Eplhaus

Eplehaus

By Brewt.Blacklist

December 2010

Vivien's Scabbard

Puella Pallida

WE WERE generally comfortable. After the kids had grown and left, we moved to a smaller abode more like what we had before we were first married. It was not expansive; we traded off personal privacy space for lower costs, so we did have a tendency to be in each other's laps or faces or breathing room no matter what. There really wasn't an "away" from each other. But as we had never really fought much over the years, we thought we could make this work out. I expected to get caught up on my reading; the Shaara trilogy, John Jakes, McPherson's Battlecry, all kinds of good Civil War novels I've never had time to read.

It did not serve to make us more intimate with each other. Many were the nights that little was said, because we knew pretty much what we thought to be all that was knowable from each other. Not a lot of sense in going over, yet again, what should we watch on TV, or what do we need at the store, or did you sleep alright last night. "Cozy" would be the sales-pitch word on our life. In truth, it was stifling; egg-shells were everywhere, and the utmost care had to be constantly taken to not mispronounce something that would be misconstrued, yet again.

Yes, that yet again.

The yet again that men always seem to end up being the one to initiate, especially later in life. The messy smelly bothersome yet again chore that women always seem to be the ones to take exception to with the one person they had forsaken all others for. With. To. Whatever: me. The person to whom she had promised in front of god and everyone to be handily available for, for richer, for poorer, all that other rot that vows have a tendency to degrade into when we're basically bored with them. The "didn't we just do this?" yet again.

So the romance had faded, and the old tricks didn't have the impact they used to. Flowers, candy, dates, trips, presents, foot rubs, shoe shopping, cooking dinner for her, hell, even taking her out for dinner, simply no longer resulted in the delight that led to the delights of the flesh anymore. So when the stresses of the job kicked in high enough to make me irritable and cranky anyway, it served us both well to have me leave the homestead and go for a walk.

My job is not that bad. I work at a small production facility of a larger corporation, and after downsizing and automation took its latest tolls, I ended up being the only person left in my department. And as long as everything worked, I had little to do beside check in on a few processes any given day. When things would fail, though, the shit would really hit the fan. And I had gotten things down to where the only real failures were the big ones, like power.

It was on the day of a power event that took the whole server room down, computers, phones, network, everything, that I drug myself up the walk, beaten all to hell.

"Honey, you look like they were hard on you today. Why don't you take a walk, and dinner'll be ready when you get back."

I didn't even look up at her, to notice her smile, or what she was wearing or anything before I roundheeled my way right back out from whence I came. She was right; I wasn't going to be anything but snappy and probably rude. "I'll be back."

Our bungalow was only a couple blocks from a lake the city had taken to maintaining half a century before. It wasn't large, a few dozen acres at most, but every few years the city would add a new improvement. This was an ambitious year at Parks Planning; they had raised an artificial island on one side of it. It looked decidedly man-made on a lake that never froze and was approaching gardenesque because of all the plants that had been put around on it that clearly didn't belong in this climate. I suppose it was quaint in someone's eyes.

Because of the control the city leveraged over this little pond, it did induce some, shall we say, atmospheric effects throughout the year. There were times that the smell was worth considering moving over. The local waterfowl never left, and got positively fat from all the bread the townsfolk would drop for them. The quacking never ended, and duckshit was everywhere. Lake Duck Doo Death was the local's name for what had once been known as Hildebrandt's Pond.

The other thing that happened that didn't used to because of the interventions of Parks Planning was fog. When the temperature and humidity was just right, as it often was in this part of the country, and the wind wasn't blowing, a steady layer of fog would rise and roll off the surface. It was simultaneously romantic and spooky. This was yet another such a night.

It was unusually quiet; traffic had evaporated, and maybe the extra moisture in the atmosphere changed the way sound works, I don't know, but I could hear my footsteps echoing off of I didn't know what as I got to the southeast edge of the lake, starting my circumnavigation of it. Made me feel like an explorer thinking that way, and it helped to distract me from the horrors of my day. As I made my way around, the steady tapping of my shoes started to become counterpointed by another sound; one that didn't involve feet.

As I got about half way round, the extra not-me sound was no longer faint, and certainly not pedestrian. My eyes, I could feel them get wider but not drier because of the fog, were darting about, looking for the source. The sound played funny tricks and it was hard to echolocate the source. I, at first, tried to convince myself that I simply wanted to know where to avert my eyes from, but by the time I had started getting around the island side of the lake, I could no longer live up to the decorum: I wanted to see.

"Oh, god!"

"Huuh Huuh Huuh Shut up, bitch."

And so on. As I made my way around the shore, I could see him first on the island. Tall, gaunt, decidedly unwashed, the dark and dirty man was making motions from the middle of his body that are reserved for one thing. His hair was straggly, flying about, and I could just start to make out dark patches on his skin; tattoos covered his upper body, and they weren't pretty or colorful and were what all fathers would be afraid their daughters would bring home when they want to exert their independence with anger; I speak from experience. I swore I could see swastikas.

I inched forward a few steps before I froze. Through the fog, through the bushes, at about half his height and a couple feet in front of him, I saw the first flash of white. It vanished and reappeared in time to his motions, the hair flew there, too, in and out of sight.

"Arrgh! Arrgh! Ahhhh!"

"I said, huuuh, shut the huuh fuck up huuuh you cunt!"

I snapped a decision, and started marching forward, trying to make noise as I pulled my celphone out. I had "9" and "1" dialed, when I had progressed enough to see her torso swinging back and forth, being propelled by the hellion I had an instant hate for behind her. I had my finger on the last "1" when I was suddenly paralyzed. She saw me.

Her head was shaking, and her left hand was quivering a definite "no" toward me I could not have mistaken for any other interpretation. Her face had a sequence of emotions I had never seen strung along together on another human being, going from "please no don't" to me to "please stop it hurts" to him to "please oh dear god yes" to whatever god one prays to for ecstasy in rapid cycles that I had to watch for a few rounds before I felt my celphone-hand fall back toward my pocket.

Once the threat I had imposed to their, uh, was this lovemaking, had passed, her hand motioned me forward several times before I could slide my feet along the ground until I could see everything. I was repulsed and attracted and fascinated and my god, was I feeling something near where my phone had come to rest? Breathing through my nose was no longer an option; I was inhaling and exhaling in time to what they were doing.

The boy was gross, abominable and totally oblivious to everything but where his dick was; thank god, I was on the exclude-from-perception list. Black leather chaps below his knees, long black leather coat flying around him, I had no question but that he was armed. He kept his hands busy, grasping his target, swatting, no, striking what he obviously felt possessive of. Given the angles of his attack, there was only one place he could be gaining purchase on her. The one place Cheryl always said "no" to.

The girl was unlike anyone I had ever seen. "Holy" was the word that came to mind. She was pale and radiant in the moonlight, dressed all in white, her dress all akimbo; he had not bothered too hard to undress her. The dirt from the island had already stained parts of her attire. Once I was where she had apparently wanted me positioned, only a dozen yards away, she waived a "stop" and shifted her attentions. Something in her relaxed.

"Uhh! Yeah! 'Bout God Damn uhhh Time, you whore!"

"Hhhhhh hhhh hhhhh."

I was captivated. They, can I say "fuck" here, fucked with abandon, him moving and shouting harder and harder, her face continuing its cycle of love and hate, pleasure and pain, as her eyes stayed riveted on me.

"Huuh! Huuh! Huuh!"

"Aahh Aahh Aahh!"

I was trying to keep from hoarsing my own loud gasps. My other hand dove into my pocket through which I grabbed my erection inside my pants.

"Yeah! Huuh! YEAAAAHHHH!!!!"

"Oooohhh! gawwhh! Gaahhdd!"

They exploded.

I didn't.

He collapsed over her back, and before she fell to the ground, she motioned for me to move along, with a smile that can only be described as "satisfied". I jerked awake and was half way back around the rest of the way around the lake before I looked back to see them still lying on the ground, a blackened monster covering a saint in white. By the time I turned onto my street, my breathing had slowed back to something akin to normal, and both hands in my pockets were still firmly gripping the part of me that had been ignored at home for quite some time.

