the wine, the music, sometimes even to the furniture.
The Greens, the Blacks, the Grays, the Whites: a box of crayons – an odd one since the Blacks were not, the Whites were light brown and the Greens and Grays beige variations. They were the epitome of sophistication and urbane modern living. The men had long been vasectomized, completely relieving their marriages of pregnancy scares and latex fluid barriers. The couples were close and getting closer. The Montridge Eight gatherings elicited flirtatious behavior that grew stronger over the years. It began with one foot finding another under the table, or venturing further, toes slowly massaging a crotch. Hands would sneak inside waistbands from behind. Soon, parlor games were incorporated: first dirty Mad Libs – “Name of Person in Room” particularly revealing – then adult Charades, followed sequentially by Twister, strip tease, Strip Poker and Spin-the-Bottle. The Blacks, who lived in a former firehouse, offered their pole for dancing when they hosted, a mirrored ball on the high ceiling throwing sparkles over the dimmed space as each woman spun around the shiny brass upright, inspired by the thumping disco groans of Donna Summer and company. With each installment of the cooking club the Montridge Eight became increasingly daring and experimental. Perhaps it was the Cabernet, or the Pinot Grigio, or the Riesling, or the Rioja.
Although beyond familiar, the Greens, Blacks, Grays, and Whites – a living version of the board game Clue – decided from the onset that during these occasions they would refer to each other, including their own spouses, as Monsieur or Madame, evoking old black and white movies where the husband called the wife “Mother”, lending the evenings a certain frisson of staged formality – an interesting counterpoint to the sub-table footsie and miscellaneous lusty doings – often inspiring unscripted postprandial role-playing once the couples were back in their own bedrooms:
“Would you do it to me in the Library with the Lead Pipe, Monsieur Gray?”
“Most assuredly, Madame Gray. My very large one. Where shall I put it?”
Across Montridge’s verdant tree-lined streets, a parallel scene was unfolding at the Green house:
“In the Billiard Room, on the table, with the Rope, Madame Green?”
“Of course, Monsieur Green. A hog-tie is definitely in order,” she replied, spreading her excited legs as Monsieur Green undid his perfectly slip-knotted neckwear, anxious to truss Madame’s limbs, rigid cock pointed towards her from an unbuttoned fly.
The February get-together, at the White home, followed a Brazilian theme, it being a Saturday coinciding with Carnival in Rio de Janeiro. Invitations were e-mailed to everyone separately. In those sent to each Madame, a curious request was made. After noting her specific menu contribution – assigned from wine, hors d’oeuvre, side dish and dessert categories; the hosts would provide cocktails, the main course, and coffee – it was stated:
If not already hairless in your nether regions, a full Brazilian waxing should be undergone the day before the Montri
dge Eight event. Do not expose those waxed parts to the Monsieur, let him feel them, nor explain why. Note: if skin sensitivity precludes the application of hot wax a cream depilatory may be used.
No perfume or scented body lotion.
The Monsieurs received similar directives to eliminate any existing hair from navel to knees, by whatever means necessary, the day of the meeting. Monsieur Black was asked to shave off his goatee and, if queried by Madame Black, to say that he just felt like a change. The playing field was to be leveled, literally mowed. Fingernails were to be neatly trimmed.
All e-mails gave the same cryptic proclamatory ending:
The evening will conclude with a Blind Tasting.
On February 21st the Montridge Eight will travel further than they have ever gone.
The Whites – the Monsieur, a film producer; the Madame an architect – lived in a house of Madame White’s design – a sprawling one-storey of stone and glass. A central hall was flanked by sixteen interconnected corridor-like rooms that could be walked through, from one to the next, with the exception of a guest bath and five sleeping chambers – rectangular beads on a string, each painted a different vivid color. Traversing their floor plan was crossing a rainbow. The Whites joked that their home simply reflected that they were people of color, but the spatial effect was more than ironic – the palette had a cumulative beguiling influence.
