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The Best of 2013

The Afternoon Circle Jerk Society
by Amanda Earl

Beating the Gothic Out of Her
by Amanda Earl

Real Irish
by Amanda Earl

Mercy and the Man. . .
by Amanda Earl

The Revenant
by Amanda Earl

The Vessel
by Amanda Earl

The Too Beautiful Boy
by Arthur Chappell

The Accidental Fetish
by Corvidae

Never For Punishment
by Daddy X

Like a Brother
by Big Ed Magusson

Old Dogs
by Big Ed Magusson

Goodbye Roger
by Huck Pilgrim

He Sends His Regrets
by Huck Pilgrim

A Small Favor
by Huck Pilgrim

Ava's Honey
by john e

LOX
by john e

Eclipse Sex
by Oxartes

Adam and Eve on a Raft
by Robert Buckley

Dead Man's Switch
by Robert Buckley

Does Immortality come with a Pension?
by Robert Buckley

Embraceable Ewe
by Robert Buckley

A Fragile Desire
by Robert Buckley

Surviving Winter
by Robert Buckley

You're the Only One
by Robert Buckley

Dissolve
by Sybil Rush

Bing Cherry Silk
by Valentine Bonnaire

Colony, Collapsed
by Valentine Bonnaire

Have a Nice Day
by Valentine Bonnaire

l'heure bleue
by Valentine Bonnaire

Once Upon A Time . . .
by Valentine Bonnaire

Red Suede
by Valentine Bonnaire

Yellow, like the daffodils
by Valentine Bonnaire

Novelette

Invisible Lines
by Raziel Moore



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By Mike Kimera
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It May Not be Art...
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The Last Taboo
Hand-Jobs
Fucking Ugly
Paying For It
Sex with Owen
Ask Alice
The Sisters
Bar Snack

Only When It Rains

by Rose B. Thorny © 2009

 

Erotic FictionWhy it happens only when it rains, I have no idea.

Well, that isn't totally accurate.  I have a few thoughts on it, but it doesn't really matter.  I don't actually care, and no one else would understand, so it's of no consequence.

In the winter, when it snows, it doesn't feel the same at all.  Perhaps, because it is just too cold and cold is invasive, cruelly invasive.  Or perhaps, because, in the snow, I would leave behind footprints, evidence, and my mind has made that adjustment to facilitate self-preservation.

In the winter, I like to closet myself.  Push the doors tight against the gusting winds and freezing draughts, frame the windows in heavy drapes so I may observe the drifting white fall of chiffon snow without actually feeling its frigid caress, watch the sweep of wind-driven flurries, and listen to the crystalline glissandos of sleet against the glass, without suffering the needles of icy pain piercing my skin.

In the winter, I like to build a fire in the wood stove and kneel before it to warm my hands.

I like crumpling the old news and tossing it onto the blackened, ash-stuccoed iron grate and building little pyres of kindling over it.  I arrange them, just so, tiny wooden structures, like frail stick houses that a huffing, puffing big, bad wolf might blow down without a second thought. What a silly tale; fire is so much more effective, so effortless by comparison, and so much more gratifying.

I clasp the box of wooden matches in one hand.  Sometimes, I think of them as lucifers, a name by which they're still known, the reason for such a name being apparent to anyone familiar with brimstone, black magic and the fires of hell. God and his minions—or are they cohorts?—are delightfully inventive in their destructive tortures.  They know how to create and feed the punishing flames.

The match rasping against the encrusted side of the box offers a gritty, satisfying sound and the flaring tip excites me.

I gasp every time kindling ignites.

I peer into the flames, grip the poker and jab at the dry fuel.  It pops and snaps.  I imagine piles of brittle old bones being crushed underfoot in some ancient, cavernous crypt.  As the inferno expands, waves of heat envelope me. The fire crackles with the intensity of ravenous, snapping jaws and I'm mesmerized by the darting orange and yellow tongues licking at the hapless wood, devouring it.  The little house is in ruins, but the fire is alive, searching.

I feed it.  Showers of sparks explode; a beast straining to free itself, to gorge on fare more sumptuous and juicier than dead wood.

When the blaze is roaring, when I have it controlled and contained within that iron prison, I stand and turn my back to it.  Can I trust it not to consume me?

I slip off the clothing covering my legs, let the garments fall and rest around my feet.  The heat assaults my buttocks, seeks ingress, and I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and contemplate what I do once winter is past, when the rains come.

