Being Eloise (An Erotic Romance Collection, Books 1-3) (24 page)

"I
said
it’s your turn to return the favor. Alone.”

I got up and, with the end of the flogger over his head, tassels like a wig, pressed his head down until his lips were on his wife’s unshaven pubes. This was one hirsute couple. Physically they still had it—the animalistic—I just needed to remind them. Now compliant, Adam went to town, and Eve, there with her head still off the bed, went from gasping for breath to just gasping. She was turning crimson. I watched Adam’s wildly turning head and thought, surely he knows he needs to concentrate a bit more on what counts. Instead he was snorting and running his tongue haphazardly along every inch of his wife’s vulva until I smacked his ass with the magazine.

"Her clit," I said. "You
have
been there before, right?”

As he complied, I unfurled the magazine and, I will admit now, went back to an article I’d been skimming during the fellatio. I continued reading during a good five minutes of cunnilingus—an act which, I should point out, was
not
on Adam’s wish list. In the magazine there was a travel article on Mendocino and though I’d been in San Francisco for a couple months, I hadn’t traveled outside the city much. I wanted to be there, on that coast, with salt-wet sand between my toes. Driftwood, sunset, the works. Also, there was an article on how to properly floss your teeth and I realized I’d been doing it wrong all these years.

There wasn’t much time left in the session and I needed to speed things up. "Put it back in her mouth," I said, then whipped Adam again when his head reared up. "Did I say stop?"

They went at it in 69 like some strange beast, the fur coat swaying faintly above it all. I let it go like that for another article or two (
Is Gold Really A Fool’s Investment
and
Four Things Every Woman Doesn’t Know She Wants
) until I could hear Eve’s faint little sighs as she grew closer to coming. Sighs, I should mention, that were coming in between her bloated gagging. I could see a sizable pool of saliva there on the wood floor beneath Eve’s head. Adam was just as busy at the other end. I pulled the fur coat off them, revealing a back glistening with sweat. It’s an incredible thing, 69, and to see it like that in front of me, their passions heightened by my presence, well, it was like standing within reach of an engine. Adam and Eve were the only one of my clients that engaged in actual sex and I still couldn’t help but marvel at the strangeness of being there, watching it all, paid to watch it all. It was like stripping two people down past clothing, language, emotion, to the cores of what they wished they could always be: Two ids chasing each other’s pleasure. They were so into each other now that the whole fantasy pretense of me as intruder was hollow. We were all bared here to what we were. And I? I was there not because I had the nerves or stomach for what took place on the second floor. But because I had the fascination and the curiosity. It’s been said, often, that books’ great inimitable achievement is their ability to let you get inside someone else’s head, to glimpse how it feels to live and be alive, the good parts and the bad. But here I found another way in, another view of the dark, surprising wants in all of us—and if you say
not me!
then congratulations: you’ve got one hell of a super-ego. And yes, I know, I’m sounding Freudian, but Freud is as far as I ever got in a psychology course. We work with what we have.

"Adam," I said. "You look like the strong type.”

He either nodded or was drifting off his wife’s clitoris again. I could let it go at this, at the two of them engaged as they were, but I wanted them to remember this for a long time. While any fantasy scene meant there was a certain amount of instructing I needed to do, I also wanted to shape their emotions; I wanted their hearts to pound as they caught each other’s eyes later that day on the way home and smiled to each other.
--Can you believe we…is it possible we…
I wanted them to be utterly, satisfyingly happy. A glee like shoplifting brought up to an exponential power. Maybe that’s what I wanted for myself. I do have a tendency to project. Of course, I wasn’t going to gain those emotions here, on the job.

"Pick her up," I told Adam. "C’mon. Up up up." He turned to look at me, though blindfolded. Maybe dumbfounded. His face and chin were dripping. "The way she is," I added. "With your tongue on her clit."