The group ambled through the house, giddily drinking Caipirinhas, the Monsieurs in cashmere sweaters and wool suits; the Mesdames wearing flowing crêpe and clingy silk, tottering on stilettos and kitten heels – they could be quadruplets or a ballerina quartet, so similarly sized, shaped and toned from weight-lifting, tennis and Pilates. The Monsieurs also had comparable physiques – athletic well-tended bodies the result of running, swimming, and biking. Even their cocks shared a resemblance, formidable every one, this mutually and tacitly observed in the pool club locker room.
Monsieur White’s custom audio mix played everywhere, emanating from speakers hidden behind walls: “The Girl from Ipanema” bossa nova charmed the ballroom; a samba romanced the conservatory; and Carmen Miranda belted out a frenetic Tico Tico from an unseen Copacabana in the lounge. Other rooms featured Brazilian jazz or indigenous music – whistles, flutes, horns, rattles and drums imitating the sounds of the Amazon rainforest. The entire house was animated.
Plasma HD TVs descended from ceilings in almost every room, volume muted, looping TiVoed soccer games with Brazil always in the lead, teams on each 30” flat panel keyed by their uniform colors to the room itself. In the blue study two Donald Duck cartoons were projected on to mammoth screens posted at opposite walls: the mischievous fowl rescued from the blues by an Aracuan bird in a samba café – dancing, getting mixed into a cocktail, being kicked in all directions from between the flesh and blood legs of a woman working the pedals of a Hammond organ. Keyboards explode: flying ticker tape ribbons. At the drive-in across the room an artist’s paintbrush sketched blue Brazilian waterfalls – cascading ejaculations on an otherwise white background.
In the kitchen, three varieties of Brazilian red wine stood uncorked, brought by the Greens. The hors d’oeuvres – ripened Brazilian cheeses, broa fennel corn bread and soft pão de queijo rolls (the Grays) – were set out on the soapstone-topped center island, and consumed standing up, hands grazing rears, fingers edging shoulders, calves against shins.
Once the churrasco-style meat was grilled, Monsieur White carried a tray of loaded skewers to the dining room table. Madame White followed with the other foods: coxinha, chicken-thigh-shaped croquettes; feijoada, Rio’s traditional black bean and meat stew (the Blacks); farofa – a yucca, banana, egg and onion mix – collard greens, rice and beans, chouriço sausage, and fried plantains (the Grays).
Everyone took their places – green, black, gray and white dinnerware indicating seating arrangements. Orchids lay horizontally above each Madame’s plate. Eight small white envelopes, centered on the dishes, identically stamped:
~ READ ME ~
YOUR BLIND TASTING INSTRUCTIONS
The printed contents were perused with a grin and a blush, then the papers slid into pockets or tucked inside brassieres.
By the time the meal commenced it was a pure bacchanal, fueled by the Blind Tasting intimations. Hands, mouths, tongues, foods – all mixed up – this one feeding that one, the sucking of dripping meats and fingers, stray morsels licked off cheeks, cashmere, wool, silk and crêpe. Eating utensils were hardly touched. It was primitive, nearly pagan. Wine glasses spilling and refilling. Every cock was hard under the mahogany, every pussy ready and drooling.
Dessert eventually landed, a cloud in a decadent haze – coconut flan. The coffee, brewed from dark Brazilian beans purchased on Amazon.com, was drunk slowly, not just for savoring but so everyone could regroup. The evening was not over, the Blind Tasting still to come.
Each Madame selected a bathroom and freshened up on the bidet. Then, arm in arm, they descended the basement stairs, giggling in unison, flushed from the wine and the anticipation of what awaited them.