In the winter, in my house, the urge to venture forth and indulge does not overcome me.  Oh, it's there.  I cannot deny that.  It's alive, I can feel it, but quiescent, germinating.  The anticipation builds and I let it.

I think about my bliss and the heat radiates.  My gut clenches, tingles.  The frisson spreads lower and I get hot between my legs.  Hot and wet.

*    *    *

My house is old, the oldest one in the neighbourhood.  I bought it years ago with a small inheritance and some insurance money, the only silver lining, some people said, of a tragic dark cloud that deprived a young woman of her only remaining family.  It sits on a rise at the end of a cul de sac, an old Victorian looking down on a clutter of mismatched post-war bungalows; a stoic dowager standing apart from its youthful kin.

And when it rains, only when it rains, does the wealth of those houses present itself to be plundered.

Once winter has passed, I study the sky.  I watch for the storm clouds.

Thin April drizzle won't do.  A soft rain is too transparent and most people do not find it unpleasant to don their raincoats and rain boots and open their umbrellas to walk in an April shower.  In fact, they welcome it, that harbinger of flowers, those splashes of colour bursting from the neat gardens framed in manicured lawns.

It is not the light spring rainfall I await.

I bide my time, until the sultry, charged air of ponderous summer heat pulses and swells as a fecund belly, then births the relentless deluge of a thunderstorm.  The rumbling stirs my blood and the bolts of lightning explode in my brain, tearing me open, even as they rip the sky apart, exposing my innards to the elements.  This is what I wait for throughout the crisp brilliance of autumn, the glacial chill of winter, the fresh vibrancy of spring.  I wait for the cloudburst and the torrents, the terrifying power of Thor, himself, that drives even the bravest of ordinary souls indoors.

I am not ordinary.

But the time must be right, too.  Mornings and afternoons are not the right time.  Too many people rushing about trading whatever it is they have to offer in payment for their lives.  They look like so many staccato raindrops stampeding across the pavement.  And there are way too many children running back and forth, stomping in puddles, laughing and shouting and making more noise than the heavy raindrops beating a tattoo on my tin roof.  Even during a daytime storm, there is too much light for me to indulge myself.  Even in a daytime storm, there is not enough darkness for me to watch the keepers of all those other hearths.

Only when it rains at dusk and in the night do I allow myself the pleasure of making sport of their imagined safety.  I wait until they're all ensconced in their little dwellings, their tidy little homes, with the frilly curtains and the polished hardwood floors; their little stick houses.

*    *    *

Many people favour the easy-to-spot yellow raincoats, the colour of sunshine and daffodils and fresh lemons.  Others prefer the pretty paisleys and popular multi-hued geometric designs.  I choose black, of course.  Black doesn't reflect the sweeping beams of random late headlights turning into driveways.

If the conditions are just right—which is what they are this evening—if the summer storm is such that the heat of the day is not dissipated by the sheets of rain, I wear little, if anything, under the slicker.

I am not without humour.

Barefoot, I slip into my tall, black rain boots and stand before the full length mirror in the foyer.  I perch the wide-brimmed rain hat atop my head and, otherwise naked, strike the cheesecake poses that made Bette Paige a hot chick.  I am not a hot chick and that is obvious, even to me, but that doesn't mean I don't drink in my own reflection.  I poise one hand on the hat and place the other on one hip, bend one knee and thrust my pelvis forward.  I make a face and stick out my tongue and giggle, sounding quite girlish, though it has been a long time since anyone has thought of me as a girl.

I'm not sure that they think of me very much, at all, and that suits me just fine.

To everyone in this little suburb, I'm that just past middle-aged spinster, who works at the library and lives alone in the old house at the dead end.  At work, I'm quiet and pleasant and just stern enough to have earned some respect and obedience from the children, yet not frighten them unduly.  It wouldn't do to frighten the children.  At work, I'm friendly and even-tempered enough to encourage trust.

At home, I smile and wave at my neighbours and chat with them when our paths cross.  I've practiced being as ordinary as possible when I'm with other people.  It's advantageous to be thought of as ordinary.  If the Christmas cards I find in my mailbox, during that festive season, are any indication, I'm not considered some kind of pariah, which is just as well, of course.

