Authors: Joan Elizabeth Lloyd
“My Lord,” Fran whispered, “that's you.” She continued to turn pages. There were photos of Carla with various toys, with parts of men's anatomy in every possible orifice. One had her sitting on a man's face, another of her straddling a man's loins, obviously pleasuring herself with his cock. Fran kept turning the pages. There were a few photos of two women pleasuring each other, and several of Carla with two or three men. The last photo in the book was of Carla lying on a large white-fur-covered bed, with her hand between her legs, an expression of pure joy on her face.
Fran looked at Carla then at the photo in front of her. “They are all you.”
“Yes, and that's sort of my menu. My customers, I prefer to call them my friends, can look through the album and select what they want without ever telling me directly what their desires are. It's often difficult for a cultured man to say that he wants to fuck my ass, or have me smack him with a Ping-Pong paddle. I'll play Maid Marion or a virginal bride. They can rape me, or tie me up. I've been to parties where the object was to make it with as many men as possible, and I've been on a cruise during which I belonged to a man who lent me out to his friends.”
“Have you done everything that's in these pictures?”
“Just about.” Carla sipped her wine, while Fran digested everything. “Listen, this must be a bit much for you all at once. Why don't you take some time to think about everything while I make a pit stop?”
Carla disappeared and Fran lay her head back against the sofa cushions. It was mind-boggling. She had always thought that because she wrote the kind of stories she did, she knew a lot about sex. She was just a baby. This woman was not only varied in her activities, she was comfortable with all of it. Fran thought over the stories she had written, including the sexual encounters in
The Love Flower
. All were heterosexual. Very steamy, with the lovers making love in every conceivable position and location, but they were all so conventional. These photos created some of the most erotic images in her head. She closed her eyes. Nicki could write so many storiesâ¦
But could she write them without first-hand knowledge? Could she write about a woman in bondage without having been tied up? How about a woman controlling a man or being controlled? She sighed. Of course she could, but she had to admit that she was titillated more than as a writer. She was just plain curious. Nicki would have done all these things. Nicki, world traveler, experienced with princes and maharajas. So far Nicki was all a figment of Fran's imagination. But what ifâ¦
She heard the whisper of Carla's footsteps in the deep pile carpet and opened her eyes.
“I thought you were asleep. I assumed that the jet lag had gotten to you.”
“No. I was just thinking about me and about Nicki.” She paused and sighed.
“And⦔
“Andâ¦wellâ¦I was thinking that Nicki has probably done many of the things you illustrate in your album. And if I want to be like Nicki, maybe I have to experience some of the things that Nicki has. Maybe I have to be comfortable inside of Nicki's skin.”
“I gather that you've led a pretty sheltered life,” Carla said. “This is sort of like moving from a life of TV dinners to lobster and champagne.”
“I guess you're right. It's like moving from Omaha to New York. There's no one here I know, so if anything really embarrassing happens I can crawl back home with no one the wiser.”
Carla and Fran looked at each other for a few moments. Then Carla said, “If that's what you want, I can certainly introduce you to the world of off-center sex. Or rather I have friends who would be only too happy to.”
Fran snapped back to reality. She sat up straight, looked down at herself and shook her head.
“Don't do that,” Carla said quickly. “I can see the wheels turning. You're thinking, âI can't. I'm not beautiful enough.' Bullshit, if you'll pardon me for being blunt. You can be whatever you want to be.”
“Oh please,” Fran said, now feeling defeated. “I'm five foot nothing and flat-chested. I've always wanted to be tall and built. But I'm not. You can't make a silk purse⦔
“Out of a sow's ear,” Carla finished for her. “But I'm not trying to make silk purses and you are certainly not a sow's ear. I have several friends who, although they enjoy my body, wish I were petite.” Carla stood up. “Meâpetite? Never. Not a chance. But you⦔
“Hmm. I must admit that I like the term petite better than short.”
“Men would want to cherish you. Or be dominated by you. Yes. Certainly. Imagine a man who's always wanted to feel powerless. Picture his delight when he's rendered powerless by someone who's as tiny as you are.” She giggled. “How delightfully wicked.”
“Do you really think so?” Fran hesitated. “Not the domination part. I don't know about that. But do you think a man would really want a tiny busted woman like me?”
“No sweat. I would like to have your hair redone. And you need help with your makeup. And your choice of clothes is all wrong for someone of your size.” She paused. “You know, I've always wanted to be able to wear five-inch heels. I've seen them in the foot fetish magazines. But with most men, I like to be shorter than they are and I'm already almost five-five. But you could pull it off so well.”
Fran cupped her almost nonexistent breasts. “What about these?”
“You're obsessing about your bosom, but I guess I can understand. Men think big breasts are great. We'll get you a Wonderbra and create some cleavage. But once a man's hooked, the size of the fisherwoman really doesn't matter. It's her talent with the bait that got him and her skill with her equipment that will please him.”