I managed to get my hands out of my pockets before I opened the door. Cheryl was standing there, about a dozen feet from the door. I finally noticed she was wearing a skirt, and are those heels, and she had a drink in her hand.

"Oh, Howard. I've mmissed you," she purred, offering me the I-think-it-was-a martini. There was lipstick on one side of the glass, opposite the side she offered me.

I covered the back of the chair with my coat, instead of hanging it up, taking the intoxicant from her. I couldn't stop looking at her. She slid the extra space between us closed as her hands, freed from her burden, wrapped around the small of my back, and around the back of my neck, drawing me down to a kiss the likes of which she hadn't allowed for some time now. "Mmm, did you have a nice walk? Ohh. It seems you did."

Her body weight started being directed through her hands, pulling me to the floor on top of her. I dropped the drink. By the time I got to my knees between hers, she was unraveling my clothing like it was Christmas, complete with the expressions of joy she used to have at finding something there. Once I was free enough to do some good, she pulled me further down onto her with one hand while the other one snaked its way in between us, moving her dress out of the way, and then gently, so gently I almost came on the spot, wrapped her fingers around the part of me that missed this kind of contact sorely, and guided it to the place we always used to find happiness together in. That was when it dawned on me that she didn't have on anything under her dress which was now wrinkling up at her waist. Once I was entranced to her, my god she was wet, she pulled her hand out from between us and reached for my hand, the one that used to be the one I would explore her with and moved it around behind her. I tried to get it between the floor and the small of her back when she pushed in down, lower, lower, as she raised a leg, and moved me toward another way in, the way that she always pointed out was "not an entrance".

My fingers started circling that which was forbidden as I relished the feel, and I started to move a larger part of my anatomy in and out of the place women are built to receive such things. Her hands found the back of my head as she drew me down to kiss her, kiss her, kiss her, move this, move that, moans intermingling.

"I want you to fuck me, Howard."

"Mmmm, I am. Mmmmm."

"Oohhhh, yes, but, oohhh, not there. Ohhhh . . ."

My head shot up until I could find her eyes, which were rolling up to meet mine. Her head was nodding, her tongue stuck out a little. Her hand had found its way back to the arm that wasn't holding me up. She raked a fingernail down it. "There." She swallowed and panted twice. "Please."

As hard as it was, I stopped moving at least two things. Her hand had found the hand that was doing what it shouldn't, and she glided her finger to near the end of the one that was where it shouldn't be, and pushed it in.

"Fuck me in the ass, Howard."

She didn't need to ask twice.

I pulled back slowly, as the wetness failed to evaporate, and I removed myself from her sex, millimeter by millimeter until I was free and she groaned at the loss. She inhaled a smile as she raised both knees, rolling her hips up. I kneeled back and positioned my self at the one place I had never been. I looked up at her. "Are you sure?"

She reached her hands down under and behind and spread herself, the invitation engraved on the floor, the walls, nothing could be clearer. Her head barely moved an approval. Her face was blank, without an ounce of condemnation anywhere.

I moved.

I moved forward. Contact.

I moved forward some more, and I could feel her relaxing and abruptly the head was inside. Her sharp intake of air stopped me; her eyes were huge, with a trace of fear, and I thought it was over. The strain on her face was contrary to her words: "don't stop". As slowly as I had removed myself from her a moment ago, I halved the speed at this re-entrance, and it seemed too fast. The pressure was incredible.

"Oohhh."

"Uhhh, yeah, oh." Half an inch further.

"hhh . . . why . . . hhh . . ."

"Ooghhh . . . whattt?" Almost there.

"Why . . . hhh . . . did . . . oohhhh . . . we wait . . . ooosssoooo . . . lonnnggg . . ."

"Oooh . . . Iiiiii . . . OhharrARRAGGGHHH!!!!" When I felt the pressure, the uncanny pressure reach as far as it could on me, it was over. I couldn't stop.

That didn't take long at all.

I didn't move; she breathed, I didn't.

"I'm . . . I'm ssorry . . ."

Her hands were back on my face, directing it toward hers. "Don't you fucking dare apologize to me." I finally exhaled. "Now fuck me, you sonofabitch."

It took a couple seconds to realize that I wasn't any smaller. If anything, I was larger. I pulled a little, then pushed a little. Pulled, then pushed. Pull, push. She started moving with me, and I could move further. Her hands left my face onto the top of my back, sliding down.

"Harder."

I was getting more and more out of her before returning all the way back inside, and it was getting easier, and faster.

"Oh, god, yes, yes, Yes!"

"Hhh hhh hhh"

I was working now.

"Ohhaaa Haa! Haa! Yes! Fuck! Haaah! Mee!!!"

The room blurred as I put it to her. I had to regain my balance as my hand, the one that usually explored her was suddenly being moved to the side of her face.

"Haah! Do it! HaaHHH! DO IT!" My hand was being slapped. "DOOO IIIIITTT! HAAHHH!!! NOW YOU MOTHER FUCKING BASTARD!!!!"

My eyes wrenched open hard, and I did it.

"AGHAINN!!!"

I did it again. And again. And again. My hand hurt.

She exploded. Literally. I first thought she had peed, but it didn't smell like that. It smelled like her, her sex, and everything was drenched, sopping.

After a few moments of respiration, she propped herself up on her elbows, looking happier than I had seen her in years. "Dinner's ready."

After detaching ourselves, she proceeded to undress us both, insisting that it was the best idea. She regressed in years to before we first got married, when we were living together, and there was sex every night. She hummed and buzzed around the rooms all evening long in the altogether, stealing kisses whenever she was in reach.

And we did try things again later on in the evening when we went to bed, doing it the right way, with things smoothed out by modern chemistry I didn't know we had. We lasted forever.

Puella Pallida Reddit

"SO DID you have a nice walk last night, dear?"

"Uh, yeah. It was foggy. Spooky." I seemed to have left some details out. Like the ones that I had masturbated to in the shower in the morning, the morning after, uh, yeah.

"That's nice. Have a nice day, dear." Her kiss goodbye was quick and the way it was yesterday morning, over too quick with an unheard "thank god that's over" under her breath. She pushed me out the door. It struck me that it was almost as if nothing had happened.

And by the time I got home, nothing had. Er, did. We were suddenly back to our old routines of eggshells and careful silences.

"Stop that. Is that all you think about? What am I, just a slutbunny for you? I thought you had more respect for me than that."

"I'm sorry, I, uh, thought that after last night . . ."

"What? The reruns on TV were awful, as usual. Does that mean we're gonna, we're gonna, do I have to say it?"

I guess she didn't. What was that?

So our humdrum life again became humdrum. I had to masturbate for a few days, but I got over it, and largely went back to my life as usual. At least I had a hobby that could distract me from the whatever that was.

I'd studied the Civil War since my Dad, god rest his soul, told me about some family trinkets that had a connection to it, the prize being a family heirloom sword we keep in a place of honor that was actually at Appomattox at the Surrender. How it got there from where I knew Great-Great-Grandaddy lived, I still haven't figured out. He fought in Arkansas and Missouri along the Mississippi, at places like Wilson's Creek, Pea Ridge and Devil's Backbone, at the pretty much opposite end of the war. I'd taken Cheryl and the kids on a vacation a few years back that hit some of the usual highlight battlegrounds, like Antietam, Harper's Ferry and Gettysburg. Scariest place on earth, Gettysburg is. Makes the little fogs that rise from Hildebrandt's Pond of Duck Doo seem deathly ridiculous. Maybe the whole sword story was just that, a story.

And that's what I had decided it was; just a ridiculous dream. The, the "it" from the other night. I mean really, seeing some nameless couple doing the nasty in public leading to the best sex I'd had in years? Silly. At least, until the next power event at the office.

