Bitten: Dark Erotic Stories (9 page)

“Did they all have their legs open?” I asked.

Don didn’t seem to understand.

“The women in that book. I thought maybe some of them were shy and only let him get a glimpse.”

We locked eyes for a moment. And then he did understand.

“Yes, I think there was one picture like that.”

Click.

“Open your legs now, honey,” he said gently. “We only have twenty-four shots on the roll.”

The words slid deep into my belly, insistent as any cock. But when I started to spread my legs, my hips resisted, like rusty hinges.
Sit like a lady. Na, na, I can see your underwear.
Every childhood lesson about my body was tossed away in that first cool rush of air.

Click.

“A little wider.”

I inched my knees to the edges of the chair. As if in sympathy, my mouth opened in a sigh.

Don fumbled with the tripod and moved in closer, crouching.

“Tilt up a bit.”

Click.

A girlfriend in high school once told me to pretend the camera was my boyfriend. Look straight into the lens and whisper to yourself:
I love you, Mr. Camera.
Ashley was right, those pictures came out prettier. But what could a pussy do to be fetching? Pick up a dollar bill?

“Were any of those ladies … ” I cleared my throat. “Were any of the ladies in the book touching themselves?”

I knew the answer before he said it.

“Yes, baby. Yes, they were.”

I had to do it then, of course, had to slide my hand down and put a tentative finger on my clit, plump as a ripe berry. My thighs jerked open wider, quivering.

Click.

I began to strum.

Click.

Then do things I never did when I was alone. Rubbing my lips together, then pulling them wide. Nipping my clit between two fingers when I pushed them together again.

Click.

“You’re nice and swollen now. Try to push your lips out more. So I can see the hole.” Don’s voice sounded hazy, as if he were calling to me from behind his office door.

I pushed.

“More. That’s a good girl.”

My flesh clicked, like the sound of a shutter closing.

“Beautiful.”

A gush of wetness trickled down my slit onto the velvet.

“Oh,” I cried involuntarily. “I’ve made a mess.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Don snapped. Then more kindly, “Show yourself to me. Show me how beautiful you are.”

I pushed wider, my muscles aching sweetly with the strain. I wanted to show him. Not just him, but old Uncle Jacques, and a thousand unknown eyes. Then I felt it, down there between my legs, pulsing, as if the very air had taken on substance. It was so real I thought it was Don, but he was still kneeling back at the tripod, hands on his camera. My finger found my clit again, jerking faster until I was practically clawing myself and sobbing with pleasure.

“Come for me, baby,” Don crooned. “I’ll catch it for you and keep it right here.”

A flurry of clicks, then the long, lazy purr of film rewinding.

For once he kept his promise.

Afterward, he came over and ran his fingers over the velvet beneath me. “You’ve made quite a puddle, haven’t you?”

“Sorry about that.”

He smiled and kissed my forehead. “Silly girl. You were terrific. May I make love to you now?” His tone was proper, almost Victorian, but there was no mistaking the hard-on in his jeans.

And so he took me there on the chair, pushing my knees up to my shoulders, eyes fixed at the place where our bodies joined and parted, using me the way a man uses a picture, for his pleasure alone.

* * *

We’d been back in the city a month when Don handed me a package wrapped in pink paper with a cream satin bow. It was a photo album of fine leather.

I knew the story, but was curious to see how it would unfold.

I wouldn’t exactly call myself “beautiful” down there. But I did see things I’d never noticed in a few furtive glimpses of myself in a hand mirror. How the cowl of my clitoris veered to the left. How the inner lips flared out in petals, one slightly thicker. Each page revealed ever deeper layers, another smooth inner mouth and beyond, the rugged muscles of my vagina. Watching myself change and swell brought it all back—the vegetal smell of lake water, the softness of the velvet on my bare skin. I felt my cheeks flush. Such a naughty girl I was, turned on by pictures of my own pussy. Then I heard a click. I looked up, surprise on my face. Don took a picture of that, too.

* * *

A year later, I ran into Meg at the gallery where I’d taken a job after Don and I broke up. I would have left it at hellos, but she insisted we go for drinks. She told me Don had come by himself to the lake that summer and that he seemed sad. Somehow that news didn’t make me feel as good as I thought it would.

On the third drink, she got to the confession. I was the only person in the world she could tell. At the lake, she and Trevor had an awful fight and she ran to Don for sympathy. They got roaring drunk and then she let him—well, actually, asked him—to take her picture. They didn’t screw. Just pictures.

“You know,” she said, “like that book he told us about.”

“The cunt book? That was just some story Don made up.”

“No, I saw it. That old uncle must have finally died.”

“Were there pictures of lots of different women?”

She shrugged. “It just looked like a bunch of pussies. I was pretty drunk.”

“Faces, too?”

Meg peered into my face. For a moment I was sure she knew, but then she shook her head.

Relief made me generous. After another martini, I admitted I’d done it, too, and Meg seemed glad not to be alone. We even joked about starting a club, Uncle Jacques’ Crazy Cunts, membership always open.

We both left the bar happy. For the first time in months, I felt good about that sorry little dream of my time with Don.

I liked being part of a legacy.

THE UNFAMILIAR

Allison Lawless

W
HEN SHE WAS TWENTY-TWO,
Mariah learned the danger of reading aloud from books she found lying around her aunt’s study. She didn’t realize she was doing a summoning chant until it was too late.

After her boyfriend Jason dumped her the week before college graduation, Mariah wanted to hole up somewhere and figure out what to do with the rest of her life. She now had a four-year degree in journalism, a big student loan to repay, and no job applications out yet. Jason’s defection had staggered her so much that all her plans had fallen to pieces.