Adam put his arms under his wife’s hips and lifted them up to him. I could see my instructions take a few seconds to process, for each of them. I took my seat and watched as Adam reached his hands even tighter around his wife and began to lift her off the bed, awkwardly, unused to such weight. Eve’s head was there at his crotch, her face red, her mouth open but for oxygen now, not her husband’s penis, her black blindfold blacker where it was wet. For a moment I wondered if this was a bad idea, if Adam’s back would go out as he almost stood straight attempting this standing 69. I wondered if his wife would plummet to the floor and slip a disc in her neck. But no, it proved a fantastic idea. My second best all week.

After a rather indecorous transition from prone 69 to a standing variety (do not attempt this at home!) there stood Adam, legs shoulder-width apart, Eve’s legs clamped tightly around his head. I couldn’t see it, but I knew his tongue was there at his wife’s clit again. Eve, for her part, was discombobulated a moment longer. I helped her out and gathered her hands and interlocked them behind her husband’s legs, then gently tilted her head back so Adam’s penis, now pressed against her cheek, could once more find a willing mouth.

I tell you, you’ve never heard such moaning and physical exertion. Outside of Wimbledon, anyway. If there were a tenth cloud, they’d be on it. And if the two of them had seemed an intricate machine before, now they were a rocket. Everything about the act made them come alive. You could see the muscles in Adam’s legs become defined where previously I’d thought there was just flab. His stomach naturally sucked in with the effort of keeping his wife aloft and his arms looked like they’d been built to hold a woman this way. And with Eve, there was a gentle curve to her spine I’d never noticed before, and her hair fell almost to the floor beautifully, her nape looking like the nape of a twenty-year-old, hidden all this time from the sun. And I could tell she was being satisfactorily pleasured up above because now she was going at her husband’s penis with full abandon, giving as good as her husband gave, his pelvis rocking into her. No gag reflex now. Eve came, her thighs spasming electrically around her husband’s head, Adam’s cock slipping out of her mouth. She was loud and the color of her skin was the color of her lips and she was the rawest image of a woman in pleasure you’ve ever seen. I was supremely jealous.

I slapped Adam on the ass when I saw him trying to jockey himself back into her mouth. "No," I said. If the last year had taught me anything it was that women, in addition to coming first, should come second and often third. We are made for a trifecta of pleasure.

I stood behind Adam and turned him toward the bed, my flogger pushing down on his soaked back until he’d returned his wife to a prone position on the sheets.

And then I lifted the blindfold from Eve’s eyes and watched those wide pupils narrow and a silent smile cross her face as her eyes met mine, eyes like those in the face of your lover. That is, if we were both lesbian. Which we aren’t. (Apologies to any men reading this. And especially lesbians.) I was struck then, as before, by the openness and daring it took for them to come here, for me to be inserted, so to speak, within their fantasies, for my face to be the first face they saw after reaching an orgasm. And for certain, the pretense of me as cat burglar and Eve as victim was over. For Adam, however—not so much. I wasn’t finished. I nodded to Eve and she crawled out from under her husband and went for her purse and the small box inside.

“Lie on your back,” I ordered Adam.

What Adam didn’t know was that Eve, too, had called me and told me her own fantasy, and it was a doozie.
She
could work here. And after all, fair is fair. A man doesn’t get to treat his wife’s throat like a game vagina for nothing. There’s a price for that kind of abuse, even if it’s been allowed.

“Now,” I said. “The first thing we need is for Adam to go soft. Adam?” I said, opening the magazine. “
Is investing in gold a fool’s errand?
” By the time I’d read the second column, his erection was nodding off. I smiled at Eve and her fingers opened the box.

Before I can finish telling you about that session with Adam and Eve in the newly planted garden of Eloise, there’s some catching-up to do. If you’ve followed me here after reading
Tongue Tied
, then you know that my son and I headed west by bus to San Francisco. But how I found myself with Adam and Eve and in the employ of the second floor is another story. And how I got to where I am now, in writing this, is a whole year’s worth of stories.