Fran laughed. “You really think I can pull this off, don't you. Not just pretend to be Nicki but actually lead her life, men and all.”
“I think you're curious about good sex and that you've had an itch for years that never got scratched. I think that you're intrigued and titillated and yes, I think you want to do this. But I also want to give you some time to digest. We don't have much time since the dinner is only three weeks away.” Carla looked at the small gold watch she wore. “It's almost time for Eileen to pick you up. Have dinner with her and get settled in the apartment. I've got kid duty tomorrow. Let's see, two to soccer practice, one to the mall, then later one to a friend's house and one home for several hours then to the mall as well. Phew.”
“It sounds exhausting.”
“It is, but great. They are such good kids that I would bust my butt for them. I'll call you sometime late tomorrow and we'll figure out next week.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rang. As Carla rose, Fran said, “Eileen mentioned that your brownstone has some unique things about it. Beside you and your albumâ¦well I was just curious about what else is here.”
As Carla left, she said, over her shoulder, “Soon I promise I'll play show and tell.”
F
ran enjoyed dinner with Eileen tremendously. It was as though the two women had been friends for years. She felt as if she knew Eileen's husband Don, her two daughters, her friends, her business and in many ways Fran felt she had missed a lot. She hadn't meant to wall herself off from people, but now she realized that she had. She worked, she wrote, she talked to her mother and sister, but in reality, she had few friends. Oh, she went to a movie or to dinner occasionally with someone she recently met, but it never seemed to blossom into anything more. With Eileen, she felt a kinship that went deeper than anything she had felt in years. And, she thought, she felt that way with Carla, although they had only met that day.
Across the small table, Eileen was sipping her coffee. “What did you think of Carla? And it's really all right to be honest. If you didn't like her or herâ¦shall we say, lifestyle, we can try to put everything together ourselves. She really is Nicki in some ways and that's why I thought of her. But I don't want you to feel coerced in any way.”
Fran smiled. “I like Carla a lot. It's like some kind of immediate bond.”
“I feel a âbut' at the end of that sentence. You don't approve of her?”
“There really was no âbut' on that sentence, except for me and what I want to do. And what I
can
do.”
“What did she propose?”
“She didn't suggest, I did and she agreed. She thinks I can become some kind of sexual sophisticate, like Nicki is. A woman of the world. I thought when I got off the plane that I was just going to learn how to talk a good game. But she said that I could actually do it.”
“I thought she might. From our phone conversations I thought you wouldn't be too put off. But it's not a necessary thing. However, it might just be good for you.”
“That's pretty much what Carla said. And I will admit I'm curious and more than a little aroused by the prospect. But I'm still a little woman who grew up in a farming community. This is a bit much for me.”
“Your choice, babe,” Eileen said. “Definitely your choice.” She signaled for the check. “And only you know what you want to do. So let's get out of here and I'll show you the apartment. It's only a block from here. Then I'll get home to my family and you can do some serious thinking.”
Toting Fran's suitcases and backpack, the two women walked through the cold March wind to a multistoried building on Fifty-second between First and Second avenues. Eileen showed her how to open the heavy front door and introduced her to the man on the night security desk. They took the elevator to the eighteenth floor and Eileen used a key to open the door to 18C. She handed the key to Fran, then walked into the tiled entranceway and flipped on the light. Fran could only gasp.
The hallway opened into a large living room warmly decorated in shades of soft blues and greens, with a nubby tan carpet and two large sofas upholstered in soft oatmeal fabric. Eileen flipped on another light and Fran stared at the bronze statue that was now carefully lit with a wall of beige drapes as a backdrop. The lifesize statue was of a man, and what a man he was. He was dressed only in a pair of jeans, standing wiping his face as if after some great exertion. His upper body was absolutely gorgeous, not in the Greek god mold, but very, very human. Fran thought of the Coke commercial that had been so popular a while before. A construction worker taking a break from his sidewalk smashing to have a drink, and all the women in the surrounding offices taking time to look at him. God, he was a sexy man and it was almost as though the artist had taken him and dipped him in bronze. Although there was nothing indecent about the statue at all, Fran's body tingled.
“AnneMarie is really quite famous for her work,” Eileen said. “Actually that's why she and her husband are in Europe. She's been commissioned to create a statue for the front of some museum in Amsterdam. Her work isn't all this erotic. Most is just of people, going about their jobs. This one is actually of her husband and it's only for private consumption.”
“AnneMarie. You mean AnneMarie Devlin? I'm borrowing an apartment from AnneMarie Devlin? I saw a big article about her in my Sunday paper. She's world famous.” She reached down and picked up the backpack she had just set down.