The children aren't afraid of me, but neither do I go out of my way to encourage their friendship.  It is the one thing I find difficult to do; feign excessive amity towards children.  I'm sure of many things, but I'm uncertain if, despite those wide-eyed, supposedly innocent stares, they detect the animosity behind my indulgent smiles. I've seen the way they study me, as they would some curious object, the purpose of which, they are unsure.  There is no real indication that it would harm them, but it's an unknown, so they can't be certain.  I don't allow them to look into me with any intensity.  Children see things with a clarity unobscured by guile.  And there are things that children should not see.  When they stare at me, I avert my eyes.

I really don't like children very much, noisy, spoiled little creatures that whine and cry, when they don't get their way, and prance about as if the world, indeed, the whole solar system, revolves around them, as if the rules, my rules, don't apply to them.

At the library, they obey the library rules, no doubt because the head librarian, Mr. Janus, is commanding and enforces them and has been known to eject the unruly.  I've never ejected anyone.  It serves my purpose not to be thought of as mean or frightening.

At home, there is no Mr. Janus to back me up and the children obviously do not take me as seriously as they take him.  Of course, he's a man and they afford him that additional deference, because they think he is somehow superior to me.  They've been taught that it's a man's world, that, Queen Elizabeth notwithstanding, men rule. They all believe that Mr. Janus's status as male, bestows upon him some inherent respect, as if possession of some thickened, generally floppy piece of flesh hanging between one's legs is an adequate measure of worth.  They don't know the things about Mr. Janus that I do.

Mr. Janus doesn't like thunderstorms anymore than the rest of the people in my sphere.  I've visited him often enough to learn things about him, too.  The children and their parents wouldn't be quite so respectful of Mr. Janus, if I shared my knowledge of his habits.  I keep that to myself, however.  It's enough for me that I know.

I resist marching out of my house and confronting the youngsters, when they encroach on my unkempt lawn.  I may be harmless and ordinary to them, but I'm sure my yard is something of an extraordinary, even eccentric, sticking point with the neighbours, who offer to cut the lawn for me, when the grass grows, beyond what they believe is proper, and I let them.  If they want to do the weeding, that's fine with me, too.  Free labour, why not?  But I think it is that very non-conformity of the landscape, which attracts the children.  I refrain from chastising them for trespassing, thereby not appearing to be a mean old crone, and they can't resist the lure of the wilderness, pretending to be explorers in the untamed frontier masquerading as my yard. Much as they annoy me, though, I don't really blame them for being willful and disobedient.  One of my mother's favourite sayings, repeated frequently, right up to her untimely demise, summed it up: As the twig is bent, so grows the tree. I concur.  It's their parents' fault.

And it's their parents who interest me.

I shrug into my long raincoat and snap the fasteners shut. There's a finality to the sound, a shotgun slide locking into position.  I'm ready to hunt.

*    *    *

I have my favourite stands, of course.  Some prey are just so much more attractive than others.

There is no sound but the storm; rain splashing on the leaves and the pavement, drumming on trash can lids, thrumming in hollow cadence on the carport roofs.  The deep timpani of thunder rolling back and forth over the distant hills, punctuated by the occasional cymbal crash when a bolt of lightning hits close to home.  Oh, yes, much closer to home than anyone might think.

Psychoanalysis is very much in vogue, these days, along with a plethora of psychiatrists, who attempt to find explanations for everything.  They have to know the reasons, all the whys and wherefores.  They want everything to be neat and predictable.  They believe that when someone, such as I, gets caught, it's because, deep down, such people want to be caught.  Because they want everyone to know how brilliant they are, or because they truly desire to be helped and "cured" of whatever it is that compels them to do what they do.  The psychoanalysts believe they have it all figured out.

Needless to say, they're full of shit.  I don't want to get caught.  I'm having way too much fun.  Of course, I am brilliant, but I prove it every time I don't get caught. And I have no desire to be "cured," because I'm not ill. People, such as I, only get caught if they get sloppy. And I'm not sloppy.  Others, who do get caught, aren't like me at all.

Earlier, as soon as I saw the thunderheads roiling, building upward, further and further, climbing towards the stratosphere, I mulled over who would be first on my list, if the conditions permitted an evening sojourn.  I chose the Barkers.  If time allows, if the storm lasts, and I have the energy, I'll move on to the Johnsons.

I have to admit that the Barkers are my favourite, possibly because they are the exception to my parent rule.  They don't have children yet, and they've provided hours of uninterrupted pleasure—children can ruin the perfect moments—but also the most frightening moment, the one time I almost was discovered.