I was having lunch by myself, trying to squeeze in a few pages of Shelby Foote's The Civil War: A Narrative, half way through my second time on that tome, thank you very much, when my cel started ringing. Sure enough, it was the office; Cheryl had quit talking to me on phones a long time ago due to uncomfortable pauses in our conversations, and the Front Receptionist was in a panic. Nothing worked, and what do we do, the sort of babblings that in no way hid how scared she was. I grabbed what was left of my drink and my book and hustled out the door, praying it wasn't the server room this time. It wasn't.

It was nearly the whole east side of the building, both upstairs and downstairs, which was really weird, because the effected parts were connected through different breaker rooms on different floors. It was a bizarre set of individualized breakers that apparently all popped at the same time. Once the electricians got there to start testing after I got everything back up and running, they insisted that what I was describing was impossible. Breakers don't selectively go through and pop this one, and not that one. Naturally, it did manage to hit all the bigwig's offices and a bunch of seemingly random people throughout the facility. The Control Committee seemed a bit incredulous at the "I don't know" that was really the best explanation both the electrical contractors and myself had to offer, and I'm afraid I did hear some half-whisperings of "isn't that his job to know these things" as I left the room.

We tore circuits apart for the rest of the day to pretty much no avail, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say it almost looked like the circuits were popped by hand, which was a theory I did not dare forward. I'm the only one with the key to the breakers.

By the time I got home late that night, I was exhausted. Cheryl met me at the door, and put her hand on the side of my face, and with a tip of her head and a look that I swore was nothing short of coy, she suggested I let off a little steam with a stroll. I was only too happy to; another night of broken glass walking was just not what I was up for yet. I wished for a bar along the way.

The moonlight was out; it was clear as a bell in the sky, and the stars that weren't near the serious moonlight were without number. I hardly noticed the rolling fog my feet were swishing through. By the time I reached the lake, I could hear the laughter and the swearing, and I had no question where it was coming from. There was a small rowboat floating and rocking around middle of the lake, just barely visible in the mist.

As I got to the edge of the lake on the path, I heard the boat splash a little, and I couldn't help myself, I looked at it in time to see a head pop up through the cloud. A blond head. Her blond head. A blond head with a white blouse buttoned all the way up to her chin. Her mouth fell open with a loud exhaust of air, and she dove back out of sight. The boat made more noise against the water, and I could start to hear other sounds, too. Dirty sounds.

"Ngyk ngyk ngyk hhhhhh."

"Get back down there, you slut."

That took no time at all; I was as hard as flint. My pace slowed, as I listened for and watched the place I knew the lovers---lovers?---to be.

"Ngyk ngyk ngyk hhhhh" Her face was again visible, and the lust it was filled with transformed into joy as she spotted me.

"Don't stop, you worthless cocksucker." A hand covered with what I knew had to be profanity emerged from the obscurity, and yanked her back into it. Made me want to kill him.

She was down longer this time, so long that the boat stilled. It got so quiet, I could hear choking and strangulation sounds; my god, he was killing her.

My blood pressure rose and my fists clenched as I heard him enjoy himself.

"Oh, Oh, Yeah YEAH! Yeah! Swallow it, you little shitstain, swallow it like you want it. Do it."

Her head throttled up from the murk, her perfect hair was perfectly mussed with the only meaning that kind of muss has, and she found me again, her face beaming. I saw a well-sleeved hand wave at me, and didn't see what made the sound I recognized from a ridiculous dream I'd had not too long ago. The sound made my own hand hurt; she no longer faced me.

"What are you looking at, fuckface?"

"Bunnies. Hhhhhhh. Mmmmm." She descended back into the mire, leaving an echo from something Cheryl had stabbed me with about rabbits that I couldn't quite remember.

"Oh, god, yeah, get your tongue right in there where it belongs, and don't you ever fucking take it out, you little shitlicker, you hear me? Aahhhhhh . . ."

I turned around; I wasn't going to go around the lake, I was going to leave in a hurry, trying to walk on the grass to not make any more noise to disturb the atmosphere any more than was already happening, between the obscene moaning of nazi-commie boy there, and the singing moans of his fragile pale captive somewhere between rapture and disgust and agony.

By the time I opened the door, I was out of breath, and had to stop to notice how quiet my own dwelling was. No sounds were coming from the kitchen at all, the TV was off, the furnace wasn't even on.

"Cheryl?"

Nothing. I panicked. "Cheryl? Honey?" I tore out of the foyer and rounded into the living room to practically trip on myself with how quickly I stopped.

Oh, she was there, alright. Like I had never seen her before.

She was naked. Naked and kneeling. Naked and kneeling and blindfolded, with her hands behind her back.

"Sweetie? Are you alright?" I crossed the room toward her, and again I was stopped dead in my tracks. She opened her mouth, opened it just enough for something to go in, yeah, I'm pretty sure it was open enough for that, and licked her upper lip, front to back, not side to side. And licked it again. The ends of her mouth turned up ever so slightly, and she continued slowly licking her upper lip, out to in, as if beckoning.

The erection that had started relaxing as I was approaching the house about-faced and made my boxers uncomfortable. I took the last two steps, and put my fingers into her hair. "Honey?"

I couldn't see what was happening once her face closed the gap between her and, jesus, she's just the right height for that, but I could feel her licking my trousers.

"Mmmm, take it out, mmm, please, mmmm, I want it."

Like I could refuse.

I left one hand playing with her hair, and undid my belt and the fastener to the slacks, and even had to unzip them a bit to get them to fall. No sooner had the top of my belt reached my knees but she found what she was looking for. What I was looking for, no, wishing for her to find. I looked down her back to see her hands were handcuffed together, and I wondered where she got them, but only for a moment, as I had a distraction from logistics overwhelm any sense of curiosity I was only half-heartedly trying to develop.

I had forgotten how incredibly good it felt to be in someone's mouth; it had been so long. She used to offer this when we lived together before we got married, but once the kids came along, it also landed on the off-limits list, and the few times I had asked in the past few years invariably got shot down as being disgusting.

I didn't care how disgusting this was, I never wanted it to end, echoing a half-remembered fear and jealousy I think I may have just experienced outside, a couple blocks away. So soft, wet, warm, so alive with something moving around in there with me, I couldn't stop breathing harder, my blood pressure rising but for a better reasons than the last time it went up, and my fists clenched in her hair as I involuntarily started to pull her toward me.

"Ngyk ngyk ngyk hhhhh. Mmmm. More."

"Oh, god, yeah, Mmmmorre . . ."

Cheryl could never deep throat me even back in the day, she was always afraid she would throw up from the gag reflex and actively pull back, I mean, that's what it was there for, wasn't it? Not tonight.

"Ngyk ngyk ngyk hhhaaa uuuhhhh bluh bluh, oh, oh, I'm sorry, stay still, I can fix that."

My god, she was licking me. She was licking the mess she's just made, hungrily, like it was chocolate syrup, and it made no difference how disgusting what she was doing was, I didn't want her to stop, please dear god, don't stop, all the way down my leg, and I had to finish kicking off my britches and she literally dove for me.

This was the greatest feeling I had ever had; this woman was debasing herself in ways she had always made so clear were simply the wrong things for people to do to each other, and she couldn't get enough.

"Ngyk ngyk ngyk nggggyyykkkkk." She held her self hard as she could against me with me being further into her mouth than I ever had been, and the pressure built the longer she held me there; if I flinched back she pushed harder to make sure her lips were against the base, wow, there, and she sucked and sucked until I couldn't stop.

"RAArrraARRRHHHHGHGH!"

The first spurt had to have gone directly down her esophagus. I staggered back a bit and the second filled her mouth, my god, it was more than I had ever done before, ever, and it spurted out the sides of her mouth. She leaned back and held her mouth open, and I reached to try to aim, but everything else went everywhere, her face, her hair, her neck and chest, and I finally got the last couple dribbles back to where she was again beckoning with her tongue, making a show of swallowing what was there. I totally understand why that is beautiful.

She was out of breath, so was I. I recovered enough to reach to her face; she felt the heat of my hand before I touched her.

"Leave it. I want it there. Oh, god, I want it there. Hhhhhh. Thank you."

I could hardly whisper. "Thank me? Thank you, that was incredible. Ohh." I tried to reach for the blindfold, and again she stopped me.

