Black Lace Quickies 1

by Kerri Sharpe

  She thought she might cry, or smash a glass, or get roaring drunk. In the end she did none of these things, and merely sat in the centre of a circle of greeting cards, watching for the shadow at the window of something that might take her away from herself, even for a little while.

  The knock at the door was almost too tired to rouse her from her sleep. She lurched for it, her desperation shaming her. She signed quickly for the package, so much larger than she was expecting, unable to meet the postman’s gaze, in case he was aware of what it was she was receiving. Once she had closed the door, she left the monolith of brown paper and parcel tape and hurried to the kitchen, where she poured herself a large brandy, downed it in a few swift gulps.

  She couldn’t believe he was actually here. She imagined him uncomfortable and stifled in his packaging. She quelled an irrational stab of panic. He was a toy. It was a toy. His penis curled against his thigh, perhaps taped to it, to prevent it from becoming prematurely gorged. His balls. She imagined cupping them, lifting them, measuring their soft weight. She might take one of them, or both of them, into her mouth, feel the underside of his cock twitch and throb against her nose …

  She approached the package, which was leaning, almost nonchalantly, against the sofa. She imagined his voice: Here, perhaps? Or upstairs? You decide.

  She feverishly unwrapped him, yanking him clear of his bubble wrap and shrink wrap, tossing away the yards of cardboard, twisting open the plastic ties, freeing him from his unedifying bonds. She stepped back. He was hunched over, as if in thought. His hair, when she haltingly reached out to touch it, was soft, real. Suddenly she was gushing, setting free words that she had never spoken, never imagined she would ever say: I love you. Will you marry me? I love you. I love you.

  She started to cry, both in gratitude that she had been able to purge the entreaties from her system, and in disgust of her need, at the weirdness that was rushing into her life. She wiped her eyes and pushed him back onto the sofa. She was mildly shocked at the feel of his shoulder muscles; there was yield but there was also – God how could there be? – resistance too, as if he had thought for a second about denying her the satisfaction of bullying him. He lay, not like something synthetically rigid, but with relaxed presence, his body observing gravity’s laws. His arm flopped naturally over the edge of the sofa. His head was tilted back, revealing the cartilaginous ridges of his throat. She watched, rapt, as his left leg, hooked over the armrest, moved to the rhythm of a heartbeat. It must be hers, fooling her, surely they wouldn’t go to so much trouble?

  He said, ‘You’re beautiful.’

  There was the slightest suggestion of digitisation to the voice, a minuscule click at the start and end of the sentence, but it was a relief to hear it. She had begun to believe that a real body had been dumped on her doorstep and she wasn’t sure how she might deal with that. The spookiness of the situation receded; this was a doll. A very good toy, but a toy nonetheless. She let her dress fall to the floor.

  ‘David,’ she said, her voice thick with anticipation.

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  She reached behind her and unhooked her bra. ‘It’s time to get my money’s worth.’

  The phone rang towards early evening, as she was slowly putting together the ingredients for a dinner she didn’t want.

  ‘Inga, hi. It’s Cass. Ali has been called out to Milan. An emergency meeting concerning the hostile bid for Judd Janeway. He’s expecting a series of negotiations. Could go on for two, three days. The jet is prepped and on standby. Sorry it’s such short notice. There will be a car with you inside twenty. OK?’

  The names of these companies were like phrases of foreign languages heard in passing. They meant nothing to her. She knew Ali was into as many companies as there were fingers on his hands, perhaps as many as there were rings on his fingers, but none of them rang any bells. It was part of a world she didn’t understand, or hoped to fathom. Venture capitalism, in the main. Which sounded to her like a fancy term for opportunism. Get rich quick. Good luck to him. It was obviously working. Was it a coincidence that he was single too? Like her he claimed it was what he wanted to be. But maybe like her it was a question of protesting too much. Sometimes people never asked the question, and she told them anyway. Too often, recently, when she said it it seemed more like she was trying to persuade herself.

