The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (59 page)

He collapsed on the bed when he was certain I was satisfied. I joined him seconds later. We said nothing as we caught our collective breath and spiraled to earth. When I gauged he had fully recovered, I took his hand and sat up.

“Let’s go see how Melissa is doing.” Together, we headed for the bathroom.

There she sat, mired in suds. Our unannounced entrance jolted her and her eyes sprung open. Her Rotundness had taken advantage, it seemed, of my expensive bubble bath to pleasure herself. Such circumstances were enough to bring bile to my throat and yet my curiosity was piqued, for what could have prompted this overfed munchkin to reach that level of arousal? Was it my constant belittlement of her? Her husband’s interest in me? My unadulterated beauty?

Whatever it was, I was more than willing to explore some new territory. Christopher glanced at me to gauge my mood. He was undoubtedly trying to anticipate what I might do next but, as we all know, that’s not an undertaking for the faint of heart. I shot him a stern glance to ensure his silence.

“I see you’ve found your pussy, Melissa. I hope its rust doesn’t leave a ring around my bathtub.”

She squinted at me as if she were wishing some unspoken curse on me. Her face pinched with revulsion and that just made me wetter. I knew I’d already done irreparable damage to their marriage but there’s always room for more humiliation, especially for confused and insufferably bland females like this one. I climbed the steps to the bathtub, with no intention of sharing the same bathwater but with every intention of making her think I would.

I walked around the edge of the tub, still wearing my bustier but nothing else. Once I found a spot I liked, directly in front of her of course, I unsnapped the garment and stood before her with nothing between us but suds. The trepidation in her eyes was positively invigorating.

“What are you going to do?” she asked me, voice quavering.

“If you’re going to make me watch you jack off, you’re going to have to watch me.”

I filled one hand with the enviably firm flesh of my left breast.

“Now grab yours,” I demanded.

She looked to her husband but I did not. My eyes stayed on her. I heard him say “Grab your tit, Mel.”

Somewhere under my dense and fragrant bubble bath, her pudgy hand took hold of a pancake with a nipple. I moved my right hand to my sex, where I spread my labia wide.

“Can you get a good look at this, Melissa? This is the sweet pussy your husband could have been screwing all these years instead of the musty hole that’s now stinking up my bathtub. Look at me, you stupid bitch.”

She looked. Of course, she looked. Who could look away? Nevertheless, I kept my eyes glued on her and ignored whatever sounds I heard coming from Christopher. I’d already conquered him and knew his allegiance was to me, not her – he wouldn’t be stepping in to save her now.

I stroked the slippery folds of my pussy, creaming with every passing second that her gaze stayed on my hand.

“Play with yourself. Follow my lead. Maybe you can learn the timeless art of seduction,” I cackled. Her hands seemed busy. I certainly had no plans to check on her progress.

Something made me turn to look at Christopher, whose mood had palpably changed. He stood there smiling wryly, with his jacket open to reveal some tiny digital device. When he took it out of his pocket and held it to his eye as he grinned, I understood that the man I’d just treated to the sex of his life was photographing me with a high-tech camera. Too stunned to move or even hurl well-deserved invectives, I tried to discern just what kind of foul play was afoot.

“You could get dressed, Beverly, but it wouldn’t do much good. We’ve got what we need now. These cameras only hold a hundred images or so.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I finally spat.

He tossed me the terrycloth robe I bought in Istanbul but most of it landed in the bath water. Mel grinned.

“It was funny that you mentioned Barry Goldman’s party earlier tonight,” Christopher began. Fiddling with the device, he snapped another photo of me leaning against the Italian marble, breast in one hand, fire in my eyes.

“I was there the night you ruined Barry’s marriage. And it was a damn good marriage, you evil slut. What you did destroyed Barry.”

“He didn’t seem too distraught the night it happened. We screwed like rabbits.”

“I warned him about you,” he continued, completely ignoring my commentary. “I knew the havoc you’d wreaked with others. He thought he was immune. Did I mention that Barry is my brother?”

“No, I believe you overlooked that. But please – give him my regards.”

“I’m going to give him more than that. These pictures are a start. They’re likely to make him quite a bit of money, especially when he posts them on the Internet. The footage from the limousine should do well, too. Lots of different angles. Those Web cams are really an innovation.”

