STEVE'S MONKEY'S PAW by Neale Sourna
Page 9
She never again glanced at him, not even at his reflection. I know because her eyes stayed locked on mine, until she came.
I was glad she came quickly because I’d misplaced my usual composure and restraint . . . .
. . . and couldn’t hold back, not once her strong vaginal muscles squeezed me and convulsed around me, and . . . she sounded, like she sounded. I came hard, blowing strong within her, and felt my hot, sweaty crotch drenched by her lust and my own. The humid air between us was filled with the thick scents of our individual arousals, which combined and thoroughly mixed into a deliciously heady perfume.
A dull, embarrassed, extended grunt came from Steve, as his strangling grip short-spurted and dribbled his wet splattering tribute to Day onto the floor; a little too damned close to my bare toes.
I was still inside her as I covered up her backside and breathed in her ear.
“You amazing, incredible cunt. No one’s ever ‘taken care’ of my needs like you. No one.” She liked that—her face is so easy to read about what she’s feeling.
I kissed her a long while before finally rebuttoning her into her dress. Meanwhile, good ole Steve hadn’t bothered to make eye contact or even say thank you, while putting “his business away” before running off, down the beach . . . not directly home, as usual. He went past it up the other way, out of sight. I don’t recall ever seeing him face-to-face again or him ever stopping by to “stretch” or “cooldown” at the staircase while looking for Day.
I smelled cigarette smoke. The sun had shifted and when I looked back through the glass, Hopkins was just inside, breathing somewhat heavily. Must’ve been a great show. Better than the one he’d put on the first night. My cheeks flushed, not for what we’d just done, but for entertaining my smug, pain in the ass host. There was a wet spot on his pants’ crotch where it was deeply wrinkled, as if he’d clutched it tightly for a long time. He stepped out, dragging the foot that no longer did all he wanted it to, and flicked his fag carcass to the beach floor. Litterbug.
He looked at me oddly—almost like he admired me. Not merely envied me but admired me.
Then he stared at Day, who, in his presence now crashed down off her hard rush for me, blushed horribly, in that strangely disconcerting manner of hers, of shifting from in charge adult to lost child in a second, as she turned completely away from him. Her movement said she wanted to get off my lap, but not to expose me to him.
Odd, huhn?
I put my dick back where it belonged and buttoned up my fly under the cover of her dress tail, before she dismounted, shook the tingle feeling from her lower limbs, then slipped past him back into the house without the tiniest glance at him.
He hungrily watched her retreating backside the entire time she was within his view, then he stared at me again, as if he had a question in mind, but didn’t know how to ask it, yet seemed very certain I had the answer. He never said anything though or even grunted before he left; and almost right away, it occurred to me that she’d known he was there all along and had teased and entirely, thoroughly fucked . . . or mindfucked, as the case may be, the hell out of three grown men.
All at the same time.
I decided not to think about it too, too much and was still on the porch, facing the darkening eastern waters and sky, when Mrs. G got back. I kept it to myself that I loved the dried, slightly “starched” feel of my pants.
[story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]
They’d removed the locks completely at one time; but, Day’d become so unmanageable they’d been afraid they’d have to keep her sedated or return her to lockdown—neither option palatable to Hopkins, let alone Day or Mrs. G, so she’d gotten her locks back. I was told that Day never gave an explanation of what the locks truly meant to her. I found her sitting high on the bed with her back against the headboard, legs curled under her and hands frantically buttoning and unbuttoning several buttons on the front of her dress.
“What did he say to you, Day?”
She didn’t acknowledge my presence in any manner, not until I reached to comfort her . . . . She drew away, repulsed.
[story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]
Eventually, as Mama would’ve said, “She took great umbrage,” as she refused to be pleased by me in any manner, and, fell into a horridly frightening rage.
She hurried from me, in her determinedly labored way, and into the kitchen, which has all new cabinets that she violently tested, but they held fast. She repaired to the dining room to the less sturdy antique sideboard, where she commenced rattling a drawer; the one that held the pointy forks and sharpest knives. Mrs. G keeps anything sharp or pointy under strong lock and key, of which I had a copy in my pocket.
It may sound stupid; but, Day’s behavior was pissing me off; not directly but because she should . . . could do better than this, than let her emotions blow on every tiny breeze of her imagination . . . and at Hopkins’ infernal . . . fucking meddling.
[story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]
I took my personal key and slipped behind her, where she was furiously yanking with all her weight on the drawer’s handle. She stopped when she felt me behind and around her, and studiously watched, as I unlocked and slid open the drawer.
“I suppose you want one of those?”
Not until you think how much damage a knife can really do to a human body, do you consider, when opening a drawer for someone a bit knife crazy, just how many we keep lying around in our lives—for bread, butter, and steak; the Swiss Army, and the larger ones for cleaving and butchering. She chose well, a broad, sharp, step-down from a butcher knife, that was big enough with its nine inch blade to do serious damage to a man of good size and musculature, yet manageable for her smallish palm.