  For the first time in Ali’s employ, she wondered about him, about her and him. Was there some alchemy between them, on a level she had yet to unveil? Such a scenario seemed too convenient, and too Hollywood, in a way. The driven businessman and his help, at different ends of the food chain, yet inhabiting the same space, sharing the same life, give or take a million or two.

  She had never seen Ali with a woman, had never even spotted him appraising female clients, or the girls that moved sinuously within his striking range on the streets of Manhattan, Prague or Barcelona. There were ample opportunities for him to sate any pang, yet she had never paused in her knocking on the door of his hotel suite at the sounds of passion from within. It never happened. She had never had to divert the queries of an inquisitive husband, nor, for that matter, any inquisitive wife. Ali seemed to be asexual. It was as if any dalliance with another person was somehow wasteful in terms of time; he was more interested in spreadsheets than bed sheets.

  Inga had never really considered him in these terms before, either. Perhaps because she had been unknowingly put off by his neutrality, but possibly because he did not spark anything visceral within her. He was an attractive man in many ways; he was lean and wolfish, with hooded eyes and a full mouth. His hair was slightly longer than the conventions of his career permitted, and its blue-black gloss was shot through with seams of silver. He was unusual looking, and therefore sexy. But his lust for profit had turned his features into something that was beyond what could be construed as predatory in sexual terms. He had the killer in him. She had heard him laughing over a competitor’s liquidation. For him, fucking was something to be done metaphorically, and only ever in the ass.

  The car, with its tinted glass windows and inscrutable driver, whisked her through the rain-soaked streets of West London. On the Westway, as the great glass edifices of the Paddington Basin streaked by, she felt a prickle of anger towards Ali, the way he summoned her whenever he wanted, as if she were something cryogenically suspended at those times when she wasn’t fetching and carrying for him. Her life was not on hold when she wasn’t working, despite the handsome payments that bolstered her bank account. For the first time since taking the job, she felt resentment.

  She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Things were coming to a head. And that was good, she reasoned. Questioning her position meant that something wasn’t right somewhere. The money was good but the karma wasn’t. Perhaps this was an indication that she was about to make choices based on who she was and what she wanted, rather than what everyone else demanded from her. That was the key to making the break from childhood. Being yourself. It was just that, for over twelve years, that was all she had done.

  Her cunt ached. Whenever she moved, his smell rose from the apertures in her clothing. Slices of action from the day flashed into her thoughts, like stills from some forbidden portfolio. She reached down and massaged her pussy through her uniform.

  ‘You have beautiful breasts … I’d like to suck them.’

  His mouth opening, his eyes swooning shut: her nipple disappearing between his ice-white teeth, the leading edge of his tongue settling against her tit. His lips pursing, drawing her nipple to a taut exclamation, rolling it around his mouth.

  My God. It was so real. It was real. She had laughed out loud.

  Rising to his feet as she knelt on the sofa, his hair falling over his eyes. Holding his penis as it thickened, peeling back his foreskin to reveal the swollen shape of his desire. Her vagina suddenly slick with juice as she realised such a beautiful, huge, sculpted prick was seconds away from filling her up. The feel of the tip squirming against her folds, almost sliding off he
r. The inches. The light tap of his balls against the top of her thighs at the end of that delicious first strike. His breath on her spine. The thrust, the sensation of being unravelled as he partially withdrew, as if the organ were no more part of her, than him. The cushioned spring of pubic hair. Her name in his throat as he quickened. His hand encasing her breast, palpating her, squeezing pleasure from her pores.

  My God, my God.

  Her orgasm burst out of her as she reached around to feel his hard quivering buttocks clenching with the force of his own. She felt three, four, five hot silky spasms deep within her. He withdrew and liquid pearls frothed from her crease. She dabbled her fingertips in it and brought them to her nose. Fresh seed. How did they manage that? She glanced down at him; he was sweating, his skin flushed. His erection was subsiding, but she had knelt and sucked and licked at him, marvelling at the taste of his semen, enjoying the way that her ministrations were reviving the corpse of his penis. He was hard again within a minute. She slurped at him, giving him her entire repertoire of kisses, flicks and nips, enjoying the way he filled up her mouth, the way he groaned and ground his hips against her face. She sucked him hard and fast, than let him fuck her mouth slowly, barely touching him with her tongue and lips, providing the merest amount of friction. Then back on with the full throttle, then easing off. He was writhing. He came in the middle of another bout of frenzied sucking and she was impressed that the quantity was less this time. The manufacturers had omitted no detail.