"No, leave that, too. Might come in handy." She waddled toward me, and struggled to stand, and wouldn't take any help. "Now, where are you? Ah. Just stand there, I need to do something."

She nuzzled toward me, and traced her way down my shirt, and found the top button, and proceeded to bite it off.

"What are you doing?" I tried to duck around to her face, and she countered by nudging me back to standing.

"Hold still. This is important." She spat the buttons across the room until there weren't any.

"You know, I could just do this part."

"No you can't. I have to." She found the end of my sleeves with her lips and pulled as I wiggled out of my ruined shirt, good thing I didn't have to wear a tie to work. Once I was free of shirt and mostly free of pants, she worked her way down untied my shoes with her teeth, and nudged them off between her mouth and nose, and then succeeded in pulling my socks off with her teeth, triumphing with glee once I was in the same state she was. Well, almost. She had the extra clothing of a blindfold, and a pair of handcuffs that didn't seem to bother her at all, being without hands.

"Do you, pant, want to sit down? Pant pant. I've got a present for pant you."

"What, there's more? I'm sure I don't need anything else."

"Oh, you want this. Wait here."

I found the sofa and plopped onto it as she careened around the room, trying to find her way to, I don't know, the kitchen? There was a little banging around in there, too, as what sounded like sacks falling with little words coming out I didn't think she knew.

"Are you alright?"

"Just a minute!" she said, brightly.

When she came around the corner, bumping into the wall a couple times in ways that should have been comical as she made her way back, I stopped playing with myself, not even realizing I had started. I was stunned. There was no mistaking what she had.

In her mouth was a whip. A riding crop, to be exact.

She got to the middle of our small living room, and descended back to her knees. It was a move that needed practice to accomplish gracefully, at least, I couldn't be so graceful doing that, and it was almost like watching a ballet dancer. I'd never seen a naked ballet dancer with a blindfold in handcuffs carrying a whip in their mouth kneeling, but it was how I imagined it would be. Her head tipped down, and the silence went on as she was apparently waiting.

"And what am I supposed to do with that?"

She nodded a "take this from me", and like a fool, I took it.

"You know."

"Is this a good idea?"

"You just have to decide on a place to start." And she leaned back, turning her head, heaving her chest upward, suggesting a starting place.

"I don't know, Cheryl, I . . ."

"Do it." She whispered her interruption. "Do it."

I considered for only a brief moment. I knew that if I did this, it would change us forever. This wasn't anything blind or out of control; it was going to be deliberate, something I would never be able to disavow as being an accident. My god, I was about to hurt my wife.

"Are you sure?" She nodded her acquiescence, and by my own will, my arm flew. By the time I got to her nipples, on the fifth stroke, she got beyond gasping and grunting, and screamed. A hearty full throated scream that announced to anyone who might be looking in our oh-shit, open front window, that it hurt and it hurt hard. What staggered me what the word she used to scream through: "YYYEEESSSSS!!!"

I didn't wait for anything else. I raped her. But it isn't really rape, if she rapes you back, is it?

I FED her little pieces of food that night, when I wasn't playing with her, trying to get her to suck me more. It didn't take much. She even seemed delighted to lick me, well, you know, there. That place she always considered to be the dirtiest most unspeakable place there could be, and sure, there are moments when it is. I had no idea that felt so good, and on so many levels, beyond just the raw physical sensation. It was like, feeling like I had conquered something, someone, a sense of power. The stuff of dreams. I whipped her lots more because I just had to finally cave in to the oh-so-persuasive begging, leaving marks I licked and she cooed over, and we fucked, yes, I'll say fucked, because it certainly wasn't making love, until we fell asleep on the living room floor. At some point, I did exert enough sense to close the drapes, to which, when she heard them being closed, she said, "Aww."

I had no idea who this woman was, but it clearly wasn't my wife. Not that I minded. Nope, not one little bit. I could get used to this.

Puella Veniat Pallida

AS I came to, all stiff on the floor in the dark of the next morning, I was overwhelmed when I discovered she has positioned herself to be a pillow for me.

I pulled the blindfold the rest of the way off; it was only covering one eye. "Hey." I kissed her gently. "Mmmmm." She kissed me back, gently, too, but for as long as I did. God, that was good.

"Hey. Good morning. Where are the keys?"

"Mmmm, you sure?" It was Saturday; we had nowhere to go.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Kitchen counter. Hhmmmm." She dropped away from me. I got the keys and undid the handcuffs, like a fool. It took a couple tries, and she was giggling by the time I got them off. "Would you get something for me?"

"Sure. Anything."

"A glass."

My eyebrows furled, but I got up and got a juice glass out of the cupboard. She was sitting up as I tried to hand it to her.

"Oh, bigger one, please."

I felt my chin retract toward the back of my neck, but retreated to get her a bigger drinking utensil. Biggest one I didn't know we even had; most everything on the shelves is stoneware.

She was in a chair on this return, and took the glass with droopy eyes and a smile that was true and honest. "Thank you, darling." She spread her legs, and woke me completely up as she proceeded to fill it. "Hmmm." She stopped making water, and I fell down. She drank it. It took a couple swallows, but she emptied it without retching before she placed it before me. "Your turn."

I reached for the glass, unsure what I was about to do, but she wouldn't let go of it. "No, silly rabbit. Come on. Give me something." She nodded at me as I stood, and positioned myself over the glass, and relieved myself. Her anticipation mounted as I was filling it, and she reached over and put her tongue in the stream. "Mmmmm, yeah." When I finished, with my eyes as wide as saucers, she downed the second glass as well. I fell in love with this dirty girl before me.

I think I've already said this, but clearly, not the same woman I woke up with yesterday.

"Mmmm, anything interesting happen on your walk last night? Mmmm." She was licking the inside of the glass.

"I, uh, yeah, as a matter of fact. There was a, er, couple having . . . sex . . . in a boat, on the lake."

"Really? What were they like? What did they dooooo?" She had reached me and was stroking things I liked having stroked with the tips of her fingers. I waited a moment to answer her; I had to get past the shudders she was inducing.

"They were in a boat. She was, uh, can I say "blowing" him?"

"Gawd, yes, you can say that. Like this?" Back to where we started.

"Yeeahhh, ohh, mmmm. Yeah, she did, I think, aaahhh, something just like thaaaaattt . . ."

"Mmmm and what did he do?"

"I, uh, uhoohh, think he hhhhit her."

She lifted my hand to the side of her face. She looked up at me, and smiled around me, and nodded.

"I don't want to hit you, honey."

"Wai Woo." It took a short moment for the translator to kick in: she said "I do." The sexiest words in English. Especially when pronounced under these circumstances.

I patted the side of her face.

"MMmmmhhhhhhaaaaaaa. Hhhhh. No, come on. Bitch-slap your bitch." She stayed put, not resuming what she had stopped.

Part of me wanted to capitulate and slap her silly right then and there. But a better idea popped in.

"Not here."

She looked absolutely bewildered as I got up and pulled my pants on, and went to the closet to get a couple long coats. I shuffled on my shoes, not even tying them, and threw her coat at her.

"Let's go." I waited at the door, and she finally caught on, and ran to the bedroom. I stopped her. "What do you need shoes for?"

When she came back, barefoot and how's the rest of that go?---she was wearing only a little more than a smile, with the coat on, all buttoned up. I took her hand, and we stepped out into the pre-dawn light. When you get older, early isn't quite the trauma that it is when you're young.

"Did you ever see that couple before?" I told her about the first time.

"Yeah, they were on the island, uh, how can I put this delicately?"

"Don't be delicate, you motherfucking bastard. Tell me what he did to her."

"He, uh, he was, er . . . fucking her . . . in the ass." That was a sentence I never thought I could pronounce to my wife, my starlight, ever. At least, not without getting an earful about how coarse my language was, and what about the children, and you should just straighten up and fly right, for once. Imagine my surprise at what she said next.

"Ohhh, is that what we're going to do?" It was Christmas morning in her eyes, and we walked like lovers do.

When we got to the lake, there was a low mist across it.

