“Get on your back on the bed, Peter, and hold on to your ankles.”
I love the sound of that. Love the calm excitement with which he obeys. He doesn’t ask why he’s on his back when he should be bent over. He does what I tell him.
I spread lube over my mock-cock, place my finger and thumb around the base of Peter’s erection and push the strap-on hard into his anus.
“Keep your hands around your ankles, Peter.” Then I make the noise he’s been waiting for: in my best rodeo tones I shout, “YEEHAW,” and we’re off.
I ride him hard enough to make him buck on the bed. I keep his cock in my hand like a joystick or perhaps a saddle horn, squeezing it as I pound his ass. The harder I push into him, the deeper the dildo rises into me. When I’m close, I slap his hands away from his ankles, lift his feet up over my shoulders and fuck for depth. The bed is bouncing now.
“Jack off, Peter. Jack off hard.”
His hand moves eagerly on his cock. I am so close that I’m groaning as I grind into him. The heat of his sperm splashing onto my belly pushes me over and I growl my come at him.
I pull out of Peter’s poor abused asshole and collapse on top of him. I feel strong and whole and loved.
Peter holds me gently and whispers, “Welcome back, Helen.”
It turns out that the bed is not too narrow if we lie like spoons. As I fall asleep, I remember that I’m still wearing the strap-on but I’m too tired to move.
We are both sore the next morning but that doesn’t stop us grinning at one another.
“Do you think they heard us?”
“Your parents’ bedroom is still next door, isn’t it, Helen?”
We both laugh.
At breakfast I wait for my mother to say something. She discusses the weather and asks if we really have to leave straight after breakfast but makes no mention of our exploits. As we say our goodbyes, Mother hugs Peter and says something to him. I miss the exchange because I have a crying baby in my arms at the time.
When I’ve driven as far as the freeway, I ask Peter what my mother said.
“She told me you were lucky to have me.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that you would always have me and that I would always give thanks for that.”
I try to imagine the expression on my mother’s face when she heard that. I decide that it would probably be one of approval. Thank God for Peter, I think to myself. Then I start to look for the next rest stop. I want a quiet place where we can do a bit more thanksgiving.
Screen Play
A. F. Waddell
In a dimly lit room I stood at the bottom of a winding staircase; the sound of wind chimes played from an upstairs porch on a hot night. I wore a white blouse, tight red skirt and spiked high heels. I watched the man walk towards my front pane-glass double doors. His brown hair was slicked back; his cheekbones were prominent; his long thin nose slightly flared over his moustache. He jiggled my door handle; the door was locked. As I watched him he searched the ground for something. Picking up a large stone, he used it to break my glass door pane; he reached inside and turned the lock. He threw open the door and approached me, holding and kissing me and unbuttoning my blouse. His hand rubbed my cunt through my silk skirt and panties.
“Maybe…” I whispered.
He lowered me to the floor. He pushed up my skirt and pulled down my white panties, slipping them over my thighs, knees and calves, and over my strapped, spiked heels. I breathlessly shook.
I awoke moaning in bed from another orgasmic dream; I’d mentally recreated a scene from the film Body Heat. I was Matty Walker: my perfect, fit-in-a-champagne-glass breasts throbbing in my perfect white blouse, my hungry cunt throbbing in my perfect red skirt. I recalled the first time I’d seen the film in the early eighties. In a cold, empty house I’d sat huddled under a blanket. I was emotionally and physically transported to the lush, warm, wet environs of South Florida – was it my imagination or did steam visibly rise from grass and earth, from Matty and Ned, as they fucked in the boathouse? I thought of my vibrator nestled in the nightstand drawer. I deferred. It was getting late. I got up, dressed in a robe, and went to the kitchen for coffee. I took a cup of Colombian into my office and checked my schedule for the day. I’d get off easy today, only one appointment, later in the day.