  She had left him on the sofa as the car drew up outside. ‘Sleep well, David,’ she said. ‘My David. We’ll be together again soon.’

  Now she came again as her fingers writhed in the slick created by her memory, her legs rising, feet knocking the chauffeur’s headrest. She could barely stifle her cry, and decided not to. She didn’t care if the driver saw her. As she froze in the instance of her climax, she saw his eyes in the rear-view mirror, her own face behind it, her mouth a red-rimmed O of surprise and elation. The tide receded; she blew him a kiss.

  ‘Tell Ali,’ she said. ‘Tell him what you like. If he fires me I’ll thank him for it.’

  A twinge of shock, of fear, of disbelief, as she stepped from the car at Heathrow and headed for the departure lounge. Don’t look back. Do not look back.

  Two hours later, she was exhausted. She had been busy with pre-flight checks and had served Ali aperitifs and dinner shortly after take-off. Now Cass was briefing her on the itinerary once they landed in Milan. She couldn’t concentrate. All she could think of was David. She realised she had made a decision. She was going to leave her job. She had never felt tired at work before, and it wasn’t solely due to David’s athletic lovemaking. Her tasks were tedious. The thought of carrying on like this for even another week, let alone another year, made her feel sick to the stomach. As Cass talked of hotel lunches, guest lists and corporate goody bags, Inga was reminded of the chauffeur. A spike of panic ripped through her. His voice, as she stepped clear of the car, had been bracketed with a little digital click, as had the captain’s just now. At least he had an excuse, speaking through the intercom. Or was she just imposing little bits of David on to the humdrum, trying to spice up that which could no longer be enlivened?

  Cass materialised by her side. ‘Ali would like a word,’ she said.

  Was it the change in pressure as the jet sank towards Milan that caused her voice to sound metallic? Inga suppressed a giggle. She needed a holiday. First chance she got, she was off to the beach. With a very large suitcase.

  Ali was ensconced towards the rear of the jet, behind a series of heavy curtains. His desk was piled high with papers requiring his initials. He processed another dozen of these before lifting his head and indicating she should sit down.

  ‘I understand you’ve had a change of heart regarding your career path?’ he asked her. His hooded eyes never looked so raptor like. She felt like a morsel being proffered by a bird handler.

  ‘How did you …?’ she began, but he held up his hand, his eyes closing slowly, as if to say You don’t know me by now? ‘Yes,’ she said, firmly. ‘I’ve worked for you for a long time. I think it’s time for a change.’

  He nodded. ‘And which job is it that you’re tired of?’

  Inga blinked. ‘I don’t understand.’ She spread her hands. ‘This one. I’m tired of this one.’ The first needle of doubt. Fear was in this cabin. It was trying to place a suffocating mask over her face.

  ‘Not the other job then?’

  ‘I don’t have another job.’ Her heart was beating too hard. As if part of her knew what he was talking about.

  Ali stood up and walked around the desk until he was closer to her than at anytime during her employ. He unbuckled his trousers and let them fall to the floor. He was naked underneath. She felt the cabin sway, the lights fade. For a second she thought the cabin had succumbed to some mechanised fault and was pitching out of the sky, but then everything righted itself and she saw that it was only the sight of Ali’s cock, of David’s cock, that had taken her to the brink of fainting.

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘No. Clearly you don’t,’ Ali said, pulling up his trousers and leaning back against the desk. ‘There’s a reason why I keep the details of my businesses secret from my employees. But now that you’re handing in your notice, I’ll share it with you. I own a number of companies, but my main interests are in the synthesis of the best elements of the human and the machine. That and sex. Sex is the most ancient of businesses, flesh and metal hybrids the most modern. I like that. I like the balance. The poetry. All of my sex toys are modelled on me. Even David. Your boyfriend. How does it feel to know you’ve been fucking your boss?’ He smiled. ‘You’ve tested lots of models for me over the years, and I’m extremely grateful. I doubt we’d be where we are now if it wasn’t for your exhaustive research into dildos and dongs.’