“Bastard.”

“Oh, now I don’t think you’re in any position to be name-calling, Beverly. You outdid yourself with poor Melissa here tonight. By the way, she isn’t my wife.”

“I find that reassuring,” I said, meaning it, though I didn’t believe him for a second. Who would tote a frump like Mel around unless they were under some legal obligation to do so?

“Bitch,” Melissa said, throwing my words back at me but sounding so effete, I didn’t feel more than a sneer was due her.

“Melissa is my special partner. We play humiliation games often. She enjoys it. In fact, this night was as much for her as it was for me. I’m amazed that a champion player such as yourself didn’t know you were being set up. But then, I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist the easy target Mel presented. And I knew you and your delusional brain would try to break us up if you thought we were married. You’re so predictable, Beverly. You put yourself right where we wanted you.”

I said nothing because I was trying to figure out how to drown Mel and have one more go at Christopher. I wanted to fuck him so thoroughly that he’d give me those damn pictures. But what about the Web cam?

“Revenge is really quite sweet,” he continued. “There’s no telling what these pictures will do to your client base, Beverly. I wouldn’t want to be you tomorrow.”

“Don’t be silly. You wouldn’t know
how
to be me.”

Mel climbed out of my tub with newfound grace. Though her body was still a repulsive sack of shapelessness, there was no mistaking the confidence that practically beamed from her. Damned submissives – they had wills of iron under their compliant flesh. It was a mindset I’d never understand or respect. Why submit when you could rule?

“I left you a little surprise in your tub,” Mel purred just before she yanked me from the ledge. The element of surprise worked in her favor and I found myself flailing about in her bathwater. It didn’t take me long to find my Armani suit, balled up and permanently ruined. And I thought the blue in the water had come from the Himalayan herbs in my exclusive blend of eastern aromatherapy oils.

She’d stained my bathtub, after all. But the stain to my reputation was the more indelible of the two. If I started packing now, I could make it to Canada in just a few hours. Advertising opportunities – and happy marriages – were in plentiful supply there, I’d heard. In fact, one of my former, and attractive, colleagues had just moved there with his wife . . .

I make coffee in my kitchen while the wan light of early morning on the lake filters through the louvers of the Venetian blinds in the cottage. It’s the last of my Blue Mountain, a gift from the griot, Kayode “Kayo” Mackenzie of Hilton Head Island. I want it for myself and I fear I’ll wake Charmaine, who is still asleep in the loft, and I’ll have to share my last drop of him. I roll its liquor on my tongue. Strange that I’d feel that way about something as mundane as coffee, but that’s the way it is. It’s bitter and sweet; something like the man. Something like all that followed our brief acquaintance. The screen door is squeaky and I try not to let it bang as I step out onto the flagstone patio into the dim morning. The air is fresh, and frosted with the resinous smell of pine, like the interior of a cathedral after mass is said. It is still as a church too, hemmed in by trees some seventy feet tall. It’s almost light. Soon the morning chorus will begin. Soon the lake will buzz with boat motors and cries of water-skiers. Soon Charmaine will be getting up, stretching, looking for me.

Last night she lay in the space between my thighs and stabbed at my emptiness with her tongue until it was filled loosely, like water outflowing a cracked vessel. I am empty because she is using me. I know that. I’m using her too. We are like mutually supporting parasites. It’s his fault. She is using me because I once had the almost-famous Mackenzie, whom she desires. She has not had the pleasure despite tracking him like a camp follower. Of this I am certain.

“I’ve been in love with that man for a decade,” she confessed over
Cuba Libre’s
at the old Bam Boo Club in downtown Toronto. Some people idolize singers. Charmaine was like that with poets and artists. So am I, I confess. She responded to Kayo the way women my mother’s age swooned over Leonard Cohen. Striped by shade from one of the club’s namesake grasses, she swung one sandaled foot under the patio table, her purple-painted toenails coming perilously close to my bare shin. “It’s more than lust. It’s lo-ove.” She flapped her fingers like an excited teenager. I tried not to stare at her cleavage. “I’ve seen him every time he comes up here. I’ve even seen him perform
here
,” she enthused, waving to take in the whole of the club. “Then I go home and single-handedly console myself that the streets are not paved with talented and handsome men like him, sensitive guys just ripe for the plucking. Any girl should get one. But no,” she sucked her teeth, “those ones are rare and worth the wait, not that a girl should go without some while she is waiting.”