Her aunt’s house on the lake seemed like the perfect hideout. Far from everybody who might ask painful questions, close to a place she could swim every morning, and living with her aunt, which was about as close to living alone as Mariah wanted to get. Her aunt never asked questions and hardly ever talked.

Mostly Aunt Helen spent her time in her study with the door closed, talking on the phone—at least, that was what Mariah assumed at first.

To test this theory, Mariah lifted the hall phone off its cradle while Aunt Helen was talking in her study.

Dial tone.

Then there were those moments when other noises came from the study. Occasionally other voices. Aunt Helen always came out alone, though, and when Mariah peeked into the room afterward, there was never anyone else there.

So, okay, maybe Aunt Helen was crazy. So she talked to herself, sometimes in other voices. She was still the perfect companion for someone who wanted to brood.

“I’m going to meet with the gals tonight,” Helen said on Thursday after Mariah had lived with her a week. Helen gave Mariah a strange look, sort of a pleading-but-don’t-notice-me look.

After a week of living with Aunt Helen’s silences in her presence and conversations when Mariah wasn’t around, Mariah had grown adept at interpreting Aunt Helen’s looks, but this one baffled her. She thought it through, decided Aunt Helen was afraid Mariah would ask to go with her. Mariah said, “I’ll be fine here alone, if that’s all right.”

Aunt Helen smiled. So Mariah had guessed right. Whoever these gals were, Aunt Helen didn’t want to introduce Mariah to them.

“I won’t be home until after midnight,” Aunt Helen said.

“Go,” said Mariah. “Have a wonderful time. What will you be doing?”

Aunt Helen looked vague. “Oh, swapping recipes, probably. Playing cards. Sharing tips on how to take care of things. What we always do.”

“Enjoy,” said Mariah. “I’ll stay here and relax. It’s so nice to be able to relax, Aunt Helen. Thanks again for offering me sanctuary.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie, of course. Glad to do it. You’re an excellent guest.” Aunt Helen smiled again, her best befuddled smile. “Take care of yourself.” She kissed Mariah’s cheek, grabbed her oversized tapestry handbag, and headed out the door.

Mariah waved.

“Oh, and you could watch television in the living room,” Helen said as she stood on the bottom porch step, “or sit on the porch swing— the fireflies are nice tonight—or take a little night swim if you’re so inclined—the water’s quite warm after sunset this time of year, though mosquitoes are a problem—that would be good. You could take a nap. Or fix yourself a snack in the kitchen.”

What was this flood of words about? Mariah wondered.

“If you’re interested in a book to read, there are some exciting novels in my bedroom. Feel free to borrow them. Good night!” She vanished into the warm, gentle darkness.

Fireflies spangled the wisteria vine and drifted over the meadow grasses. The breeze rustled leaves in the oak trees beyond the driveway. Mariah waited to hear the start of Aunt Helen’s car engine, but it didn’t come. Maybe Aunt Helen was walking to her meeting with the gals. Without a flashlight. Well, she’d lived here for ages, longer than Mariah had been alive, and she probably knew the roads in the dark.

Mariah sat on the porch swing, set it rocking with her bare foot on the floorboards, and considered all of Aunt Helen’s suggestions. Aunt Helen had never tried to direct her activities before. What was that about? She’d catalogued an action for every room in the house … except the study.

If Aunt Helen had told Mariah to stay out of the study, Mariah would have been eaten alive with curiosity. Maybe Aunt Helen knew her well enough to know that.

She hadn’t specifically
said
Mariah wasn’t supposed to go in the study.

Mariah swung for a while. It really was a beautiful night. The moon rose over the trees, full and round, its light dimming the fireflies and silvering leaves, grass blades, floorboards, and Mariah’s toes. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine, rank weeds, and lake water.

Aunt Helen didn’t want Mariah in her study. Aunt Helen was the perfect hostess. Mariah shouldn’t do anything to upset Aunt Helen.

And yet—what was in that study? Was Aunt Helen truly crazy? Or was she just practicing to be a cartoon voice actress? Maybe the house wasn’t as safe as Mariah thought it was. Maybe she should just check.

She swathed her hand in her skirt before reaching for the study doorknob. What if Aunt Helen somehow knew she had entered the study? Maybe not touching anything would disguise her trespass.

The study was dark, the windows blanketed in thick curtains. The only light in the room came from something round and glowing dimly blue on a high shelf. Still with her hand swathed in skirt, Mariah reached for the light switch beside the door and flipped it on.

After all, the study didn’t look much different from other offices she had seen. A big desk—well, okay, she’d never seen a desk with a piece of tanned leather stretched across its top before—and lots of bookshelves, with battered, fat books stacked haphazardly across them. No book looked new or even as though it had been published in the last twenty years. On the high shelf with the thing that glowed in the dark, there were all kinds of small lumpy objects. Mariah took a step into the room. On the high shelf: statues and jars of things; the glowing thing turned out to be a crystal ball, which still emitted a faint blue light.

A counter beyond the desk, below the double, curtained windows, held open-ended jars full of sprays of dried plants. Some sticks, maybe. A couple held other things, some that looked like dried lizards.

A box on the leather-topped desk held a collection of colored chalks. Faint tracings on the leather showed that Aunt Helen had drawn on it in chalk before and maybe rubbed out the drawings afterward.

A fat calfskin-bound book tied with a leather thong sat on the edge of the desk.

Okay, you’ve looked, Mariah told herself. There was no phone on the desk. So obviously Aunt Helen had been talking to herself all those times Mariah couldn’t quite make out her voice through the door. You’ve looked. You know she doesn’t want you in here. You want to stay here the rest of the summer, rent free, before you have to figure out how to get a real job. Let’s get out of here.

She walked across to the desk and, with her skirt-swathed hand, untied the thong binding the big stained brown book on the desk.