"Aw, crap, there's someone here. Not what I wanted." At the end of the dock was a shrouded figure, hard to see. We started around.

"I don't . . . know that I . . . mind, honey." Santa Claus, Reindeer, Stars of Bethlehem, eat your heart out.

"Hold on a minute." I was having a hard time seeing, but after a few steps, I was sure.

"That's her."

"What? Who?"

"At the end of the dock, there. That's the girl from last night, and, uh, before."

"Oh, I totally want to meet her!" Cheryl broke away from and was half-way down the dock before it even registered to me that she was gone. When I caught up to them, I had already missed part of the conversation.

"I couldn't hear that."

"B-Bone. M-my name is Bone, mistress."

The girl, Bone, was all in white. It seemed to be a crocheted dress that had a shawl covering her head built into it. There were little gaps in the weave that indicated she had on nothing underneath. Her hands were at her side, her head bowed, but perfectly postured. Like a statue, whose chest moved ever so slightly up and down. Otherwise, she was as still as the lake.

"Who would name their child 'Bone'? Hmm?" A moment of silence that was uncomfortable, at least for me. "Howard, this is 'Bone'. She wants to come home with us, don't you."

The girl nodded her head. It was like watching marble move; spooky.

"Come along." Cheryl reached her hand out, and the stone figure moved again, uncannily, putting her hand into my wife's. They started back down the dock as I watched my wife take steps, and Bone didn't: she glided, but her upper body jostled as though she were walking. I just never saw her feet move. "Howard!"

I pranced up to them, but there wasn't enough room on the walkway for us to walk three across, so I followed. Every once in a while Cheryl would turn her head down toward the girl as though she were listening, but I never heard anything. It was as though they were communing, for lack of a better word.

When we got the front walk of our little castle, I took Cheryl's other hand, stopping her. Bone continued her effortless drift up the walk.

"What are we doing, here, exactly?"

"Oh, Howard, I have always wanted to do this." She opened her arms, opening her coat, and put them around me under my coat, naked against me. "I have always wanted to do this for you." Her hands slid into the back of my underwear.

"And what is that?" I was trying to be irritated; she was making it difficult the way she was squirming against me.

"I'm showing you how much I love you." She kissed me on the cheek and pulled away, coat open and flapping. She got to the door where the girl was waiting, and let her in. She smiled like a schoolgirl back at me, and disappeared through the door.

I was left on the front walk with another "this will change everything" decision. As I took the first step toward an unknown future, my celphone rang. God, not now. Sure enough, it was the office, calling early on a Saturday morning. Like a fool, I answered it.

"Where the fuck are you?"

What? "Sorry?"

"Why haven't you been answering your god damn phone?" It was the plant manager. I recognized that bark anywhere.

"It . . . it hasn't rung. Hang on." I looked at the phone. Oh shit. 47 missed phone calls. "Uh, uhpt, uh, what's going on?"

"We have been without power all god damn night. Now get your ass down here right god damn now."

"Uh, yeah, I'm on my way." I bolted inside, looking for enough to wear to not get arrested. Didn't even see the girls as I dashed into the bedroom, stumbling my clothes off on the way and tore through the drawers, yanking on jeans, shirt, oops, no underwear, oh well, socks, shit, shoes, shit, socks then shoes, keys, phone, coat, outta here.

"Honey, I gotta go in!" I called out as I sped up the hall, hardly noticing the 'crack' that I had only learned last night what it meant, stopping in my tracks when I reached the living room.

Cheryl and the girl, Bone, were naked. Cheryl's stripes that I had committed onto her last night shone brightly in the dawn light streaming in against her skin; I had no idea I had done that much to her. She had the crop in her hand. Bone had a few similar stripes on her back; her hands were on top of her head, and she was making the shuddering sounds with the accompanying motions that only had one meaning on a woman. Was she was crying?

"What are you doing?"

"We're just getting started here. We'll be here when you get back. You can fuck her then. Don't be long, sweetie." The crack sounded again against the alabaster, and the sobs increased.

Oh my god. I got out. I got out as quick as I could; I couldn't keep the job if I stopped, fuck fuck fuck.

It took the whole drive to the plant to calm me down enough, to get my erection calmed down enough to where I could stand and not get fired.

Sure enough, the power was out at the whole plant. All the breakers had tripped, right up to and including the mains.

"You sure took your sweet time getting here. Did you have a nice time? Do you have any idea how much this outage is costing us?" The plant manager was his usual unpleasant self. I was trying the mains. Nothing. Click-click-click. "And what the fuck does that mean?"

"It's not us. It's the city. Let me make a call." I called Light and Power, and shooed the boss off while I waited and got transferred several times, until I got the bad news. I hunted out the big cheese.

"Turns out someone in accounting didn't pay the bill. The city cut us off." This didn't keep the Control Committee from firing me on Monday for missing the calls on a phone that never rang. Things got rough for Cheryl and I after that, but I digress.

When I finally got home that night after what was one of the worst days at the office ever, I at least had the consolation of what my wife had promised me earlier that morning. Except all was silent. Like a tomb.

"Cheryl?" Nothing. It was unsettling. "Honey?" I finally found her in the bedroom, fast asleep. I nudged her until she stirred.

"Hey, how'd it go?" she said, dreamily.

"It was awful." I waited a bit as she gazed up at me with adoration, and dare I say it, lust? "Where is she?"

"Mmmm? Whooo?" She moved toward me, putting her arms around me and nuzzling into my lap. Just not quite the way I wanted, but close.

"The girl. Bone."

"Hmmm . . . what . . ." she looked up at me, and her face changed from what could have been lust to confusion. ". . . girrrll?"

"From the lake."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Am I still asleeepp?" She collapsed back on the bed, and snored immediately.

Oh, fuck. Now what?

I extricated myself from the room, and looked around. No sign of anything having happened at all. I couldn't find the crop, the shirt that had gotten destroyed was gone, the mess from out makeshift-dinner last night wasn't even in the trash, and I began to worry about my grip on reality.

Until I looked above the mantle and realized the family sword was gone. The one Dad spanked me over when he caught me playing sword and sorcery before I understood what it meant, especially to him. That thieving little blond-ass cunt.

Elaine's Cupboard

Puer Obscura

WE WERE, I guess you could say, comfortable. The bills got paid, we had a car and a little house, we could count on eating, and we could get by on basic cable as far as I was concerned because I really didn't care about TV, occasional dinners or movies out, and we could see the kids anytime we could get the schedules to work. The basics of modern life, and I didn't give a flying fuck. About any of it.

What I wanted was what I missed.

I wanted to feel alive again. The deadening of suburbia is so dull, so cloying, so plain, that I just couldn't stand it anymore. So I did what any self-respecting liberated woman bored out of her mind with a husband and 2.5 kids can do to add a little spice to her life.

Well, no, not that. I was always too chicken to risk everything on a fling. I mean, that's the one thing Howard has always made absolutely clear in no uncertain terms. Adulteresses should be stoned. No second chances, no forgiveness, just an only-one-way-out date with hurtling rocks. I guess, if the truth be told, I do like eating, and knowing I'm going to get to eat tomorrow, too.

Okay, so I'm a hypocrite. I want it both ways. Who doesn't? Whether its Jesus or personal security or my personal favorite subject that I never get to talk about with anyone because that just isn't done, who doesn't have a touch of Pharisee in them, saying the wrong things at just the wrong time when we don't mean it to be taken badly but don't know how to say the right thing because they never told us what it was, or missing the big picture that is so obvious we can't see it, or getting lost in the forest for the trees because it's really beauty that matters, or, oh, shit, I got carried away, didn't I?

But a fantasy life, well, that's allowed, isn't it? Can't I remain free to think what I want to, even if I can't do anything about it? Like most men, my dear husband hasn't have a clue about what women think or feel, not even the woman in his life, the one that's right here, waiting, for him; certainly not what she thinks about pretty much anything anyway.

