Authors: Edward Lee
Shifters (29 page)
“Oh, my!”
Locke looked up. Lethe had just taken his first sip of the Medoc, and now his eyes beamed.
“What?” Locke asked.
“This wine is absolutely perfect. Do try it.”
“Now
that
I can do,” Locke said and swished a sip of the red Bordeaux through his mouth.
that
I can do,” Locke said and swished a sip of the red Bordeaux through his mouth.
(ii)
Ten grand lost but, even in this drunken idealism, he felt better than he had in months. He felt
real.
real.
So that was something, wasn’t it?
After they’d finished the Medoc—not dark but plush, semi-tart with no after-taste till it was past the back of your throat, a strong bouquet—Jason, the masked double-duty driver, showed Locke to his quarters which, to his surprise was a nice cottage in the enclosed back yard. Just a squat stucco job, one of four in a row before the high hedges that lined the back brick fence. Some small imported trees had been planted, and several neatly formed gardens spiraled off.
Nice digs,
he thought but at once heard a high-pitched, jovial squeal, then some laughter.
Nice digs,
he thought but at once heard a high-pitched, jovial squeal, then some laughter.
“That’s Mr. Martin and his…assistants,” Jason explained, casting an eye toward the second cottage. “They get into some partying. If it’s too loud, let me know. I’d be happy to move you into a room in the house.”
“No, this is fine,” Locke said. Drapes over the next cottage’s window were pulled tight, but he could see figures moving in the lamplight, and faintly detected music. “I can sleep through an earthquake.”
Jason, then, led Locke into his own cottage. Inside was immaculate, spare: a pristine four-poster, a leather recamier sofa, and a narrow stained-oak chiffonier to serve as a dresser. It would do.
The driver put his bag down at the doorstep. “Is there anything else, Mr. Locke?”
Locke wanted to level with him, ask,
Hey, man, does Lethe pay you a lot to wear that mask and dress up like a manservant?
but that would’ve been a shit-heel thing to do.
You’ll embarrass the guy…
“No, I’m all set, Jason, thanks. See you tomorrow, man.”
Hey, man, does Lethe pay you a lot to wear that mask and dress up like a manservant?
but that would’ve been a shit-heel thing to do.
You’ll embarrass the guy…
“No, I’m all set, Jason, thanks. See you tomorrow, man.”
The manservant nodded curtly, then left, clicking the door shut behind him.
Locke sat down on the deep bed, sinking into a soft mattress.
All right, I’m drunk, but I feel pretty good.
No regrets—it amazed him. He returned ten thousand in cash, and felt
good.
He knew why, of course. This was the first step in the trek back to his sense of truth, his old self before his life collapsed. It told him something he hadn’t believed yesterday, or three months ago.
good.
He knew why, of course. This was the first step in the trek back to his sense of truth, his old self before his life collapsed. It told him something he hadn’t believed yesterday, or three months ago.
There was a road back…
And I’ve got my feet on the path.
Or, in this case, the egress.
Art-clique sophistry or not, Lethe’s articulate conversation was stimulating. By symbolizing the most emotive events in his life—with his work—Locke
was
building an exit-ramp of sorts. The notion left him enthused, but…
was
building an exit-ramp of sorts. The notion left him enthused, but…
Talking was one thing. Doing it was another.
I’ll just have to do it.
The wine filled his head. He actually wanted to write for a change but the tingeing drunkenness stifled him. He quickly left the cottage and began to take long strides about the plush back yard. Fresh air was all he needed, and a little Mother Nature. Above, the clouds broke, showing a spectacular twilight. An owl hooted from a high tree beyond the brick fence, and a light gust of wind made the shrubs whisper. Locke sighed at a sense of peace.
The second cottage was dark now, no lights behind the drapes, no music or loud talk when only a few minutes ago, they’d been partying in there. Strange. Then he walked further into the moon-tinted yard. The third and fourth cottages stood dark too. Did Lethe have more guests staying in these?
He felt more than saw the light flick on at the fourth cottage. The small windows stood brightly lit through the slats of their blinds.