I was in no way culpable for that.  It was not sloppiness, on my part, nor any desire to be apprehended.  It was raccoons getting into the trash, knocking over the galvanized cans and making a din, clearly distinguishable during the lull between thunder claps.  Gerald Barker rushed out the back door to see what the commotion was.  I ducked and froze below the window and it was the storm that protected me, for the lashing rain was relentless.  He looked neither right nor left, his only goal to shoo away the marauders and return to the house.  If he'd checked for other possible intruders, it is almost certain he would have spotted me.

Perhaps, that's the reason Gerald and Pamela Barker are my favourites, because of the danger that was attached to that incident.  Perhaps a part of me craves that extra surge of adrenaline and there is a hope it might recur.  It was so exciting I almost didn't have to stay any longer than that, but it was not quite enough, and I remained till they and I were done.  Admittedly, though, the moment had passed and that time, I had been almost more aroused by the near discovery of my indulgence than the consummation of their lust.

As close a call as that was, however, I'm too clever to be caught and, by morning, the rain will have washed away any trace of my presence.

*    *    *

I think it's ironic that Pamela Doggett married someone whose last name is Barker.

She's lovely, really; almost perfect.  I'll give credit where credit is due.  Shapely and just the right average height, though in high heels, she's easily five-foot-seven, or eight; warm, honey blond hair that she still ties up in a pony tail.  She was a cheerleader and still looks like one; a healthy glow radiating beneath her peaches and cream complexion. Her face is flawless according to popular standards.  On someone like Pammy, as all, except I, call her, a dark mole isn't considered a flaw; it's a beauty mark.  Not by me of course.  I don't think it's lovely at all.  I may be the only one who sees it for the imperfection it is.

But perfect or flawed, single or married, Pamela Barker, nee Doggett, is a bitch.

Gerald Barker is home already, of course.  He's always on time, occasionally even early.  And why not, when he has such a gorgeous, fuckable bitch waiting at home for him?

Their side kitchen window, in the lee of the prevailing wind, is wet, but open just enough to let in whatever cool air the storm might provide.  It also allows me to catch at least some of what they may have to say to each other. Additionally, this window, and the one above their sink is blocked from sight of the next house over and the one behind them, by a tall, thick thuja hedge, which makes it so much easier for them to indulge their carnal urges someplace other than in the bedroom.  And that makes it more interesting for me.  Bedrooms tend to become boring and, too often, people dim the lights in their bedrooms, or turn them off altogether.  Even in the hot weather, some hide under the sheets, ruining the show.  I don't want just sound, which is often drowned out by the thunder and rain anyway. I wouldn't go to the movies then sit there with my eyes closed, would I?

But that is always part of the anticipation.  What will they do and where will it happen?  How much will they give me?

Pamela and Gerry—I've called him Gerry, ever since I stamped his first library book—have obviously finished dinner.  Gerry is nowhere in sight.  Pamela is standing by the sink washing the dishes.

It looks so idyllic.  She's June Cleaver without Wally and the Beaver.  The runnels on the pane distort the image.  It's like watching a television screen when there's an atmospheric disturbance and the image wavers.

Generally, when the subject arises, I tell people I don't watch television, and while that may not be completely true, I'm sure I don't watch the shows in the way other people do. I don't laugh at those so-called comedies, wherein the parents are making cute little quips to each other and the children are mischievous, but adorable, and by the time the closing credits roll, another crisis has been averted and everyone in the supposedly perfect family ends up laughing at their own foibles, which makes them appear to be even more perfect in their acceptance of life's little trials. What fools they are, almost as foolish as the people who watch and believe those flickering images to be a blueprint for real life. The children grin like fresh-faced, sugar-cookie cherubs—little demons if the truth were known—and the bits of fatherly wisdom and motherly advice make me want to puke.

When I watch those shows, I feel both incensed and vindicated.  The hypocrisy of them is evident, if only to me.  Others are so nave; stupid, in fact.  I see the filth behind the faade.

This is better than black and white television, though.  And much better than the ghastly new colour sets.  Those are hideous.  This is what colour television should be like.

The kitchen is all white and green and yellow, clean and cheerful.  And Pamela blends right in.  It's as if she is part of a well-designed set upon which the costume and set designers collaborated.  And she knows it.  Her very posture reveals how highly she thinks of herself, the snotty bitch.