“She's a peach and a really nice woman and she's an old and dear friend. Actually we went to high school together, and, if the truth be known, I introduced her to Barry.” She pointed to the statue. “AnneMarie and I were both at NYU and we had remained good friends despite AnneMarie's art major and my major in English Lit. I had just met Don, and I sort of gave Barry to AnneMarie. I called it a double date but I invited both guys. Tacky of me, but it worked.” She chuckled. “Actually we each got the best of that deal. We each married the man and have been happy for almost ten years.”
“Phew,” Fran said, now standing with her backpack in her hand. “What if I break something? I expected a small apartment, not a museum.”
“Come on. Let me show you the rest.” Eileen led Fran to the master bedroom, a much more normal room all done in country motifs with blue and white print covering one chair and the bedclothes. The bathroom was all done in ducks. Towels, bath mats, soap, everything was soft blue with dozens of little yellow ducks.
“This is certainly different from the living room.”
“About as different as the two sides of AnneMarie. The front room, the dining room and the guest bath are for show. This end of the apartment is for AnneMarie and Barry. Come with me.” Eileen led Fran further down a hallway and opened another door. “This is the guest room. Don and I stayed here for a week while I was having my apartment painted. It's comfortable and shouldn't be too intimidating.” She turned on the light.
The room was tastefully simple. It was done in shades of brown, from the lightest eggshell to the deep chocolate of the bed covers. The dresser and bed frame were light ash, as was the exposed frame of the love seat that filled one corner. Eileen pulled open a drawer. “These are all empty, as is the closet. Feel free to use whatever you want. I stopped by yesterday afternoon and made sure you were well stocked. There's soap and toothpaste in the bathroom, as well as some bath goodies and such. Oh, and wait till you see the tub.” She pulled Fran toward the bathroom door and again turned on the light.
“Good Lord, it's big enough for a party,” Fran said.
“AnneMarie had a small maid's room ripped out and combined with the existing bath to create this. I've spent many happy hours in that tub.” The tub was black, with what Fran assumed were air and water jets in the sides. There was an elaborate panel of controls on the wall at one side. The shower was glass enclosed and the double sink and toilet were also black. The tile, which covered the lower half of the walls, was white and the upper half was wallpapered in a slick-surfaced paper patterned in white, red and black. There were towels everywhere, white and thick. It should be almost sterile, but instead it looked like something out of an erotic story. She could see a couple playing some very kinky games in this room. She thought about the laptop in her backpack. What a story she could write about this room.
“Yes,” Eileen said, “Don and I played in here several times. We were actually sorry to leave.”
Fran looked at her friend and watched her face flush. “You're blushing.”
“Not blushing actually. It's just that a few of those memories are very special. I think I'll have to remind Don about that week when I get home later.”
Suddenly content, Fran walked back into the bedroom and dropped onto the love seat. “Listen, I've kept you too long already. You go home. I'll be fine.” And she knew now that she would, whatever she decided to do.
“You're not intimidated by the apartment anymore?”
She grinned. “I think I could get used to this place.” She would stay in only this room and be really careful of everything. She also sensed that the bathroom had brought back memories that Eileen wanted to share with her husband. “Go home.”
“There's a kitchen at the other side of the entranceway and I put a few munchables in the fridge. The cupboards are well stocked and please just use anything you want. We can restock together before you leave. The phone's got unlimited local service so you can use it whenever you like. Actually it's Barry's modem and fax line so there is no danger of any of their calls coming in on it. They have a different number for themselves and they've got a service monitoring that one so all those phones are unplugged.” Eileen pointed to the small black box on the bed table. “I even lent you an answering machine. You can put in whatever message you like. Right now it just says the phone number and, âI can't come to the phone so leave a message,' in my voice.”
Fran stood up and wrapped her arms around Eileen. “It seems you've thought of everything. You're a wonderful friend,” she said. “And I suspect that this is going to be one hell of a few weeks.”
Eileen kissed her on her cheek. “You and Nicki are going to have quite a time.” Then she left.
Fran retrieved her suitcases from the front hallway, wandered into the living room and gazed at the still-lit statue. He's the sexiest thing I've seen in a long time, she thought. She couldn't resist the temptation to stand beside the lifesize man and touch his hairless chest. The bronze was cool to the touch, but almost felt alive. She placed her hand flat against his pectoral muscles, so carefully defined by the artist, and caressed him. It must be Carla and all this, she thought as she felt herself getting excited.
As she usually did when she was sexually aroused, she wanted to write. She turned off all the lights and retired to the guest bedroom. She quickly plugged in and opened her laptop and placed it on the bed. As it booted up, she kicked off her shoes, pulled off her jeans and settled cross-legged. She thought about her story and then, when the word processing program was ready, she began to type furiously.