I didn’t see anyone go in there,
he felt sure. Which could only mean that the occupants had been inside all along. Perhaps Lethe did have some other guests.
I didn’t see anyone go in there,
he felt sure. Which could only mean that the occupants had been inside all along. Perhaps Lethe did have some other guests.
As quickly as it had come on, though, the light went out again, and the door clicked open, showing an oblong block of darkness. Then it clicked shut.
Locke squinted, hidden in the back yard’s murk.
Who the hell—
A figure walked silently from the fourth cottage to the third. Locke could detect no details, only that the figure couldn’t be Jason. Not tall enough, not the right gait. In a moment, however, the figure entered the third cottage, closed the door and locked it. Whoever it was, they clearly hadn’t noticed Locke. He felt like a spy.
Dimmer lights flicked on in the third cottage’s front windows, probably a light closer to the rear of the main room. Through the blind-slats, he could see the figure moving inside.
He’d crept along most of the fence perimeter before his thoughts caught him:
Are you out of your mind? What are you doing?
Are you out of your mind? What are you doing?
Even Locke wasn’t sure at first. It was just an impulse, as human, perhaps, as it was immoral. Locke’s will pulled away from him—
You asshole! Someone’s going to see you!
—and after only a minute or two, he found himself back against the cottage’s darkest side next to a smaller window. For whatever reason, then, he looked in even as his thoughts continued to object.
You asshole! Someone’s going to see you!
—and after only a minute or two, he found himself back against the cottage’s darkest side next to a smaller window. For whatever reason, then, he looked in even as his thoughts continued to object.
What kind of a nutcake crackpot weirdo pervert are you? You’re supposed to be writing poetry, not peeping in people’s windows!
Yet peep he did. It was a woman inside, undressing. Locke could barely see her but could see enough. She stood in just a slant of wan, butter-toned lamplight, blocked off to either side by wider slants of darkness which made the cramped room seem submerged in ink. Further movement drew Locke’s face closer to the tiny glass pane…
The slat he peered through only allowed him to see her from mid-thigh to bosom. She appeared to be removing a short, shiny-black skirt and bodice of some kind but before Locke could speculate further it was off and she was nude. Something primal lured his gaze to her breasts: not large but high, pert, and white like sculpted limestone. Nipples of deep sepia jutted to fascinating points. Then her hand—fine, white, with short, black-painted nails—raised to caress one of the breasts.
This could get interesting,
Locke deduced.
This view’s almost worth the misdemeanor charge…
But who was she? A guest? An employee?
No, wait! The maid who’d been driving the Daimler!
It must be. And though details were nearly impossible to discern beyond the meager slant of light, why did the room seem barren? But that was not the only incongruence, was it?
Locke deduced.
This view’s almost worth the misdemeanor charge…
But who was she? A guest? An employee?
No, wait! The maid who’d been driving the Daimler!
It must be. And though details were nearly impossible to discern beyond the meager slant of light, why did the room seem barren? But that was not the only incongruence, was it?
Locke squinted so hard his temples thumped; his vision strained, groped for more of the curious image. She was just standing there, plucking at the large nipples, an erotic headless statuette. It was the immediate distraction of her breasts that had sideswiped Locke’s attentions. His eyes now focused on the flat of her abdomen, smooth and tight as a gymnast’s. But…
The belly appeared swollen to the extent that Locke guessed she must be five or six months pregnant. He noted the curve of the tiniest line of fine hair tracing from her navel to her pubic hair. Her hand lowered to the center of the swelling and rubbed it.
Then Locke turned to ice when someone else entered the room.
Shit!
“It’s late. The poet’s asleep,” came a gruff voice. Locke recognized it at once: Jason, the manservant. Jason’s own hand reached out (he remained dressed in his French-cuffed butler’s jacket and the morning trousers) and touched the woman’s stomach. “I thought they were going to drink all night.”
Locke realized in an instant: Jason and the woman must be lovers, and this third cottage must be their hideaway. Was she pregnant by the driver?