Her house dress is pale yellow, a fall of watery sunshine. It pinches her waist and flares over her hips.  The strings of the starched mint green apron are tied in a neat, wide bow.  The air is still hot and humid, but she's wearing nylons and I can just see the pair of white sandals with wedge heels, not very high this evening.  A bright green satin ribbon adorns her pony tail.  She looks like the starlet in a dish soap commercial.  She has adjusted the radio dial and I catch errant strains of some pop music station.  Pamela sways her ass back and forth to the rock and roll.

She's a slut.

I wonder, when she finally gets pregnant, if she'll undergo that ersatz transformation, the one from slut to Madonna.

That excites me.  Not the possibility of her becoming that sainted illusion—that's just a myth—but just saying the word "pregnant" inside my head, instead of using the coy euphemisms, "in the family way," or "expecting."

It's exciting because it means sweet little Pammy, the butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth girl next door, will prove to be just another knocked up whore, and everyone will know it.  It will be visible proof that her wholesome, handsome husband, at some point, spread her creamy white cheerleader thighs, shoved his cock inside her, and fucked her, the same way he'd fuck any other cheap slut.  Madonna, my ass.

Pamela stacks another plate in the dish rack, but the sound of it is obscured by the rain pelting my hat.  A few drops find their way inside the back of my collar.  I don't move to alter my position, lest any motion be detected, but I shiver involuntarily as the stream dribbles between my shoulder blades and down my spine to the furrow flanked by my buttocks.  I clench the muscles embracing that delicious trickle.

Come on, Gerry.  Where the fuck are you?  Your little bitch is waiting for you.  Can't you see her wiggling her rump, just begging for it?

Speak of the devil, as my mother used to say, and he's sure to appear.  She never banked on me; I only had to think his name and there he is.

Gerry Barker looks the part of a handsome devil.  He is as dark as his little wife is fair.  His curly black hair is neatly trimmed, and sets off his bronzed skin.  I know his parents.  His father is tall, pale, and blue-eyed, the result of forebears who hailed from somewhere in England, but his mother's people originated in the Mediterranean area.  Obviously, her genes had the biggest impact on his colouring, but he inherited his father's height.  He grins, white, even teeth flashing.

He is no fallen angel.  Ordinary mortals produced a god.

I remember, in the library, watching the high school girls swarming around him like giggling gnats.  Oh, they were hot for him.  I could see it in their hungry, glittering eyes and on their blushing cheeks, virgins who wanted nothing more than to have him draw their first blood.

And now, here he is standing in the doorway of Pamela's spic and span kitchen, the kitchen that's all clean and scrubbed and shiny, just like her.  Except there's always dirt somewhere, isn't there?  Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it isn't there.

The garbage sits out of sight under the sink, but it still smells.  The floor tiles appear to be spotless, but look closer and you'll always find grit and grime in the crack along the toe kick.  Even little Miss Sparkling Clean Pammy can't vacuum well enough to get all the dirt.  And, what muck's in the trap of that drain, Pamela, that dark, hole under the fresh scent of Joy?

Gerry knows.

He's watching Pamela, who is as unaware of his presence as she is of mine.  So much for sensing the love of your life even ten feet away.  She never was too bright.  I don't know what he saw in her, beyond the luscious body and perky Sandra Dee looks.

Even through the watery distortion I can see his eyes gleam. I can feel what he's thinking.  It's stronger than the electrical charges of the lightning flashes.  Oh, yes, this storm is bringing out the very best in Gerry.  I chose well tonight.

He's still wearing his work slacks, but the belt is unbuckled and the ends are hanging on either side of his zipped fly.  The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled part way up his muscular forearms, and the front is unbuttoned, revealing the dark hair on his tanned chest.

In a few short strides he is behind Pamela, grabbing her around the waist.  She jumps and screams then laughs and wiggles against him.  I can hear her exclamation over the drumming of the rain and my heart.

"You crazy nut, you scared me half to death."

I can't hear him, but I can see that he mutters something close to her ear as he pulls her tighter against him.  Her mmmmmm is theatrically loud, as if she's doing it for an audience.  There is no way she can know I'm standing here, yet she does it in the same way that a clique of school girls laughs louder amongst themselves when they want to make it clear to the outcast that she's missing out on all the fun.  I saw her do that, she and her gaggle of silly-goose friends, trying to impress Gerry and his pals, all the while taking sidelong glances at the outsider, who never had a prayer of being one of them.

I watched and listened from deep in the stacks, while Mr. Janus gave them a proper tongue-lashing and told them, right in front of the boys, to leave this moment.