Some friends I have tried to rekindle their interest in life by watching bridal shows. They've been married for, like, a quarter century, and their favorite pastime is to see the warmup shows on TV for the Big Event, the one they, hell, we were all always taught was the most important day of our lives, the day we declare before God and everyone that this is the guy for me, none of the rest of you get access to me like this man can, now and forever. The wedding is just a public announcement that we intend to fuck each other blind for the rest of our lives, like the Good Book says, and no, the rest of you aren't invited.

"Do you promise to have and to hold and to fuck her brains out now and forever?" "I do." Yep, that's the truth to the marriage, and our society, hell, everyone's societies gloss over that fundamental, uh, what is it, axiom, for the sakes of the moms and dads who are shy about actually pronouncing the true words to the boy: "Yep, take her home and fuck her! Fuck her all you want! Fuck her 'till you can't and then fuck her some more!" Every fairy tale ever told has the too-chicken-to-say-it unspoken moral to the girl: "Girl, you are gonna get sooooo fucked!"

I guess it's kind of obvious what I miss, huh. Little Miss Cheryl Heart's On Her Sleeve. Except, it isn't really my heart there, is it. It's something that's actually a couple feet or so further south.

Howard has turned into such a dud. An old fuddy duddy, with a capital "F". We used to have a ball, and yes, I meant the double entendre. He was inventive, thoughtful, always made sure I came first, it was incredible. At first. But as the years wore on, he had sunk to just the one repertoire---not to mention the untimely death of a mediocre sense of humor---one set of motions and actions that were great, sure, but Geeze to the Geezer Louise Himself, it, got boring. Lick this, push that, tug over here, touch ever so slightly, and boom, the boom would happen, and it would be over. He even got to where he didn't care if he came or not. Get her off, get it over with, go to sleep. Yep, that was my Howard.

It just seems so, so stupid to me to think that the greatest feeling on earth, the orgasm with a lover, was diminished to a chore. A smelly nasty clinical chore that had no blood, no passion in it. How could he do that to me, the he to whom I vowed to forsake all others for?

It was this brain-numbing condition that got me over all my old hobbies, like writing, or knitting, or collecting stoneware, in favor of a desperate attempt to find some way to feel alive again in my little prison, where every move and word I take is judged as wanting.

And, oh baby, do I ever want. And don't forget need.

The first thing I would do in the morning after the breadwinner would leave was to take my clothes off, and put some things inside of me. Yeah, there. I've been trying to get everything we own inside of me, as much as possible. Sure, I know, the car isn't going to fit, most of the stoneware isn't going to work at all, although I did get some of the goblets in there, even that new piece I found at the flea market to replace the piece I thought I'd lost, and what about books or the computer or the TV, uh, no. I'm not trying to seriously hurt myself here. But if there'd be a chance I could get it inside of me without it hurting too bad, in it went. All the silverware has been there, all the socks and underwear, and most of the other clothes I can get at least some of it in me. Maybe it's sick, I don't know, shut up, I was having fun. I just loved watching Howard use something that I knew where it'd been.

Turns out a turkey baster is a great sex-training tool, and I geared up for the Olympics that I didn't think would ever happen. Putting some stuff in it, like water or yogurt---be sure to salt it---ha ha---or whatever, and squirt it into your hoo-hah or your ass or as far into your mouth as you can get it was a great way to learn to get over whatever revulsion that I admit I did develop for a while there after the kids were born, and I'd spend some time with it every day. Because sex should always be a hot wet mess, or, so I think. I've heard of women who can squirt when they orgasm, and I've been trying to figure out how to do that. I don't like the internet, it's way too vulgar for me, and the library just doesn't seem to have anything on it, imagine that. I kept working on it.

I tried so hard to be a good wife for my husband, and he always seemed to be on edge about something or other. Sure, his job is hard, and I don't profess to understand it at all, it is so wearying when he talks about circuits and software which gets punctuated with the usual office drama about who said what or who got fired or who got caught doing something they shouldn't, and I admit, I have a tendency to zone out when he carries on without end about it. He never asks about my day. I'm not sure what I could say to him. "Yeah, honey, my day was great, I masturbated with your socks in my pussy, the ones I think you'll wear tomorrow, and I swallowed my morning yogurt without vomiting without it going over my tongue at all, and what's that? How? Do you want to see how I did that?" Somehow I don't think I'd be eating here anymore. No, most evenings he withdraws into a book. I try to watch the sexiest shows I can find on TV, and he doesn't even look up. He apparently doesn't even like it when I cuddle up to him on the couch.

It's depressing. He doesn't seem to know how to take a hint. I'm stuck.

The best opportunities I have for relief come on the days that are the hardest on Howard at work. It seems his defenses get lowered a bit, and there's at least a chance that something could happen if I put on my best meek suburban '50's housewife routine. It is never a shoe-in, but it's enough to keep my hopes alive. Those are the nights he inevitably can't stand to just come home and stay; he always steps out for a walk. It's like he has to decompress; he does mutter to himself as he walks up the front walk, which is always a sign that it was hard that day. It's all I can do to not laugh, what him mouthing "fuck", and "goddamnit", and what looks like "bastards".

Something happened on his walk the week before my test results came in. I was wearing a white pleated skirt and a crisp blouse with pearls and had a drink ready for him that I had snuck a swig out of. He took me in his arms like he used to, and positively attacked me. It was the stuff of dreams. He was coarse, rough, almost violent at times, and I rejoiced, and was ready to try to get him to do something again. I had prepared for my hopes on the off-chance while he was gone.

I'd been wanting anal sex to happen since we moved here. When there were children around, I knew I couldn't keep quiet enough to do it, and I didn't want the kids to have to listen to their mother scream out the orgasm that I knew I couldn't stop. It is so intimate and filthy and everything I want lovemaking to be about, I was as overt as I knew I would have to be to get him over his fears of hurting me: "Fuck me in the ass, Howard."

And at long God damn fucking last, after all the hints, the pleads, the endless failed attempts, he did. I couldn't see, I couldn't hear, I couldn't keep from shouting, I had no idea what I was saying, all that existed on earth was his cock being right where I wanted it to be. I didn't know why that night, I didn't care. Fuck, fuck, fuck, God fuck-yeah. I could continue to live. It hurt the good hurt, and it was as hot and wet and messy as I wanted it to be. I hadn't been so happy since I can't remember when.

I risked it all, and stayed naked the entire evening, and he didn't disapprove. My faith in the Lord was rekindled; he took his sweet time answering my prayers, but he finally answered them. We banged the gong slowly later that evening, too, and it was magical.

I could die now.

The next morning was hell. It was like nothing had happened. Maybe we have some kind of communication problem. I tried to play with him, but the masonry was back up and thicker than ever. After he left, I screamed vengeance on God for a long time.

Puer Tenebris Redire

WHATEVER WAS happening at his office was a godsend. On a day I happened to have some routine medical tests done, the storms breezed in on his day, and I could tell that my next opportunity was at hand. One I had been working toward.

Howard seemed to be, uh, unrestrained, for a bit at our last encounter, and I decided, once I got past shaking my fist at the sky, that I was going to play to that, and become the dirty girl I knew I just had to be. Okay, that makes it sound like I have an ambition to be a gutter slut. I don't think of it that way, though it is hard to think my way around that, having kids, getting on in years, slowing down. Once you cross the hump of being established in our world, there just some things that I would want to avoid having regrets over having missed. Travel would be awesome, but not on the money we have. There'll be no yachts for us, no summer and winter homes, and things are just not going to be that fancy for us. The closest things we have to fancy are some dishes that I've collected over the years. Nothing matches, but I don't care about that. I like what I like.

But a solid deeply intimate interaction with my husband should be doable. I've gotten my gag reflex to pretty much end with a kitchen utensil, I've been stretching things out that are customarily not stretched out with things that aren't designed for that, and I've gotten over at least some of my inhibitions, in some small part of my mind, anyway.

