Текст книги "Shiver : 13 Sexy Tales of Humor and Horror"
Автор книги: Belle Aurora
Соавторы: Penny Reid,Ruth Clampett
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 39 страниц)
When I was a kid back in Austin, we had a system. My two brothers and I would circle the neighborhood in cheesy Halloween masks, recycled from year to year. I think I wore the mask of Hulk Hogan a dozen times before high school. After our first trip out, we would empty our bags, switch our masks, and then go with our own set of friends. Later at night, we would combine our candy and have enough to last until Christmas.
“Can I get two slices?” I ask.
The pizza guy slides two congealed slices in the oven and preps a to-go box. “Six bucks.”
Goddamn, that’s robbery. I place money on the counter and snag a Milky Way from a candy bowl. He gives me a dirty look – like I’m literally taking candy from babies.
With my steamy pizza box and paper sack from the bodega, I make my way a few more blocks to my building. A police car slows to a stop near a gang of teenagers in dark hoodies. They do look a little squirrely, but this is just one of those nights when everything seems odd. I wave at the cops and the teenagers run off.
Arriving at my building, my doorman, Declan, opens the lobby door. “Evening, Mr. Brooks.”
“Nice tie,” I say.
He holds up the pumpkin tie and shrugs. “Eh, just having some fun.”
A few boys I recognize from my building congregate in the lobby, shouting and making a scene. They seem to be teasing a kid on crutches dressed as Obi Wan Kenobi. I approach them calmly and ask, “What’s the deal?”
The one dressed as a skeleton turns to face me, his canvas bag of candy swinging into my leg. “Gimpy is slowing us down. We can’t take the elevator to every single floor.”
I turn to the kid on crutches and ask, “What happened to your leg?”
“Oh, football,” he says quietly.
His friends run to the stairs, turning once to give us the middle finger and laugh.
“Little jerks,” I yell after them. “What’s your name, kid?” I ask the one on crutches.
“I’m Trent. Halloween is like my favorite holiday, after Christmas.”
“I hear ya, Trent. And dude, your friends seem like turds.”
Trent laughs as he shifts his weight on his crutches. “Yeah, but they’ll have three times as much candy as me. I can’t hobble and hold my bag at the same time.”
“I can’t let that happen.” Facing the front desk, I shout, “Declan, keep an eye on Trent until I get back.”
Declan nods apathetically and waves me off.
“Trent, give me an hour. And your candy bag.”
He reluctantly passes me his bag and then plops down on one of the sofas. “Whatever, man.”
I hurry to my apartment, remove my suit jacket and tie, throw my pizza and brown paper bag on the kitchen island, remove the bag of shitty Lifesavers, and then begin my quest to collect more candy than those dipshit kids.
In the hall, I pass by my neighbors, the Hansons. Luckily, they placed a basket filled with Twizzlers and full-size Hershey bars outside their door. I survey the hallway – no one. Without hesitating, I pour the contents of the entire basket in Trent’s bag. I then refill the bowl with my bag of peppermint Lifesavers.
First mission: Accomplished.
I take out my phone and the business card from Lena. Continuing down the hall, I text her.
ME: What’s your address?
Her reply is instant.
LENA: 5611 Lexington
I place the phone back in my pocket and then knock on the next door. A nice-looking woman I recognize from the mail center opens the door with a smile, but then her face changes.
“Trick o’ treat,” I say charmingly. She looks behind my shoulder and then at my bag. “I’m not sure we’ve met, I’m Chris Brooks and I live a few doors down.”
Puzzled, she says, “Okay.”
“I know this looks really weird, but I’m actually helping out a boy in our building. He’s on crutches and his friends ditched him.”
She narrows her eyes and asks, “Do you want candy?”
Why would she assume anything else?
“Yes, please.”
I watch as she takes a wicker basket from a small table near the door. She faces me, still thoroughly confused. I open my bag and smile – hopefully that will give her a clue. She drops in two snack-sized Twix. This is going to be tough.
“Poor little guy – Halloween’s his favorite holiday.” She smiles awkwardly, and then places another small Twix inside the bag. “He’s all dressed up in a Star Wars costume and sitting in the lobby. Twix candy bars are his favorite.” Not sure how to perceive me, and probably a little frightened, the woman places two handfuls of Twix in my bag. Holding a now empty basket, she closes the door.
The adjacent apartment door is decorated with cobwebs and dozens of plastic spiders. As I knock on the door, a loud scream wails through a small speaker at the top of the doorframe. The door creaks open, revealing a witch drinking from a goblet. In character, she cackles, “What do you want?”
Playing along, I answer, “Trick o’ treat.”
“Where’s your costume?” she asks, moving her fingers in front of my chest like she’s clawing for air.
I smirk and lean against the doorframe. “Give me candy, you wench.”