We laughed, but I was a bit put out. I wished she wasn’t so transparently smitten, even if I agreed wholeheartedly with her assessment of Kayo’s worth. A girl shouldn’t go without a bit of something. I could be that something for her. Like Charmaine, I’m in love with words and most recently with her words. My guru says I shouldn’t trust what people say, only what they do, but I’m susceptible to art and sweet talk. I’d been working at bedding Charmaine for six months now, ever since the writers’ conference where we met. She’s brilliant – a poet as well. I’m a sucker for that sort of shine; that sort of smart-hot. She had always been willing to come out to talk, to shop or share, but I’d wanted more for a long time. I searched her face and the shifting plains and hills of her body for clues, but had found no evidence of my desire returned. That she was so indifferent to me hurt. She thrummed with passion. I quivered back. She was edible. I was hungry. I stared across the table. She looked away. She had broad, high cheekbones, a diamond-shaped face that spoke of her jambalaya roots: Trini, French, Indian, African. Creole. Red. Her eyes were large, and the corners curled down slightly. This was beautiful. But it was her body; the queenly heft of it, and the way she moved her high chest and broad behind with grace upon slender legs like stalks of grass that I found so compelling. Her ass jutted one way, her tits, belly and chin the other, like those African carvings of dancing girls with long shins and a hand on one hip. That and the words. The words.

We were talking American poets. Slammers. The import Dub set. Spoken-word traditionalists. That’s her thing. She brought up Kayo’s name and I sat for a long time contemplating my drink and the plate of over-sour escoveitched snapper steaming in front of me. In this moment I sensed a shift about to occur, some rending of the fabric of my universe. “I know him,” I said, finally, “personally . . .”

She looked at me with surprise.

“How come you never said so? No. Don’t shit me.”

“I guess it never occurred to me. We had an affair a year ago.”

She weighed this statement against what she believed. “No. No way . . . he’d never. He’s a separatist. He’s all for
la raza
, Leni.”

I shrugged, burning inwardly. Truth was often stranger than art. We invent some of our truths. I couldn’t keep my trap shut. Fuck her if she thought I couldn’t be telling the truth because he was out there saying he wouldn’t touch whitey. There I was, shoving one sacred cow in her face. I wished to fuck she wanted me. There, take that. I attempted the fish. The vinegar rankled in my nostrils and burned my tongue. I pushed it away, called the waiter and asked to see the menu again. . . .

“Well, he did. We did. The only thing he was separating then were my legs. Not long, not deep . . . not love, I’m afraid . . .” She stared at me, disbelieving. “I met him in Charleston. I was doing that article for
Saturday Night.
I have some pictures. Maybe I’ll show you. You can come over.”

I did have pictures; there was not much to divine from them. They didn’t show us, or anyone else fucking. But there is always a story behind an image. In my favorite, he is standing on a narrow, cobbled lane in Charleston, under a huge hanging fern, his bald head turned to one side, his cheek laid across one shoulder. The flash glints off of one earring, dangling along his cheek. The fern stands on the side of his head, looking like a great green jester’s cap; a woodland king’s crown, sliding off. A church spire rises in the distance at the end of the alley. He is smiling, gap-toothed, goofily at the camera. That was the day after we met. We’d shared breakfast without touching.

I’d been pulled by a bill posted on a telephone pole to attend a slam of Island poets in a backstreet club. I thought,
great
, I could do an extra article on contemporary Gullah culture alive and well in South Carolina. It’s why I was there, after all – dredging stories. I went into that place, shining like the North Star. It was fantastic: hot, angry, exuberant. There was much shouting and later, pressing of flesh, the knocking of knuckles in acknowledgment of the groove. I was talking to the performers and he, sliding past my table after his set, did a double take and asked if I had got lost. I laughed and said no. He was very tall, and dark like espresso, with a split in his smile that made him look like an overgrown boy. I was not lost. I was there for the show. Spur of the moment, I asked if I could interview him. He sat down and talked, and that was the beginning. He said to come for breakfast at his hotel. What the hell . . . I did. We drove in his old truck to the Island, after.