thenoondaydemon (2 page)

Chapter Two

The bathroom screamed eighties. Mom liked flowers then. Big, flowery prints behind cheap plastic frames, a vinyl shower curtain with flamboyant, pink irises and that fuzzy, purple rug that matched the fuzzy toilet seat cover, it all blared at her.
Abra
left the door open so the shower steam would filter out. She
slid
her skirt down, looking at her bare legs. “Maybe he’s right.
Been a while since I wore a mini.”
She caught a finger in her white lace thong and tugged it away.
Shimmying
her tank top over her head, she glanced in the mirror. “Not bad.
Still
lookin
’ good for a thirty-some year old.”
Abra
unhitched her bra and let it fall to the pile of crumpled clothes, feeling no urge to pick them up; no one else was around to care. She liked that fact, but suddenly, it felt sad, and never before now had it been cause not to clean up after herself.

Shrugging off the odd melancholy, she stepped into the tub, aimed the showerhead to the wall, and turned on the water. She hummed while she waited for the heat to build up. Steam drifted through the air in dream-like wisps.
Abra
closed her eyes, reached for the showerhead and directed it at her naked body. Standing still, she let her mind wander to Val.
Mm, wish he were here right now.
Envisioning his mysterious eyes and his sexy smirk, she sighed.
“He was a tasty looking piece of eye candy.”

She turned so the water drenched her hair. The wet mass felt heavy against her back. She found the bar of soap, lathered up her hands, and worked the suds over her slick skin. Fingers skimmed the curves of her breasts, seeking each sensitive patch of dimpled skin around her nipples. She traced with patience, imagining his hands there instead of hers. Tingles swept through her. She grasped her hard nipples, pinching them until she couldn’t take the pleasant pain any longer.
Abra
held her breath, leaned against the shower wall, and let her right hand wander lower.

She frowned at the length of her pubic hairs, deciding it was time for a shave. Sweeping her index finger across her clit, she teased herself in gentle strokes. Her mind numbed. Thoughts drifted away, soothed by
the shush
of water pouring down. Working in deeper caresses, she felt the bud of her clit awakening. Circling the hooded nub, she coaxed it to life. Every touch, every press caused a hot prickle, making her quiver. She liked things hard, intense and deep. For a moment, she cursed herself for not unpacking her dildo.
Next time,
she thought,
he’ll be with me. If Val comes back tomorrow, I’ll seduce him.

Letting out a bliss-filled moan,
Abra
twirled circles across her clit, pushing hard until a pleasing numbness spread through her pussy. She imagined leaning into the mysterious man on the porch, standing on her tiptoes to nibble at his lips.
Would he be hard for me?
She thought of the obvious bulge in his jeans, his knowing grin, and his tight ass.
I’d like to hold his ass when he drives his cock inside me.

Her finger worked urgently. Butt cheeks tightened, anticipating the impending release. Her limbs tensed.
Abra
held her breath. The orgasm came slowly, a tender throb and pulse as her pussy reached for something that wasn’t there. She let out her pent-up breath, followed by a swooning cry of pleasure.
Abra
leaned against the fiberglass wall, its cooler temperature another sensation that she rode out with the rhythm of her body. When it subsided, and she could form coherent thoughts again, she said to the heated mist, “Tomorrow, he’ll be mine.”

* * * *

The sun had set hours ago, and respectable people living on farms way out in the country had long since gone to bed. Not
Abra
Helene. She stood in her makeshift studio, originally the living room of the old farmhouse, and painted with fury. She liked to create in the nude, and often bore the colored splotches of her art across her right hip. She didn’t mind. It was conversation if a man saw her naked. Usually, she painted angels, great naked men with heavy phalluses and rainbow wings reaching into vibrant sunrises, but not this night. Tonight she raked her brush across the canvas with harsh blacks and browns. The only light that showed on the grim vision glittered in the depths of its hazel eyes, two red dots in the place of pupils. The demon glaring out from the vanishing cotton linen had full lips, a bare chest and beyond it, souls wove in the shadows like mist from the shower.

The angels watched from seven other easels set about the wide room.
Abra
imagined their disapproving voices. Perhaps, if they weren’t made of pigment and oil, they would wail at her for creating such a monstrosity. She shook her head, but didn’t turn to look at them. This demon needed wings, great, hairy, brown batwings that curled at the ends. In even strokes, she mapped them out. Then, feeling the urge to connect with her creation, she dropped her brush and swiped two fingers through the paint.

Touching the cold vision,
Abra
slid skin against canvas and, in mere minutes, the demon was complete. She took a step back, smiled wide at her accomplishment, and danced about the easel in a crazed circle, giggling. She shook and gyrated until she could scarce breathe, her pulse pounding in her ears. Exhausted,
Abra
washed her hands and as much paint as she could from the dried streaks across her hip. Afterward, she climbed naked into the old four-post bed that faced the window in her bedroom.

White gauze curtains swayed in the cool, night breeze. She lay there watching them from her pile of pillows, bundled beneath a hand-sewn quilt, her mind turning with lust. “Where are you?” she asked the night, wondering if Val slept somewhere nearby. Some inner sense of what he was suggested to her that he lay curled in a pile of dried hay, his mouth ajar, his shirt tossed away.
What would it feel like to touch the muscles that stretch across his chest?
She closed her eyes and imagined crawling toward him, trying to unzip his fly with her teeth, slipping her tongue beneath his boxers, if he wore any underwear at all.