Mr. Janus is a stuffy, old fart, albeit a perverted one, who hasn't had the decency to retire or die so that I may become head librarian, but in that moment, I silently applauded him, even though I found the outsider, a mousy, otherwise non-descript girl, who spent hours regularly poring over medical texts, quite repulsive.  She deserved to be ridiculed for being such a weak, submissive little worm, but Pamela and her friends deserved, to a much greater degree, the humiliation of being thrown out of the library with the boys as witnesses to the deed.

She put on a front of laughing at Mr. Janus, too, but left as he directed.  Her laugh hasn't changed.

Whether Gerry finds it attractive, or not, I don't know, and I don't really care.  He finds her desirable and that's why I'm here.

Is the storm passing, though?  The rumbling grows distant and the rain lets up enough that I can hear them talking. Please, no!  If it stops, I'll have to leave before they're done, before he's done.  It isn't any good unless the rain is washing over me.

"Hey, Pammy, want your ass warmed?"

She squeals a sophomoric imitation of the Big Bopper succumbing to the charms of his Chantilly lay.  "Oh, baby, you knooooow what I like."

The dishwater will be left to cool.

Gerry swings Pamela away from the sink and bends her forward over the mint green Formica top of the kitchen table, rucking up her dress.  Even though she doesn't say another word, I know she asks for this.  I know it, not just because I've seen them do this before, but because she's not wearing underpants, just a white garter belt to hold up her nylons. She wanted this to happen.  Her chubby ass cheeks are practically quivering.

The bitch always looks so prim and wholesome, squeaky clean, but Gerry knows what she is, and so do I.  I sometimes wonder if he knew before they were married.  If he did, that was probably the reason he married her, in the first place.  If he didn't, then he got the bonus of his life with a filthy little slut like her.

He pushes her shoulders down.  She's resting on elbows and forearms, which are pressed in close to her.  Gerry wedges the hem of her dress between her arms and her torso then tucks her slip under the waist band of the raised dress so it won't slide down.

"Stay right where you are, little girl.  Daddy has some business with you."

Pamela whimpers, again as if she's on a stage, or in front of a camera.  Phony cunt.

She's not facing my way and I'm just as glad of that.  I'm not afraid she'll see me.  The kitchen is brightly lit and all either of them would see, should they attempt to peer out the window into the murk, especially in their now distracted state, is their own reflections.  No, I simply don't want to look at her face, while Gerry's working her over.  I don't want to see her eyes squeezed shut, her gaping maw groaning out animal sounds.  I don't want to see Pamela's lovely, though slightly imperfect, visage contorted in lust ignited by Gerry's attentions.

I do want to look at Gerry's face, though.  Even through the distortion of the droplets on the glass, his face is handsome.  He bares his teeth, again, in a ravenous smile. The rain has intensified again and thunder rolls around this suburban enclave as a predator might circle its helpless victim.

He speaks to Pamela, but the rumbling drowns out most of what he says.  I catch only, "...just what you deserve," as he pull his belt out of the loops.

Oh, yesss.  Yes, Gerry, she deserves whatever you're going to give her.  Go on.  Do it. Do it!

He grabs his belt by the buckle and pulls on it, sliding it out of the loops.  My heart, already thumping wildly, feels as if it is going to explode, when he doubles the strap and gives himself a couple of test slaps across his palm.  I stifle a groan at the sight and sound of the leather striking his hand.

Pamela moans and begs.  "Please, oh, please, don't hurt me." I'd almost believe her, but for the silly giggle that threatens to spoil the mood.  Not one of us buys the act for a second.

But what's Gerry's plan tonight?  There's something extra in his eyes tonight.  Something I've never seen before.  They've only done this twice before, for my benefit, and he seemed in a hurry to get it done; heat up her ass fast then fuck her.  Something's different tonight.

He caresses her bottom with the leather, teases her cunt with the looped end, and kneads one cheek with his free hand, then pinches her.  She squeals and he laughs.  Still holding the straps against her cunt lips, he smacks her bottom, as one would a horse, then his hand darts up to her pony tail and he grabs it, yanking her head up and back.

Now I can see her face from the side and she's grimacing. This is new and I can barely contain myself.

Yes, Gerry.  Make her wince.  Do it!

"You my little pony?"

"Yes, yes," she whines and scrunches up her face as he pulls harder.

"Show me."

Tugging against his grip she shakes her head up and down, just as a horse would.

"Come on, little pony, you can do better than that."  He slaps her ass again and I unsnap the fasteners of my raincoat.