Day, when she’s not in one of her many choppy, petulant moods, moves fluidly, with smooth, nearly languid motions, which, I suspect, is natural to her, being a dancer. I also suspect she knows she has a lot of time on her hands, so why hurry; besides hurrying pains her; but, she would have been a formidable professional dancer, if her feet had been anything like her hands are.
Her hands are terribly fast. Frighteningly fast.
Which is something you didn’t need to know until now, because the really scary thing was just how lightning fast she took the blade, once she’d chosen it and then just as quickly moved away from me, to get a good . . . maneuverable distance, once she had it in hand. She’d grabbed it by the handle, flipping it under, to hide its length behind her forearm, which then languidly, nearly tranquilly, fell to her side and slightly behind her.
Having it in her palm seemed to give her some comfort, a sense of power even. I backed away from her; you don’t turn your back on a pissed off, legally documented, insane woman with a knife in her hand. I wasn’t certain if she were still completely enraged at me or not. Her temperamental fits with me never usually lasted long; but, this one was so abruptly brought on and more intense and laserlike that I was quickly reconsidering beating the shit and steak tartar out of Hopkins for whatever he’d taunted her with, while we’d been gone.
[story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]
Hopkins managed to crawl back to the steps and get himself up and mobile.
I deposited her in the tub, plugged it, and began filling it with cool water, very slowly warming it to heat her ocean cold stiffened limbs. She was in pain; but, she wouldn’t cry out despite being curled up in its grip, then abruptly, completely submerged in her anger, her loss. She actually tried to inhale, right in front of me, and I dragged her back up to air, coughing and pissed to all high hell.
“Leave me be!”
“I’m not letting you drown right in front of me!”
“Then, look the hell away, Benn, cause I’m drowning everyday anyway. Let me go!”
I let her go, prepared to grab her again. Hopkins lumbered in and sat down heavily on the toilet’s lid. She turned her back on us both, coughing and sputtering out wate
r. She was very determined at this, if I hadn’t woken from my deep sleep, simply because my body’d missed hers, she’d be dead. That’s when I got a searing insight I didn’t want.
“That’s what you were doing on the beach, when we met.”
She didn’t look around or make a sound, only shrugged. Hopkins made some kind of strangled noise. I wasn’t certain his sound was comment, fright, or a mere bodily malfunction. She was coming down from the rush and resignation came out on her like a cold sweat, as she trembled. I needed something to do, to reground me, since my brain was suddenly absent. I touched her leg.
“Don’t touch me.”
It was a serpentine hiss of a statement, and I ignored it, with prejudice, as I slipped my hand along her inner thigh through her wet dress.
“Benn, don’t touch me, please.”
She softly pleaded this time, trying not to look at me, as she shoved my hand away. She never shoves me away, especially when she’s feeling badly. I’m pretty certain she wouldn’t have argued, if I’d touched her again and I was about to when Hopkins cleared his smoker’s throat, the sound of which stiffened her spine straight as an unstrung hunting bow and caused her to focus like a laser on him.
“Have I expressed to you lately how very much I detest you and hope you die very painfully, very slowly, very soon.”
“When I die, you’ll go back.”
“I don’t fucking care.”
“Day?”
“Stop being nice to me, Bennet! I’m not your fucking project for your next seminar discussion.” I wasn’t happy with drawing her . . . ire, then she went back to him. “You’ve asked me why I don’t . . . ‘love’ you, after ‘all the things’ you’ve done for me. Well, Hoppy, I do love you, as much as you love me. Wait, you don’t love me, but you most certainly love possessing me, using me, requiring me to be . . . nice to you for my very little ‘freedom’. Well, it is not worth it anymore.”
“Day?”
“Shut up, Benn! I’ll get to you, when I’m done speaking to my . . . guardian.”
I was unthinkingly going to interrupt and she could see it on me. She has a razor mind and a laser tongue when she needs to cut someone.
“I know what you are, Bennet, I’m not stupid like he is. I have no old friends or dinner companions or portfolio monies to count or anything . . . to distract me from comparing what people do against what they say, or don’t say. I know the truth and the lie when I hear them, even when they fit so nicely together on a tongue as articulate and sexually facile and useful as yours.”
It wasn’t very specific, her accusation, but I felt a deep coldness run through me, much like the shock of when I’d stepped into the Atlantic to retrieve her—it wasn’t the water’s cold I’d felt, then or now, but her coldness.
“Leave the lad alone, Day.” She laughed, broadly, theatrically.
“‘The lad’? When did the man you hate more than any other man I’ve ever known you to hate become ‘the lad’? If he were the type to run away with me, you’d pull ‘favours’, spend all your estate to find us. You’d prosecute him to ‘the fullest extent of the law’. Money and the law . . . and me, all made just to serve you’re . . . needs. And, you’d separate us and hand me a blade and lick my ear with your suggestions, like a serpent, like you always do . . . murmuring . . . hissing hints of whatever you’d think would get the best effect, for you—that Benn’s abandoned me . . . that I was going back . . . to them. Then, you’d step back and . . . .” —for the COMPLETE NOVEL . . .
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