Sleep took hold of her with strong arms as the dream worked its way further. She crouched in the hay, naked before him and wrenched his jeans partway down. He slept; she looked up to confirm it. Those thick lashes held back his piercing, shifting eyes. His tempting mouth twitched as she licked the hot skin beneath his navel. She stared at him, hungry for more, anxious to seek out every soft taste of him. His cock came to life, questing for her lips.
Abra
giggled in her dream, a twittering, lecherous sound that echoed in her bedroom. Her lips sought his dick, slipping all around its engorged head. Tasting the dribble of
precum
there, she moaned with delight. She glanced up, unwilling to release him from her mouth.

Still asleep, his eyes moved beneath his eyelids as he dreamed.

With her right hand, she cupped his balls, rolling them between her fingers. His cock jumped, and she sucked the head into her mouth with more force.

A horn blared in the distance.
Abra
sucked harder. It sounded over and over until she opened her eyes, the taste of man lingering on her tongue. She growled at the bright sunlight shining through the motionless gauze curtains.

“What time is it?” She shifted onto her side and stared at the digital radio clock.
12:01 p.m. “Holy shit.
Doesn’t feel like I slept more than an hour.”

The car horn beeped to the tune of Yankee Doodle.

“Who the hell is that?” She lumbered off the bed, poked her head out the window and frowned. “Oh. It’s him.”

Val hung his head out the side of an ancient pickup truck, his gaze searching,
then
settling right on her. He waved once, a decidedly masculine sweeping arc and called across the yard, “Got anymore lemonade?”

Abra
licked her lips, hungry for him.
“Yeah.
Come on up to the porch!”

The truck’s rumbling engine died with a stuttering moan. Val opened his door, its hinges creaking, and he stepped out onto the grass.
Abra
studied him as he strode across the yard. He walked with purpose, his head high, his shoulders back and his arms swaying slightly. He wore black jeans today and another white t-shirt. He stepped around the corner of the porch, out of view. His boots thumped as he crossed the boards.

The taste of him lingered in her mouth. She wanted more, much more than just the dream.
Abra
pulled on a bra, found a tank top dress and hurried to pull it over her head. She glanced at the open drawer where her panties waited in neat, silken piles. “Don’t need those,” she whispered. “Not for what I have in mind.”

She left the bedroom, crossed the hall, and stopped in the studio. The angels looked wrong, as if the light had drained from their features. Their wings appeared to be missing feathers and their eyes, which she distinctly remembered painting gold and green, all looked gray, washed out and listless. In the center of the room, the obsidian demon she’d painted in the middle of the night watched her with his red pupils. His wings arced at both sides of his body in a proud way. His penis stood at attention, his balls hanging below, almost as low as a Brahma bull’s. Above his genitals, his abdomen rippled with muscles and his chest seemed made for a superhero, impossibly broad.

“
Abra
?”

She realized Val had let himself in. His boots clunked in the kitchen and the hall. Soon, she felt him standing just behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and her forearms prickled with goose pimples. She caught her breath and turned to face him. He stood too close for someone who really didn’t know her. His jet-black hair
lay
feathered back, damp from bathing. The scent of Irish Spring soap drifted from his skin. She wanted to
lean
up and kiss him.

“You like to read a lot?” he asked.

“Huh?”

He nodded toward an open bedroom door, her parents’ old room. She’d turned it into her study soon after moving in. Stacks of books hid the top of the coffee table. More lay strewn on the floor where she’d tossed them after finishing. A pile of magazines reached to the top of the beige couch cushions.
“Yeah, sometimes.”

“I don’t know how you can stand to stay here all alone.” He
grinned
his sideways grin. “You must be a strong woman.” He reached out, swept a thick bunch of hair from her face, and set it behind her ear. Without a word, he leaned close, his cheek running alongside hers for what seemed an eternity of a moment. He breathed deep, his chest touching her breasts. “You smell good.”

“Thanks.” She breathed out, then inhaled the intoxicating masculine flavor of his skin beneath the soap and contemplated reaching for his—

He stepped away.

She couldn’t catch her breath. A pulse of sexual arousal choked her, pressing every inch of her body into submission. Her face flushed with heat; her pussy moistened in anticipation and her nipples reached for him. They poked through the thin, blue cotton of her dress, and she knew he noticed.

Those mysterious eyes locked on her chest. His grin melted away. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no.”
Abra
swept a hand through her hair, glanced at the painting, and gathered her calm. “I just overslept is
all.
You…startled me.”

“It’s noon.” His eyebrows rose in apparent confusion.

“I know. You want some lemonade?”

“Sure.” He stepped aside so she could pass. As she did, Val grabbed her ass. Her heart skipped. When she looked over her shoulder though, he stood a step away from the painting of the demon.

He couldn’t have touched me and moved across the room so fast.
Shaking her head,
Abra
went to the kitchen to poor their drinks, dismissing the sensation as a figment of her horny, overactive imagination. “You hungry?” she called.

“Yeah.
Maybe.
Depends on what you’re offering.”

The dream flashed through her mind, only in this instance, as she sucked him and glanced up, his eyes were wide, his lips pressed in an intense way as he studied her.

“Mm.
This one’s real good.”

His voice startled her from her imaginings.
“The demon?”
She carried the green glasses to the study, ice clinking together within. He’d moved inches from the painting, leaning forward to stare into the demon’s eyes.

“Yeah.
Excellent detail.”
He straightened and glanced around the room at the other paintings as he turned. “These angels though, they’re…missing something.” Val nodded.

“Everyone’s a critic.” She held out a glass.

He snatched it in one hand and brought it to his lips. As he drank, his gaze shifted to her breasts again. The feel of fingers groping them made her jump.
I’m imagining things. Didn’t sleep enough, that’s all it is.
But she’d gone to bed at two at least. That was ten hours ago.
Ten hours. Maybe I’m sick.

Half his drink remained when he lowered the glass. “I think you should paint over them. No sense wasting the canvas.”

Abra
snorted. “Shows what you know. What are you, a migrant worker? Think you know about art?”