And so: my son and I crashed for nearly a month at the house, or rather floor, of a friend of mine from high school. And by
floor
, I mean something larger than what you’re envisioning. Let’s call my friend
Petunia Alabaster
simply because it’s an anagram of her real name, phonetically. Cryptography fans—go at it. And yes, I worked out dozens of anagrams—a whole evening’s effort stalling the continuation of my misadventures. And why stall writing book 2? Because this is hard, even under the pseudonym of Eloise Spanks (not an anagram, so don’t bother). Try putting down your own life if you don’t believe me. You’ll either find that writing honestly about yourself and your actions shows a) how little living is being done, b) how you’re burning the candle at both ends (and the person below you is grimacing with each drop), or c) you’ll feel compelled to set your life on a different course because you fall into either a) or b). Which is to say that clear eyes, or changing one’s ways, are qualities few of us are good at cultivating. It’s hard to change. It’s hard to own up to your own mistakes instead of just letting the day fold into the next and let those mistakes be eroded by a hundred similar sweeps of night’s broom.

Now, I’d only seen Petunia a few times since high school, and the last time was at least fifteen years ago. I grew up in a Republican town and she was one of the only friends I had who was not only political, but a Democrat. And as ridiculous as it sounds, her being a Democrat, a registered one at that, made her seem as exotic as an exchange student with another language or another religion. At least it seemed that way to me then, in that desultory little town.

While I still have another thirty-some years of working ahead of me before retirement can come, Petunia no longer has to work. She’d been an early hire in the rise of a social media outfit you likely fiddle away your spare minutes with, daily. (Think how we used to spend that time reading, or talking on the phone, or diddling ourselves—and yes, I know that sounds like dildo-ing, which wouldn’t be all that far off.) Petunia was one of the oldest among the younger set at that company, but now she was young-retired after cashing out her stocks as soon as she could.

She picked me and my son up at the bus terminal and there we exchanged the
you’ve hardly changed!
lies. Petunia had gone soft. Everywhere. There were two Petunias where a body had once only held one. She had the worst trait of all, too: a smile. A smile on a well-rounded figure just about kills me. Had I been jealous of her in high school? I couldn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember. We hadn’t been all that close, though Petunia acted as though we had been.

"My daughter’s about your age. A little older," she said to my son, who sat there in the back seat of Petunia’s Volvo. She was still a Democrat, I figured. Though it was now an SUV Volvo instead of the ratty red one she’d had in high school.

My son nodded and looked out the window. San Francisco was the largest city he’d ever been to and I looked at the sight which he must be imagining: the skyscrapers, the endless white blocks of city, the bridges. I say
imagining
because it was night and foggy and even
I
was a little uncomfortable with the speeds Petunia took her Volvo off the freeway and down into the mute blocks of the city, the buildings quivering as though cut whole from the fabric of fog.

At her building, after the elevator had carried us upward and opened its doors onto her penthouse floor, there came the sudden sound of classical music. Petunia had her own elevator entrance and this fact impressed both myself and my son equally. We glanced at each other with arched eyebrows. I could see through a large kitchen to a group of older men and women playing cellos and violins and a woman with a flute who was turning another player’s sheet music.

"Ugh," Petunia said. "They’re still here.” She said it loudly, but with no embarrassment. She put an arm out to block my exit from the elevator, then inserted her key into the elevator’s panel and hit the button for the floor below hers.

"I’ll take you to your floor first."

"
Our
floor?" I asked.

"I bought both," Petunia said. "Had the idea to run a startup with a one floor step-down commute. But," she said, as the elevator dropped us down, "it turns out I rather like not running anything."

When the elevator doors opened a second time it was to a much different scene. We rolled out into a carpeted open loft that smelled pungently of glue, paint, and the toxic respiration of new dark carpet. When Petunia turned on a row of bright overhead lights, they tinkled like ice cubes dropped in water. Rows of cubicles emerged in the awakening, blinking lights, most of the cubicles half-assembled.

"This way," Petunia said, and walked us around the elevator column to a much different view. Here lay a series of floor to ceiling rooms, offices at first glance, until I noticed that each was furnished with a futon, dresser and a mirror.

"Had these folks in Lithuania all set to go. Was going to house them up here for a few months while they built
the platform
(which she said with air quotes), but there’s that whole green card thing.”