Pamela shakes her head again then stamps her foot.

"I can't hear you."

They won't be paying attention to anything, but what they're doing, and I pull my coat open.  I back away just enough to let the rain wet my exposed skin and the first drops striking my nipples harden them.

Pamela stamps her foot again then neighs in a remarkably horse-like fashion.  I almost laugh out loud.  A bitch that whinnies instead of barking.

Still grasping her hair, but grinning, Gerry moves to the side and raises the belt.

"Does my little pony need a good whipping?  Does she?"

I'm already breathing hard through my open mouth and my hand darts to my own cunt.  The hair is wet from the rain, but it was already slick and slippery from the fluids leaking out of me.  I rub my clitoris while Pamela, the pony bitch, nods her head and stamps her foot.

Gerry strikes her ass with the belt, lightly at first, and she doesn't move very much.  I'm wiggling more than she is.

Come on, Gerry.  Harder.  Whip her harder.  Hurt her.  The bitch deserves it.

And it's as if he's gleaned the message telepathically, because he increases the intensity.  Her ass is reddening and Pamela starts shifting from one foot to the other, trying to avoid the strap, an impossibility of which she must be aware.

Don't let her get away.  Make her take it.  Whip her harder.  Come on.  Harder.  The filthy slut-cunt-pony-bitch has it coming.

Pamela's prancing now, stamping her prim white sandals.  Her flesh is quivering and bright red.  Even from here, I can see the raised welts.  I'm quivering, too, inside and out. I can barely control my hand, the muscles are so tense, cramping.

She starts sobbing.  The horse whinny is replaced by desperate whining pleas.

"Oh, stop, stop, stop.  Please, Gerry.  Stop the whipping Gimme me the other."

Come on, Gerry.  Now, now.  Hit her hard!  Fuck her!

He gives her two more vicious whacks, lays the belt on her back and lets go of her pony tail.  He moves so fast, unzipping his pants and letting them fall.  His white underpants are bright against his olive skin, but he yanks them down freeing his cock.  My God, it's huge, bigger than I've ever seen it.  And hard, so hard.  The veins are bulging, and the head is purple and shiny, wet for sure.

The rain is drenching me and the lightning flashes, and a moment later, the crack of thunder splits the night.

Fuck her, Gerry.  Fuck the bitch.  Take her down.  Take her down.

I'm working myself faster and faster, harder.  I'm on the edge.  I feel myself getting closer.

Gerry's cock is bobbing against Pamela's ass.  He grabs the belt with both hands and loops it in front of her face, forces her mouth open.  She pretends to struggle against it, but grips it between her teeth.  He holds the belt behind her head with one hand, pulling hard, and grabs his huge brown cock with the other, rubs the head of it against her dripping, swollen cunt then rams it into her.

She bellows and he just pushes hard into her, one, two, three strokes and he's in her up to his balls.

He's going to take her down and make her beg.  The bitch is going to come.  Not so prim and proper now.  Not cool anymore, the hot, filthy cunt.

Now, now, now!  Fuck her, Gerry.

He's pounding into her and the table shifts.  She reaches out to the sides and grips the edges, groaning and gasping against the leather bit, gurgling unintelligibly. "Ga-ga-ga-ga-ga!"  Her spasms are uncontrollable.  The pony bitch is broken, humbled.

Gerry thrusts once more, hard, his face contorting as he grinds out a scream between clenched teeth.

The rain washes over me and the wave of my orgasm grips me. I've never come so hard, but I'm standing outside myself. I don't recognize the sound coming out of me.  I'm not even aware that I'm making the sound out loud, until abruptly, the tableau shatters.

Gerry turns toward the window looking right where I'm standing and hollers, "What the fuck?"

He releases the belt and reaches down to pull up his drawers and trousers.  I back away, still rocking from my climax, but suddenly grown cold.  I glance up just as a bolt of lightning sears the night and blinds me.  The crack is almost immediate.  So close, so close.  It's struck something nearby.

"What, Gerry, what?"  Pamela's screaming.  She has no idea what's happening.

"Fucking pervert.  There's a guy out there, a fucking perv."

It can't be.  I can't be caught.  I won't be.

Pamela's babbling.  "Oh, no.  No-no-no.  Oh, God.  Did he see?  Oh, my God.  Oh, shit."