She laughs as she tosses packages of M&M’s in my bag. At least a dozen make their way in before she turns to open another candy bag. Her voice returns to what I assume is her normal tone as she teases, “Good one, Chris. It’s me, Libby Sanders-Dunlap!”
Ah, Libby. She recently got divorced. Need I say more?
“I didn’t know we lived on the same floor,” I lie. “I also didn’t know you were into the black magic.”
Her painted green hand grazes my arm as she giggles. “Do you want to come in?”
I shake my head and lift my bag. “I can’t tonight. I’m on a candy mission.”
Libby appears insulted. “Oh, you’re serious?”
“I am. But hey, let’s get a beer sometime,” I casually add.
She nods sadly and then closes the door. To be honest, Libby’s not my type. When I moved here eight months ago, she brought me a “welcome” basket of wine and cheese. I want a girl who welcomes me with beer and porn.
The last door on my floor is opened slightly and reeks of burnt popcorn. I knock once before a man in his late fifties swings it open. “Yeah?” he grunts.
“Uh, never mind.”
Climbing the stairs, I look at my watch and hurry my pace. I have enough time to attack one more floor before I need to leave to meet Lena. The apartment door closest to the stairs has a doorbell the size of golf ball. I press the large buzzer and inadvertently summon church bells of Gothic proportions.
“Coming,” a shaky voice beckons from behind the door. “Almost there,” she crackles. The door opens and the cutest little old lady extends her arms. “Scotty! Give Me Maw a hug.”
Not sure what to do, I lean forward and accept her embrace. “Trick o’ treat,” I say into her poof of silver hair.
Pinching my waist, she rattles, “You’re as thin as a rail, Scotty! Come in, we’ll have some crab dip and watch Jeopardy.”
“Uh, okay,” I agree. She scoots through the entryway wearing leopard-print slippers and Christmas socks. I should turn around and leave, but the apartment is exactly like my real Me Maw’s house in Nacogdoches! Picture frames everywhere, and little bowls of those nasty orange peanuts stashed on every table. There’s even an identical lamp to my Me Maw’s antique from New Orleans – the one with a carriage as the base and red fringe hanging from the shade. This is trippy.
Unaware of her mental state, I quietly say, “Me Maw, I can only stay for a few minutes.”
She sits on a velvet love seat and passes me a tray of crackers. “Crab dip is your favorite, Scotty!”
I place my bag of candy on the floor and sit in a floral chair adorned with a lace doily. Taking a small bite of the crab dip, I decide to play along. After all, Halloween is the one night when role-playing is perfectly acceptable. Besides, I have a few minutes to kill, and she seems like a nice granny that just wants some company. “Delicious dip as always, Me Maw,” I compliment with a smile.
“Scotty, how’s Boy Scouts? Did you get all your patches?” she asks.
Not only does she think I’m her grandson, but apparently, ten-years old. “Oh, I need a few more.” I take another cracker with dip and watch the television.
“What is pumpernickel?” she shouts at the screen.
And she’s right.
It’s none of my business, but I feel inclined to make sure she’s okay living alone. “Me Maw, how are you feeling?”
She slaps her knee and laughs. “My damn cataracts are acting up, but other than that, I’m as fit as a fiddle, sweetie.”
I take a moment to look around her apartment. It’s neat and tidy and there aren’t any signs that she’s been forced to save her pension and eat cat food. Her clothes are clean and everything smells okay. Dozens of family photos line the walls – she’s loved by her family. “Me Maw, when was I here last?”
“Who is Clark Gable? Last week, Scotty. Your mother came with you – that little bitch,” she mumbles under her breath.
Noted.
“Me Maw, I really have to leave soon. Do you need anything?”
Saddened, she looks at me and pouts. “But you just got here!”
“I know, but it’s Halloween.”
She smiles and nods her head in understanding. “Well, where’s your costume? Do you need me to help you put something together?” She stands from the sofa with wobbly legs and pats my head. “Come with me, you can borrow one of Poppy’s old zoot suits.”
Not wanting to alarm her, I follow behind and keep up the charade. “No need, I have a costume,” I say.
“Oh Scotty, you can’t be Spiderman every year – try something new.”
The loud doorbell chimes. Ding, dong, ding, dong.
“I’ll get it – probably kids trick-or-treating,” I offer. “Do you have any candy to hand out?”
“Nonsense! I put the roll of quarters by the door. Kids love to have their own money.” She smiles as she threads her arm through mine.
Passing by the floral chair, I bend to pick up my bag of candy. I can secretly give the kids candy when she’s not looking and then get the hell out of here. We open the door together and … fuck!
Standing in the doorway is a man and woman – and a boy dressed as Spiderman. They stare at me blankly, but as the seconds pass, their expressions change to fear.
“Scotty!” Me Maw shouts, extending her arms to the Spiderman.
“Trick or treat, Me Maw,” Scotty replies quietly.
