Emory Allgood’s piece drew the most interest, and one of them wanted to know the price. She explained that it wasn’t for sale, but that the artist had a show opening in the fall. She’d make sure they got invitations to the opening.
Enough, she thought.
“It’s so nice to see you both,” she said, and brushed the back of her hand across Jay McGann’s crotch, then flung her arms around Lowell Cooke’s neck and gave him a lingering openmouthed kiss. She thought Jay might grope her while she was kissing Lowell, but no, he was just standing there politely, waiting his turn. She turned from Lowell and kissed Jay, and felt Lowell’s hands on her ass.
In the bedroom, they gaped at her when she got out of the black dress, gaped again at the gold at her nipples and the hairless pubic mound. They stripped without embarrassment, and there was another round of kissing with hands reaching everywhere, and then they were all three in her bed.
Men always wanted a threesome with two women, it was the closest thing they had to a universal fantasy, but what was the sense of it? A man only had one cock, and could only put it in one place at a time. Oh, yes, there were possibilities in foreplay, and then he could eat one girl while he fucked the other, and in the process cheat each out of the benefit of his full attention. It could be interesting for a woman, being with a man and woman at once, but for a man how could the reality ever be a match for the fantasy?
With two men and a woman, on the other hand, the physiology was equal to the fantasy. She had a mouth, she had an ass, she had a cunt — there was more than enough of her to keep them occupied.
It was divine, and utterly different from her night with Buckram. (Sweet Franny!) She’d got things going, then was able to be essentially passive and let them use her as they wished, turning her this way and that, learning her body with their hands, their mouths. Lowell slipping into her, Jay offering himself to her mouth.
In the end, she did manage to fulfill a longstanding fantasy. The night before, alone with herself and her thoughts and her toys, she’d slipped the smallest dildo into her ass, a larger one in her pussy. And now it was happening again, but this time her toys were alive, and she didn’t have to manipulate them, she could give herself up utterly to the pleasure of being taken and used, being fucked fore and aft.
But she couldn’t get them to do anything to each other.
Men were so funny. Caught up in passion and need, still they were careful not to touch one another, careful that each made physical contact with her and only with her.
After they’d finished their sexual sandwich, as she lay on her back between them with their seed oozing out of both her holes, she took one of them in each hand and said, “You know what I would love? I would love to see one of you suck the other. I would absolutely love that.”
God, you’d think she’d suggested they dismember a child, or strangle their mothers with a rolled-up American flag. And it was so silly. Moments before, both of them buried in her flesh, they’d been able to feel each other’s cocks through the thin membrane that separated her two passages. That had contributed to her excitement, and, she felt sure, to theirs as well, could they only acknowledge it.
“It would make me so excited,” she said. “I get wet just thinking about it. If you just did that, you could get me to do anything you wanted, anything you could think of.”
But there was the problem — they didn’t want anything from her, now that they’d pumped the last drop of their passion into her. All they really wanted was to shower and dress and go home to their wives, and hope to God the women didn’t pick tonight to feel passionate.
She’d planted the seed, though. She’d given them something to think about. And, when they came around next week, she’d propose some sort of game, some last-to-come contest, with the loser required to give the winner a blow job. And the loser would be a good sport about it, because being a good sport was even more important than being a hundred percent heterosexual, and he’d give in gracefully, and before they knew it they’d both be doing it, and loving it.
What fun.
Sex was wonderful, and the more you did it and the more people you did it with, the better it got. It was readily available, it didn’t cost anything, and it was even good for you. She might have found it impossible to keep it in proportion, and it definitely helped that she had a third obsession.
John Blair Creighton.
She hadn’t realized at first that her fascination with the man who’d strangled her real estate agent, and who seemed to have been rewarded with a multimillion-dollar book contract, was anything more than a desire to go to bed with him. There was, certainly, a healthy (or not) sexual element to the obsession. He was a big, broad-shouldered guy, good-looking but not excessively handsome, and he had a sexual energy she’d have been aware of even if she hadn’t known who he was. She wanted to fuck him — and would, she was sure of it — but there was more to it than that. She was, well, yes, obsessed with the man, and she wasn’t sure why.
But it wasn’t just sexual desire that made her spend hours online, checking out the results of a Google search and downloading everything she could find about him. And sent her to abebooks.com and alibris.com to order copies of all his out-of-print books. And led her to read the books, all of them, one right after the other, to read them cover to cover not just for the stories (which were involving) or the characters (the men convincing, the women a little less so) or the writing (excellent, simple and straightforward, always clear as glass, and with a ring like Waterford). That made reading enjoyable, but it didn’t make it a necessity, something she felt honor-bound to do every night when she wasn’t in bed with somebody.
It couldn’t be because she’d met him. She’d met any number of writers, and the fact of acquaintance was no reason to read their books. She’d not only met Jay McGann, she’d fucked him walleyed, and she was in no great hurry to read anything he’d written.
It had to be because he’d been charged with murder, but that by itself could only take her to the first book. After that, she kept reading because of something in the work itself, and she’d already established it wasn’t the writing or the plot or the characters, so what was left?
The sense that came through of the author. Wasn’t that what made any work of art effective? You got little sidelong glimpses of a soul, and, if it resonated in a certain way with your own, you wanted more.
He was going to be important to her. She knew that much, and, when she thought about it, she had to admit that it was a little scary.
I mean, what if he actually did kill that woman?
twenty-one
What if he’d done it?
He woke up Saturday morning, and it wasn’t until he was standing at the toilet, halfway through an endless pee, that he remembered the glimpse of blue in his sock drawer, the second look, the stunning reality of the turquoise rabbit. But had it happened? Or was it, please God and all the angels, a dream?
He brushed his teeth, showered, dried himself, then looked in the mirror and decided he ought to shave. Wielding the razor, he marveled at his own transparent foolishness. He’d shaved for the first time in years what, fifteen hours ago? And he wasn’t going anywhere today, wouldn’t be seeing anyone, and what was wrong with having a day’s stubble on his face?
Anything to put off opening the sock drawer.