Driving southwest through the hills in my Jeep was relaxing, a perk before hitting the freeway. To the sound of Santana’s “Samba Pa Ti” I floated through green-hilled space. Highway 120 was winding. With my tendency to speed I had to be careful, lest I totally lose it on a curve. The hitchhiker stood on the west side of the highway. He wore a blue flannel shirt and jeans. His long dark hair was tied in a ponytail. What would he be like? I wondered. A snake-hipped stud with knowledge of the Kama Sutra and tantric sex? A masseur and sex magician? A lover who’d spend hours discovering and lingering on a woman’s sensitive spots? Did he smell of recently showered male and exotic fragrance, his hair of coconut shampoo? I imagined the male bouquet drifting from his skin and through my nostrils, into the limbic system of my brain. Get a grip, girl. He’s probably a serial killer.
Dr Wellman’s office was located on Citrus Avenue between Back, Neck and Shoulder Pain, and the Anti-Aging Clinic. I walked the maze between offices and entered the lobby at 3.50 p.m. The receptionist, Melanie, was pretty, perky and tan.
“Hi! Have a seat, Ms Waites. He’ll be right with you.”
I sat on a cream-coloured leather sofa. The decor reminded me of a Woody Allen film set, with its calming vibes of neutral shades: white, off-white, eggshell, oatmeal, beige, mushroom and sand. At 3.59 I walked into the office and took a seat opposite Barry. We sat in comfortable overstuffed chairs.
“How’ve you been, Anna?”
“Busy.”
“Anna, are you taking care of yourself? Exercising? Eating right? Socially interacting?”
“Yes, yes. Who are you, my mother?”
Barry smiled. “How’s work going?”
“I’m adapting my novel into a screenplay, remember?”
“That’s right. That’s wonderful, your novel about the female independent filmmaker?”
“Yes, that’s right! But I wonder if people will pay to see yet another inside-the-industry satire. No action figures or computer games will result. Industry accountants will likely be unenthusiastic.”
“Do the work, Anna. You must complete the work in order to get to the next work.”
“Yes .”
“Sleeping well? Dreaming?”
“I dreamed of Matty again. That I was Matty.”
“Why do you suppose you dream of being a femme fatale?”
“I suppose I’m attracted to the power. The sexuality.”
“Yes?” Barry rested his chin on his intertwined hands and leaned slightly forward; the furrow between his brows deepened.
“Dr Wellman, do you realize that Matty’s character is bad, and isn’t punished for it? Quite unusual for a story, for a film. Oh. And don’t forget Bridget in The Last Seduction. Another exception to the rule.”
“Anna… we don’t use the ‘b’ word in this office.”
I smiled. “Sorry! And this morning I fantasized about picking up a hitchhiker.”
“Yes…?”
“Spontaneous sex with a complete stranger would be hot.”
“Well, yes, but a distinction must be made between fantasy and reality. Many fantasies are meant to remain unrealized. Violating prohibition is however a strong basis for eroticism.”
I had images of forbidden fruit. Dates. Smooth and rich on the tongue. High carb. Sugary. Dangerous.
I took Citrus Ave to I-5. As I drove north through green foothills, the air quality improved; dusk gave fantastical quality to the hills and lights. Pockets of housing development imposed their squares and rectangles backing out, pushing between the natural curves of the foothills, boxes juxtaposing green jutting breasts. Driving east towards Shadow Valley, I looked forward to getting home, putting on a robe and puttering around the house. I wondered when my muse might visit and send me scurrying to my notebook or word processor. At home I reclined on the sofa and thumbed a magazine. Goddess targeted a female professional demographic. I skimmed the food section and made a mental note on the salmon and spinach diet. I skimmed the health section and noted the latest miracle supplement. I skipped ahead to Indulgences. Blurbed were spas, vacation getaways, and specialty services: Retreat caters to your special needs. Nestled in the natural environment of the Golden Haze foothills, our facility offers the utmost in comfort, privacy and natural beauty. Our select, discreet staff is here to indulge you. For more, visit our web presence at retreat.com. I went into my office, signed online and accessed the site. The design was simple, understated, clean. Shades of light blue, cream and black were accented by soft-focus photos of foothills, cabins, interior design and bodies under the hands of masseur and masseuse. I accessed the reservations page. A link provided a request form. Let us assist you in designing your experience. Interesting, I thought.