Terry stood in the museum and stared at the statue.
Apollo
, the sign said and he was, in fact, a Greek god. Although carved from a block of cold marble, his body looked warm, almost alive. His arms were strong and beautifully muscled, his legs were long, an athlete's legs. His groin was covered by a leaf, but she knew that he was well endowed.
She walked around to his back and gazed at his buttocks and the muscle definition in his back and shoulders. Slowly, she circled the statue, eyes gazing where her fingers itched to touch. It was as if she knew that, had he been alive, they would be together forever.
The statue was illuminated by a shaft of sunlight that filtered through a dusty window and Terry settled herself on a bench and watched the changing light alter and reform the marble. It was late summer and it was already early evening by the time the light left her god. Finally she sighed, rose and, before the long ride home, stepped into the ladies' room.
When she came out the museum was silent. She thought she could make out a single set of footsteps, a measured, leisurely pace. She looked at her watch and understood. It was past closing time. She looked around and noticed that the lights had been dimmed. How would her god look in this soft glow? She walked back to the gallery and gazed at the statue. The low light made him seem all the more real. His skin glowed like real skin. His eyes were warm and invited her to move closer.
Incapable of resisting the attraction of his eyes, she walked to the pedestal and touched the statue's calf. It was warm beneath her fingers. How was that? It might appear warm, but it was, after all, just stone.
“Not just stone, Lovely,” a voice said.
Thinking she had been caught touching a valuable work of art she whirled, an apology leaping to her lips. “I'm so sorry. I just⦔ But the gallery was empty.
Okay, she thought. I'm losing it. Let me get home. I'm sure I can find someone to let me out of here.
“Don't go yet, Lovely,” the voice said again.
“What's going on?” she asked, her voice quavering. “Is this some sort of bad acoustical joke?”
“No,” the voice said again. “It's just my time now. Look up.”
Terry tipped her chin and looked at the statue's face. The eyes were looking at her and appeared almost alive. The mouth didn't move, yet the statue said, “Step on my pedestal and kiss my lips.”
“You're kidding,” she said aloud. “I'll bet you guards have a lot of fun with this. It's like one of those large rooms where you can whisper in one place and, although no one in between can hear, the voice is clear as a bell somewhere across the room.”
“It's not a joke or a trick,” the voice said. “Please. Do it for me, for us.”
Again Terry's eyes took in the entire room, every shadowed corner, everywhere where someone could hide and trick her. There was no loudspeaker for an audio system, no one lurking with camera in hand, waiting to snap an embarrassing photo. Nothing but her and Apollo.
“Please,” the voice whispered.
Hell, she said to herself. So I look like a fool. She stepped onto the pedestal and touched her lips to the lips of the statue. Funny, she thought, they feel like warm flesh. Then there were arms around her. His arms. How was this possible? But she didn't care. Standing on the pedestal, she deepened the kiss and his mouth opened. A hand grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. His mouth devoured her throat, kissing and licking at the pulse that pounded in her neck. “Oh God,” she moaned.
She felt herself lifted and carried down off the raised block, toward a bench at the side of the gallery. Hands quickly pulled off her blouse and bra and a mouth fastened onto her already tightly erect nipple. His mouth suckled and pulled at her. She reached around and grasped his well-developed shoulders, holding him against her. Her hands stroked his back, then the fronts of his thighs.
He was moving, always moving. His mouth was on her neck, her breast, her belly, her palm. His hands were in her hair, on her ribs, on her hips. He pulled off the rest of her clothes, spread her legs and knelt on the floor beside the bench, his mouth finding her most intimate places. His tongue lashed and licked, driving her wild. Never had she been so hot so fast. Two fingers were inside of her and his mouth pulled gently on her clit. When a third finger joined the first two and filled her, she came, hard and hot. She screamed out as the waves of orgasm crashed over and over her.
When she had caught her breath, she opened her eyes. It was too dim to see the man before her, but it was certainly no statue and the fig leaf was gone. Then his hard cock touched her pussy lips and slowly, so slowly slipped inside her soaked, slippery channel. The contrast between their previous wild movements and this slow filling of her passage drove Terry up again. Then, without a word, he slammed into her, pulled out and slammed again. The passion, the heat, the frantic movements. She came again, and a moment later he groaned and came inside of her.
She must have passed out for a few moments. When she awoke, she was still lying on the bench, naked. The statue was back on its pedestal, white marble gleaming in the dim light.
Not knowing what had really happened, she slowly picked up her clothes. As she pulled on her panties, the wetness between her legs was unmistakable and her bra covered the still-erect nipples. When she was fully dressed, she gazed at the statue, then walked over and touched Apollo's leg. “Come another evening,” the voice whispered. “Come every evening.”
Knowing she would be back, she left the gallery to look for someone to let her out of the museum.