I'd taken to, to, to daring myself. A little. Nothing that would get me arrested or anything, but enough to fill in on some thrills that I'm maybe missing at night. I rarely wear underwear anymore, and I like wearing skirts that can twirl up or be blown up. I'm sure there's more of me on security cameras everywhere than Howard would like. But I've got a decent defense: "Just a doddering old fool, officer; what do you mean I'm not wearing underwear." I kind of like that. It's a fairly universal get-out-of-jail-free card. In a way, it's like having super powers. If a man got caught anywhere in some state of undress, he'd be off to jail in a heartbeat. But us girls, we can get away with it. I read in the paper recently about a young lady that was found at the stadium, uh, "bound" was the word they used, in a "state of undress". It went on to say that no charges were being filed. Woo Hoo! Girl got caught playing a bondage game in a public place, and nothing happened to her! It had to be fun. It just had to be.

So, I've been taking some chances. Like flashing security cams. Or disrobing completely in public restrooms. I've been trying to figure out ways to masturbate in public, and haven't quite gotten the knack for it yet. They say the joy of flashing is in making it look like an unawares accident. I don't think anyone has seen my scratchy twine thong yet; I need more practice. How does one practice for that: with her friends holding a glass of wine looking on, judging if she did it right, convincingly? Pretty sure my friends couldn't get past being appalled.

I was taking one of my own little strolls in our neighborhood when a nasty-looking young man asked me for the time. I don't wear a watch, so I couldn't help him, but could tell him that I had just left when it was 3:00. He seemed pleasant enough, he just looked dreadful. He was completely distasteful in every way, greasy hair, bad teeth, tattoos everywhere, yuck, but when I got home, I couldn't help thinking about what he would want from a woman, and what a woman who would give it to him would have to be like. She'd have to be as gross as he was, wouldn't she? Not that I had any illusions about him or pretty much anyone else wanting me; I'm old now, I'm overweight, and I'm not very attractive. There. I said it.

Could I debase myself enough to be enough for such a vile sewer rat? I didn't think I wanted to find out, but it haunted me. I took to peeing outdoors, just as a dare to myself, and after only a pair of days of that, I realized what that kind of man would want.

He'd want me to drink it. There. I said that, too. It took me only another day of dwelling on it to try it in the shower, just a small sip out of the palm of my hand, only to rinse my mouth out for endless minutes. But it made things twitch that were close to where I got it from. It was all I could think of that day. I put my hands in the way when I went to the bathroom, I rubbed them all wet like that around on myself a bit, especially on the naughty parts, and I came. The next morning, I got a bathroom cupful and was completely mesmerized by it. I carried it around our little habitat, looking at it, smelling it, touching it as lightly as I could, until I finally licked the outside of the cup. It was feeling the warmth of it on my lips and tongue that snapped me into throwing caution to the wind. I swallowed it as fast as I could, and no sooner was it down, but I was on the floor, towel aside, masturbating as though I had to. I had barely finished and I couldn't move fast enough to get back to the bathroom to get some more, and did it again. I frantically rubbed myself harder and harder until it hurt to touch myself, and then I came from that, too.

That was when all the lights came on, and I knew. I knew what I wanted to become, to do, to have done to me. I took to hurting myself, just a little at first, just to try it on. To see if what I stumbled on mattered or if that was because of that other something else I couldn't keep myself from indulging in. Clothespins, rubber bands were fun, I even dripped some candlewax, once I figured out that having it at different heights changed the temperature from ho-hum to arrgh.

Howard took me out to dinner that night, and I excused myself to the restroom to indulge. That got my motor running hard, and I was prepared to completely throw myself at him that night, but he had too much to drink and fell asleep in his chair not 10 minutes after we got home. I tried to suck him after he fell asleep and he never woke up, the bastard, and he wouldn't come or even stay hard, either, and I was practically screaming with need when I stomped off to the bathroom, planning to drink a little of myself and console myself in bed, let him sleep alone, the fool, see what he's missing, when I saw my pincushion on the counter. I had sewed a button that afternoon, and forgot to put it away. The door locked itself, and the rest of everything quit mattering. My left nipple, I swear, said "please". It seemed like the best idea in the world, and I watched with fascination as the thimble pushed the metal in and then through. The entire world concentrated itself into that half inch of flesh, that tiny hole, and I'm still amazed Howard didn't wake up. I screamed for real, and fell to the floor; whatever desperation I'd felt for masturbation after drinking pee seemed laughable compared to how hard I had to do it with a piece of metal in my breast. My one hand flew below my waist until I couldn't lift it anymore, and the other one twisted the intruder more and more, just to get it to hurt a bit harder, until the room went away.

I heard the pounding on the door when the daylight was streaming in, and made an excuse of "just a moment", scrambling to flush the toilet before getting my robe on and unlocking the door, ducking past Howard as he was cursing past me about being late for work. I hid in the bedroom until I heard the shower running, and then darted off to the kitchen to make coffee. I looked out the kitchen window as I felt for my new friend, and pulled it out slowly, grunting, as all it did was hurt. No fire down below. Disappointed, I prepped my coffee cup with a little of my own additive; interestingly enough, I think it cuts the bitterness of the bad coffee we end up affording, if you can believe that. I added some to Howard's cup, too. His opinion of it as he was racing out the door was that maybe we should buy better coffee, this stuff was terrible. I laughed hard after he left.

While I was shopping for better coffee in the midst of my busy day of chores, seeing the physicians, a quick flash in the bookstore, I happened into a pet store that was next door for fun, and my heart rat-a-tat-tat-ed when I found out that whips could be gotten there. Who knew? They were for horses. I slaved---is that a good word to use here?---over the decision for far too long. Room size factored out buggy whips and singletails, and I finally settled on a riding crop. A black one. It made my hand sting a bit as I tried it at the store, it's okay to try it like that, right? I couldn't wait to get it home; the coffee was still in the car two days later. I attempted swatting myself a bit with it here and there, bottoms of my feet, tops of my thighs, I couldn't get the angle right to hit the interesting parts: breasts, butt, between my legs, at least not very effectively. I knew that a real hit with this thing was going to hurt for real. All the little play-pains I'd been toying with would be just that: games, compared to what this could do. I couldn't wait; the fantasies of what I wanted Howard to do, to have, got stronger and stronger the rest of the day until I knew I was going to act on them, with or without his blessings, with or without him. I decided on one more little touch that I needed a quick novelty store trip for.

God and Howard's bad day came through. While he was stomping off his stress, I arranged a few things I thought might come in handy as I prepared myself to go for broke with my husband. This was it; we were going to fish and not cut bait anymore. If he couldn't do it, maybe I'd go find that loathsome boy, and see what he would do with a woman who can do what I can.

THE NIGHT went splendidly. I was so happy. He seemed tireless with his assault on me. Sex, pain, sex, pain, joy, were all finally here. I was married again, and I got sooooo fucked.

Puer Domum It Nigra

I DIDN'T see any of the things that happened to me that night. I didn't want to; I saw to that with a blindfold that was very secure. Is there anything bobby pins can't do? My world floated between cock and crop and tongue and hole and wet and wet and wet and I had never come so much in my life, ever. Probably more that night than the whole year before combined, even after I had started experimenting with myself.

The handcuffs were at times annoying when I wanted to move him around, or put my arms around him, or just touch him with my fingers, but having the restrictions was worth it; it made me more creative with what to try with him. I think he liked the helpless image I made, between being naked, handcuffed and blindfolded all night long.

I can't say how scared I was when I went to get the whip. What if it was too much? Thank God, yes, I'm on speaking terms with Him again, thank God thank God it wasn't. He didn't need too much persuasion to get started; there must be something to the idea of getting to take things out on someone else, a willing someone else, that men find irresistible. Maybe I would, too, given the opportunity. Not that I have any illusions about whipping Howard. Hurting him doesn't appeal to me; I'd rather we explore hurting me. Is that sick?

I had succeeded in worming my way under him after he fell asleep on the living room floor. Roll with the punches, I remember Mommy saying. Oh dear, did I just say that? He was so cute sleeping there, I even managed to doze a bit myself. Not that I was comfortable. When sleep was going to really take me over, I was going to be a log. When he came to, he removed the blindfold, which hurt a lot because of the bobby pins pulling my hair; I don't think he knew how they worked. I wasn't going to fuss. He insisted on taking my handcuffs off, which I had mixed feelings over; the overwhelming relief of freedom won out over how much I liked being under his control like that.