By the time Gerry gets to the window, I've wrapped my slicker around me and dashed down the walk between the house and hedge.  The splashes of light are still burned into my retinas, the way a flashbulb leaves a white imprint.  I run and stumble, going down on one knee and the pain knifes into my leg.  My palms scrape the gritty concrete sidewalk.  I crawl scrambling to my feet again, tripping and staggering towards the street.  I can't think and just race into the streaming sheets of rain illuminated by streetlights.  I hear a door slam.  He's giving chase.  He's going to catch me.  He mustn't catch me.  Can I outrun him?  No chance.  He's half my age and an athlete.  I just run.  I have to get away from him.

I race toward the wooded park where all the mothers bring their children in the light of day.  I can lose him there. I sprint between the trees into a particularly dense copse. He won't find me there.

Gerry Barker bawls through the pouring rain and murk.  "You fucking pervert.  I catch you, you're dead."

But I'm hidden now.  There's no way he can find me.  The storm is protecting me.  The storm always protects me.

*    *    *

My heart isn't thudding anymore, but I'm still shivering. Wrapped in my thick chenille robe and huddling in my favourite easy chair, I've tried to warm myself.  A half-filled snifter of brandy sits close to hand on the end table.  It was full when I started it.  Even so, I'm still chilled.  The shaking won't stop.  The fear feels like ants crawling all over me and worms wriggling inside my gut.

I go over the scene again and again, a stuck record playing the words over and over.

You fucking pervert.  I catch you, you're dead.

I waited in the woods until I was sure Gerry had given up and gone back home, back to his slut-bitch.  It was her fault.  She made him so hot he couldn't control himself. And when he gets that way, I can't stop myself.  I want her to get what she has coming to her.

But tonight was different.  I've never felt it so intensely. The storm was perfect.  The scene was perfect, best ever. But it was too much for me tonight.  I got carried away.  I've never done that before; made noise.  I've always managed to remain silent, dead silent.

But he couldn't have seen me clearly.  Not my face, or else the police would already have been here pounding on my door, and I'd be under arrest.

If Gerry knew who it was, I wouldn't be sitting here wondering how this could have happened.

But I can't take the chance anymore.  Now they know.  Now they know someone watches them.  They'll be cautious.  They won't let themselves be seen anymore and they'll be looking out from now on.  Will they tell their neighbours to be on the lookout, too, or just keep quiet about it?  I can't be certain.  Supposing they lie in wait, set a trap?

Fuck them.  They've spoiled it.  They've spoiled it all.

And Gerry calling me a pervert.  Fucking bastard.  He always was a snotty prick.  Thought he was so cool just because he was good-looking and the girls threw themselves at him. Stupid bitches.

And now he's worse, the prick.  And calling me a pervert. What about him?  Him and sweet, prim little Pammy?  He was the one getting a hard-on whipping his wife's fat ass.  And her pretending she's some trained pony, dancing around and shoving her cunt at him.

Not exactly Ward and June Cleaver, now, are they?  All that fresh-faced innocence they show the world is a lie.  A filthy lie.  Pamela all wide-eyed and honey-blond sweet, and she's nothing more than a whore parading her wares for that cocksucker, Gerry.  I'd feel sorry for him, except he isn't worth it.  I was wrong thinking he was special.  He's the pervert, not me.

I take another sip of brandy.

The rain has tapered off.  My window is open.  I can hear everything dripping; there's no other sound, except a few crickets chirping, now, and I can hear a dog bark somewhere in the distance.  The calm after the storm.  A light breeze wafts in like a sigh in the wake of a tumultuous orgasm.

I start feeling comfortable in the glow of the single lamp beside me.  The storm has passed and I'm feeling more in control again.  But everything's changed now.  It won't be safe anymore.  They've ruined it.  Gerry and Pamela Barker, Mr. and Mrs. Perfect Suburbanite in their neat little stick house, have spoiled all my fun.

Or have they?

The wood stove is cold, dormant for the summer.  I stand up and go over to the bookcase against the wall and retrieve the box of matches then sink back down into my chair.

I slide the cover open and pick out one lucifer.  The rasp of it against the box arouses me and the head igniting makes me catch my breath.  The brandy helps, but this?  A sudden tide of warmth surges inside me as I stare into the flame, transfixed, until it threatens to singe my fingers and I blow it out.

I toss it into an empty candy dish by the lamp then strike another.  One by one, I light the matches then blow them out, until there is little pile of blackened sticks in the dish.  Little charred stick houses.

_______
© 2009 Rose B. Thorny. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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