Yeah,
Locke thought.
They’re lovers.
But after what he saw next, he knew—
Yeah,
Locke thought.
They’re lovers.
But after what he saw next, he knew—
“Stand still, bitch. Let me see it.”
—they were lovers of a very strange bent.
Jason had opened his trousers and just stood there in front of her, masturbating. The borders of the slat prevented Locke from seeing either face; it was simply a blocked frame of bodies in dim, angled light. The driver’s hand shucked the penis back and forth—it was a
large
penis—while the woman’s index and middle fingers V’d to hold open her furred labia, which shined bright mallow pink. Then—
large
penis—while the woman’s index and middle fingers V’d to hold open her furred labia, which shined bright mallow pink. Then—
SLAP!
The woman’s body jerked in the frame—clearly Jason had brought his other hand across the side of her face, and with some force. But she issued not even a whimper.
“Like that?”
SLAP!
“Bet that puts some juice between your gams, huh?”
SLAP! SLAP!
Twice more, then the driver’s business hand worked harder.
“Got some comin’ for ya…”
The woman’s belly looked protuberant; swollen as it already was, it seemed now that she was pushing it out further in some uninterpretable stimulation. The modest breasts heaved, the dark nipples now so full of excitation they stuck out rigid like pinkie-ends. Gusts of breath grew hot; Locke had never seen anything so strange.
Whatever happened to coitus?
Whatever happened to coitus?
“Here, here—”
Now the offending hand seemed to raise to her throat and squeeze. Locke heard the most petite choking sounds.
“Fuckin’ whore. Let’s shine you up.”
It didn’t take much longer for Jason to have his crisis. His hips flinched, his hand moving now in a rabid blur, and—
“Yeah, bitch. There. There it is—”
The ejaculation launched out: gelatinous worms now squirmed onto the faceless woman’s belly. The belly sucked in and out; then the sperm ran down the fine, white skin to settle in globs amid the tuft of pubic hair. Irregular pearls in a nest.
“All right,” the driver gruffed. “I’m ready now…”
Locke’s eyes flicked up, to the girl’s bosom. Now she was pinching a nipple between index finger and thumb, pinching hard, and simultaneously—
Oww!
Locke thought.
Locke thought.
—inserting a frightfully long sewing needle directly into the end of the nipple.
Locke heard a feminine hiss.
Both figures moved back into the darkness then, as Jason lowered his mouth to the speared nipple.
Mmmm, mmmmmm…
Faint if not greedy sucking noises ensued; the figures disappeared into murky ink beyond the room.
Shit,
Locke thought.
Call me a prude…but that’s a bit too kinky for me…
In 1990, he’d dated a girl—a grocery-story cashier—who’d seemed very straitlaced. Mousy, thick glasses, librarianesque. But after a few drinks and once in bed, she begun to gutter such instructions as, “Bite me till I bleed!” “Yank my hair!” and “Choke me out!” Ever the selfless lover, Locke had tried as he might to please her but simply couldn’t continue when her lewdly smiling face began to turn blue. She’d raged at him. “You stupid fuck! You were supposed to choke me out!” Locke declined calling her back.
Locke thought.
Call me a prude…but that’s a bit too kinky for me…
In 1990, he’d dated a girl—a grocery-story cashier—who’d seemed very straitlaced. Mousy, thick glasses, librarianesque. But after a few drinks and once in bed, she begun to gutter such instructions as, “Bite me till I bleed!” “Yank my hair!” and “Choke me out!” Ever the selfless lover, Locke had tried as he might to please her but simply couldn’t continue when her lewdly smiling face began to turn blue. She’d raged at him. “You stupid fuck! You were supposed to choke me out!” Locke declined calling her back.
But this?
He heard a whisper—“Ja…, sheiss…”—which sounded vaguely Germanic. Then he remembered the woman who’d answered the phone when he’d called yesterday.
This kink-job racehorse must be Lethe’s receptionist,
he gathered.
This kink-job racehorse must be Lethe’s receptionist,
he gathered.
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