Since we'd had such a wonderful night of commitments, I decided to share my new hobby with him. I asked for a glass and he brought me a juice glass. That wasn't going to be enough, I asked him for something bigger. The only glasses we own that are made of glass are the juice glasses. We call pretty much everything we drink out of a glass, so I wasn't surprised when he brought me the new stoneware goblet I had found at a flea market, the one I had succeeded in getting inside me once; at least, the narrow end.

I am sure every man in the world is completely prepared to have his woman pee in a drinking vessel and then proceed to down it for his amusement most every morning, but apparently Howard missed that day in Man School. I had to help him up. He is a quick study; I can't imagine what was going through his head when I handed him the glass, intending he fill it for me. I tried to put my best hungry-slut show on for him. There, I said it: slut.

That was when he tipped his hand to me. My husband of oh-so-many years is a voyeur. I never knew. He would condemn any show of anything even remotely sexy anywhere in the media; I didn't know what to do with the exhibitionist streak I'd been developing. I hear that porn has voyeuristic qualities to it; there may be a use for the internet yet. He told me about the couple at the lake, and I knew I could keep our life, our new and improved life, by playing into it. Redemption was at hand. I tried to mimic what he described he saw, and was hoping he really would hit me and hit me good, when he turned the tables on me, and took me for a walk.

This was better!

It was all I could do to keep the coat on which was all I had on as he described what I hoped and prayed was about to happen. His mention of the boy made me think of that beastly tramp I had seen that was actually part of the reason we were here now. Life is sometimes funny, huh. When we got to the lake, I quit breathing---I was so excited---I couldn't think straight because of what I knew what was about to happen when the next left curve life threw me made an impossibility happen I hadn't even considered. No, I wasn't going to get fucked at the lake, and sure, that's a disappointment, damnit, but God made up for it: I was going to get to meet the girl that ugly boy had. She was an imaginary idol I had built myself into trying to become. The description Howard gave just had to be him, and his girl was here! I ran down the dock.

I was taken aback; she wasn't what I expected all. She was dazzling, lithe, she shimmered; her dress was a work of art that I was in awe of; it matched her snow white hair. Her head was bowed; her eyes rolled up to meet me, stopping me in my tracks.

"Good morning, mistress. Please take me home."

I suddenly forgot how to speak aloud and could only whisper. "Wha . . . what did you call me?"

"Mistress." The word pushed me back a step.

"And . . . what is your name, child?"

"Bone. My name is Bone, mistress." Her eyes lowered.

Howard finally caught up to us. I looked up at him, "Who would name their child 'Bone'?" He looked confused. "Howard, this is Bone. She wants to come home with us. Is that right?"

She slowly nodded her head, and reached her hand out to mine. I was enraptured; I couldn't resist. We walked, no walked isn't right, because I don't remember feeling how cold the ground was on my feet, I do believe we floated home. She whispered to me the entire way.

"I've been waiting for you."

"I can't tell you how much this means."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"You can do anything you want to me."

My husband caught my hand in front by the car, and I again felt the cold pavement. "What are you doing?"

Everything I knew about love came out at that moment. I loved my husband enough to give him this, this girl, and there wouldn't be any need to be jealous, and I could finally find fulfillment. I was going to use her to hold my husband. I told him so, and let her into our domicile.

I don't know how she did it, but between the time I let her in, and the time I got in, she was in the living room, naked with her hands on top of her head, with our crop in her mouth. Her eyes were closed when I took it.

"Do it."

My mouth fell open.

"You know what to do. Do it."

My coat fell off of its own accord, and joined her dress on the couch. Howard rollicked through, vanishing into the bedroom.

"Yes, please. Do it."

I had no idea I could or would or should or even wanted to but I did it. She smiled with relief, and continued to whisper.

"Yes."

I did it again. She didn't move, she didn't flinch, she said it again.

"God, yes."

Her breathing got deeper, and she was completely unfazed as Howard barreled through shouting something about going to work. I blew him a kiss and said something reassuring to him, something about not worrying, something about fucking Bone. Her teeth appeared in her smile when I said that.

She disturbed the quiet that had settled after the car roared off.

"Mmmoooorrre."

And I gave her more, discovering what my beloved did the night before when I offered myself to him in the same way.

I am the most heterosexual woman I know. The whole idea of lesbianism or homosexuality, live and let live, turns my stomach. It is not for me. This didn't stop me from kissing her, and kissing her like I meant it. I was too busy not believing I was getting wet to hear the door open. Part of me said it was just Howard, that was fast, part of me knew it wasn't.

"So how is she?" The voice was gravely, and I looked up to see him. The kid-boy-man, what was he, God, he smelled as bad as he looked. I was paralyzed.

"She's terrible. Want to show her how?" Bone's eyes opened.

He crossed the room, and took the crop from me. I let him.

"With this? I don't think so." He dropped it unceremoniously and reached under his leather greatcoat and drew out something white. Something long and white. Something thick and long and white; it was a cane, a heavy looking one that was too long to have been hidden in there, but here it was. He held it up, and glanced over at me, with an obvious "do you mind, you're in the way" that prompted me to step back two, then three steps.

He swung and hit so hard so fast, all I saw was a flash of the white of the cane. The welt he raised across her breasts was fierce, angry, instant, and she gasped. He did it again, not quite in the same place on her, catching at least one nipple this time, and her gasp became a grunt and a moan. A third swish, a third line that was sure to scar, and she inhaled a scream. Before she could exhale, he had marked her again, and she was full throated. He leered at me.

"Looks like fun, don't it."

He turned back to her, and set about his business. She never once put her hands up defensively, but they did drop from her head from time to time, to help her balance as he knocked her off it, never once rubbing where he struck. She shook, she shuddered, she shouted and screamed and cried real tears. So did I, just watching them.

My eyes weren't the only place producing moisture.

When he had finally beaten her to the ground, he kicked her a couple times, and reached down, and punched her in the stomach as hard as he could, knocking the wind out of her and the rest of the room, too. Hell, he may have broken a rib. She sobbed continuously.

He stood, sneering at his handiwork, then turned to me.

"Your turn."

"I'm . . . I'm not ready for that."

"Yes, you are. Stand up, bitch."

I was shaking so hard, I could barely stand, let alone get my hands to my head.

"I'm waiting . . . whore . . ."

I was sooooo scared. I closed my eyes. I heard the cane sing through the air, and my chest exploded in pain, and, and . . .

I came.

Another whistle, another combustion, another implosion. It was my turn to scream.

I was glad I'd gotten past the little squabble I'd had with the Lord when He showed Himself to me after this miscreated magician made me spread my legs. It went on and on and on until I felt the floor on my face.

The last things I heard were full of gravel, then grace.

"So, is what we came for still here?"

"Yes, master."

"Put your fucktoy away, get the shit, then we go. Move it, cunt."

"Yes, master."

And that was the end.

I VAGUELY remember Howard coming home; he was sweet. I slept until the following day---was it Monday?---and had managed to get out of bed only to be disappointed I couldn't find my new cup. Goblet. Glass. Whatever. That thwarted my first plan for the day, which only went downhill from there when the test results came back from St. Raphael's: positive for pancreatic, too far advanced to do anything about.

My dear, dear husband came home early. "I got fired." Those were not the last words he said to me, but they're the last ones I'll put down here.

Notes:

There's a Welsh myth from Myddfai where the Lady of the Lake came and lived with and loved a man, making him prosperous, until he accidentally struck her one day, when she reminded him that he had vowed never to hurt her, or she would leave him: he had two chances left, that sure enough, he eventually botched it all, having become arrogant with his fortunes. She retreated back to the lake Llyn y Fan Fach, taking everything with her, ruining him.

Vivien is one of the traditional names for the Lady of the Lake, the keeper of Excalibur. Merlin is her lover.

Elaine is the name for the mother of the last keeper for the Grail (Galahad). I made the illogical leap that he kept it at his mom's house, to suit the story's allegories.

Eple = Apple; Avalon = Apple.