The windowless underground space functioned as a screening room, draped on all sides with black velvet curtains. It contained blue upholstered seats from a demolished Broadway theater and a carpeted podium, at the edge of which – just for this evening – was a freestanding wall, the meeting’s centerpiece. Discovered by Madame White at the flea market, it was an artifact from a dissected carnival, part of a game where balls were pitched into open clown mouths. There were four such faces, each six feet high, painted mural-style across the partially three-dimensional paneled structure. Haywire raffia hair sprouted above ears, red punching bag noses drooped below each pair of wild eyes, and four gaping O mouth cut-outs – several feet above shoe level – were lined with red patent leather cushioned lips, worn and battered by a fifty-year swirling galaxy of balls in motion. A blue velvet curtain framed the unusual flat. Below each silently hysterical jester, distinctly shaped black terrycloth cushions – a circle, triangle, square, and diamond – lay on the floor, stunted tuffets.
On the reverse undecorated side, four heavy metal khaki footstools were planted solidly beneath each portal on the black industrial rubber tiling. A gag – red ball, black strap – sat atop each stool. The Mesdames, as per the instruction envelopes, removed all clothing – tittering nonstop during the unraveling – placing their garments on the dais, but retaining footwear.
Each Madame situated her well-toned rear inside an arbitrarily chosen mouth – like an animal trainer wedging his head into a yawning tiger jaw – and adjusted herself on the padded lips, feet kept on the stool, heels hooked into rungs for leverage. Each Madame took the ball gag and placed it in her mouth, securing the device behind her head. Each Madame waited.
The velvet curtain was drawn, sealing off the clown wall inserted with the four Mesdames – fleshy pegs, corks in holes – their isolated asses hanging in a row from gigantic puffy lips.
The Monsieurs entered and completely undressed as directed, laying clothing over the theater seats. There was to be no talking. Each Monsieur opened a palm-sized purple felt pouch, withdrew an amber glass vial, unscrewed it, and coated his nostril interiors with its contents: essential oil produced from Brazil’s finest coffee beans. Spiraled multicolored corded elastic bands emerged next, to be worn somewhere between knee and ankle, Mini-Sharpie markers dangling from attached rings – the color of each writing implement matching the name of the Monsieur to whom it was given; Monsieur White’s coil held a pinkie-length Wite-Out correction pen. Finally, each Monsieur took a plastic-wrapped slice from the bag – a cut of mango, papaya, guava or passion fruit – and rolled it in his mouth, a congratulatory cigar. The Monsieurs approached the curtain, stepping randomly on to cushions.
The lights went off. Noises came forth, a soundtrack of the Amazon rainforest: a spectrum of meteorological effects, frogs, monkeys, jaguars, flowing streams, waterfalls, chirping fidgeting insects, hissing snakes, crying macaws, rackety Aracuan
tree birds, crickety toucans, vampire bats and other flying creatures.
Aromatherapy units plugged into electrical outlets released a rainforest smell – a pungent mixture of green, orchids, vanilla, cocoa, mango, wood, leaf and musk. The coffee oil neutralized and masked odors; the Mesdames alone could appreciate the heady aromas.
The curtain slowly opened, its mossy fabric lightly brushing bodies on either side.
The Monsieurs felt an aura of heat at crotch level, issuing from the darkness-cloaked wall. Their hands, all eight, almost simultaneously, reached towards the thermal source facing them, as if to unchill by a campfire. Warm toned round flesh stopped the fingers. The Monsieurs realized that they were standing at an altar of asses. Each signed in using his pen, marking X, centered above the proximate hindquarters, where meaty curve became hard spine.
Then, the hands. They fondled, they prodded, they kneaded. The buttocks were smooth, every crevice and pussy uniformly bald. Each Monsieur sampled the sap of the trunk in front of him. Fingers entered fervent wet openings, rear wiggling encouragingly in response. Each Monsieur removed the fruit from his mouth and used it as a pulpy feather, tickling the labia before him, sliding the sweet piece in and out, sucking it for a moment and pushing it back inside, sometimes along with a thumb. Then the mouth, licking the fruit juice off the radiant aperture, teasing its bloated nub with a fingertip. Then the mouth sucking the slice, now mixed with the lubricious female secretions and returning to the pussy – kissing, tonguing, gently nibbling – each Monsieur different but the same.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10 Page 18