  ‘That wasn’t my job.’ She could barely speak now. Alarm signals were blaring all over her mind.

  ‘It was your job,’ he said, moving towards her. He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘But now your contract has been terminated.’

  She felt his fingers at the back of her neck. She made to speak but her throat could produce only a click. She felt something snap.

  Her vision shrank to a small white O. Nothing.

  Nuala Deuel is the co-author of Princess Spider: True Experiences of a Dominatrix, and has had short fiction published in numerous Wicked Words collections.

  Life Boat Virginia St George

  THE SHIP WAS an old-fashioned cruiser with a dress code at dinner and seating plans in a glass case in the hall. Breakfast was served on the pool deck under canvas umbrellas. Sunlight glinted off the artificial blue pool and dark-green ocean – light thrown back like shattered glass. The waiters, busboys and bartenders all wore white uniforms complete with gloves. In the lounge, sequined singers still sang the old songs: ‘It’s a Wonderful World’, ‘Never on a Sunday’.

  For her high school graduation, Lauren’s parents had brought her to Greece. Athens. A bus tour of the Peloponnesus. A week-long cruise of the Mediterranean. At night, she stretched across the old springs of her berth. She thought about sex, love and the future. She imagined her future, herself at twenty-five, an ad exec or lawyer in expensive high-heeled shoes and tight leather pants, a woman who would fuck men and be gone in the morning. She felt so naïve still, on her first trip to Europe, so soft and girlish despite her best efforts to become world-weary and wise. She longed to be a heartbreaker.

  The third evening of the cruise, at the dinner table with her parents, Lauren found herself next to an English doctor and his pretty wife, both dressed in white linen. Also at the table were American siblings, in their third month of a year of travelling, they said. ‘We’re from Utah.’ The sister was rosy and dark-haired.

  ‘Are you Mormons?’ Lauren raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, no, we despise Mormons. I hope there aren’t any on this ship.’ The sister looked over her shoulder and giggled, dis
playing a small gap between her front teeth. The waiters appeared and with a flourish removed the shiny metal covers from their platters in unison.

  Lauren studied the brother. He was wearing a sand-coloured corduroy coat with leather elbow patches, unseasonably warm attire. His face was freckled, even his eyelids, and his hair was sandy like his coat; he didn’t look at all like his sister. There was a tattoo on the inside of his wrist that peaked out from under his cuff as he struggled with his cutlery: ‘inconcessus amor’ in cursive script.

  ‘What does your tattoo mean?’

  ‘It’s a secret.’

  The dining room was grand, chandeliered. At the other tables silver-haired gentlemen poured wine for their smiling, round wives. Retirees. Older professionals on summer holiday. The sounds of clinking china and silver was a polite cacophony.

  ‘We’re the youngest people here,’ Lauren said.

  The brother raised his eyes from his swordfish and brushed his hair from his eyes. He smiled. ‘I’m Ben. She’s Casey. Call her Cass.’

  Cass’s eyes glittered. ‘Have you noticed the waiters? They’re young. All male too.’

  Lauren blushed and glanced nervously at her mother.

  Cass shrugged. ‘Don’t pretend you didn’t notice.’

  Lying in her berth listening to the heartbeat thrum of the engines felt like sleeping inside a body, warm and close. Lauren felt the slow rocking of the sea, nestled in the ship’s dark depths, cradled in its womb. Before she slipped into sleep, Lauren touched her clit softly, stroking it while thinking of Ben and her ship full of young men.

  When Lauren woke late in the morning, her parents had already gone above deck. She put on her bathing suit and a sundress, then, glancing in the mirror, raked her fingers through her hair. Good enough.

  The elevator up to the pool deck was empty save the elevator operator.

  ‘Up to breakfast?’ His face was tanned and freckled with sun. His dark eyes stood out against his white uniform. He glanced at her, just for a moment.