“Who the hell are you?” the man asks. He moves in front of Me Maw and narrows his eyes.
Stepping out into the hall, I reply, “She invited me in. I’m sorry, but she thought I was Scotty.” Saying it out loud only confirms my poor judgment.
“Ma, who is this guy?” he asks.
“I–I’m not sure. I was confused.” She rubs her temples and shakes her head. “Come on, Scotty! I made crab dip to eat while we watch Double Jeopardy!” The real Scotty and the “bitch” follow Me Maw into her apartment.
I’m left standing, silently defending myself to a man with a senile mother. Taking a step closer toward me, he pokes my chest. “If you come near her again, I will personally hunt you down and destroy you.”
I puff my chest – I don’t deserve to be threatened. “It won’t happen again,” I say, slamming my shoulder against his as I walk away.
When I reach the end of the hall, I glance back at the apartment and exhale in relief. I’m brought back to reality when several kids in costumes race out of the elevator and run past me – shit, I still need to get candy for Trent.
The apartment door on my right is decorated with cutesy, child-crafted ghosts and pumpkins. I knock quietly. A moment later, a little girl dressed in a princess costume answers the door. Before I can scold her for opening the door to a stranger, a boy around Trent’s age joins her.
He’s not wearing a costume and his face is smug. The boy snickers and asks, “Where are your kids?”
“I don’t have any,” I answer.
“Are you a fucking pervert?” he insults, stepping in front of his sister.
“What? No!” I answer defensively. Although, if I’m really honest with myself, this whole idea to help Trent get candy is kinda strange, maybe even something a pervert would do. However, this has become a personal quest – not a favor to some kid, but a mission to win. My competitive nature will always be a part of who I am, even if I don’t really know what it is I’m exactly winning.
“Listen, punk,” I spit out between clenched teeth. “I’m with the bureau of the New York City safety initiative. There are reports that you are providing tampered candy to unassuming little kids. I’m required to confiscate all your goods or be forced to take you to the precinct for questioning.”
Full of fear, the boy replies, “Okay, Mister.” He shoves bags and bags of candy at my waist as the little girl runs into the apartment yelling for her mom.
“And the bags over there as well,” I demand, pointing to extra bags on a table.
He hurries to retrieve them from the nearby table. Freaked, he shouts, “This is all we got – don’t tell my mom.” He shuts the door in my face.
Mission Two: Accomplished.
That was easy. Holding four giant-sized bags of Willy Wonka candy – Nerds, Runts, Gobstoppers, Laffy Taffy and those shitty Bottle Caps – I contemplate my next move. I should be getting ready for my date with Lena, but instead, I’m roaming around my apartment building like a middle school Halloween vigilante. At this rate, I’ll make the ten o’clock news as the Upper East Side Halloween Pervert.
Deciding I look like a chump carrying so much candy in dress slacks and a scruffy beard, I head back to my apartment. Once inside, I stash a bag of Willy Wonka in my kitchen cabinet (finder’s fee) and grab a beer from the refrigerator. I can take a quick shower and still be at Lena’s apartment on time.
There’s a knock on the door. I carry Trent’s bag of candy with me just in case.
“Trick or treat!” the little kids scream in unison as I open the door.
I pass out Hershey bars to a bloody leprechaun, a ghost-like doll, and a Dracula with blond hair. “Don’t y’all look scary!”
Excited with their treats, they chant, “Thank you!”
I nod at the designated parent escorting the kids – I feel his pain. Trick-or-treating as an adult sucks. Closing the door, I search for a bowl or basket to leave outside my door. I can’t keep answering the door all night …
Knock, knock.
I open the door to find Libby, witch-free and determined. She’s holding a six-pack of beer and arching her eyebrows in that way – the one a woman uses to seduce men.
“Hi, Chris. How about that beer?” Libby thrusts the bottles into my chest and walks past me. “Wow, your apartment is really pink!”
My apartment is pink because the previous tenant adored pink. Months later, I’m still waiting for the goddamn co-op board to approve my remodeling request. “What can I say? I’m a sensitive guy.”
Libby glances back over her shoulder with a sinister smile. “Even the bedroom?” she asks, walking toward my room.
Ah, shit. Not now – I have to be somewhere in an hour.
I place the beer on the counter next to my cold pizza and walk after her. By the time I catch up with Libby, she’s made her way onto the edge of my bed. Patting the spot next to her and popping open the top buttons to her shirt, she moans, “My divorce is final and I need to be fucked.”
Whoa.
Let me think this scenario through logically in five seconds or less. Five. I have an attractive woman sitting on my bed trying to seduce me. She’s inviting me to have sex without any of the foreplay. Four. It’s been weeks for me, and surely she’s been abstinent during her divorce. We’re both horny adults looking for some casual fun. Three. Being on the same floor in the same apartment building could pose complications. I’ve met her ex-husband – total douche. Two. Lena White is waiting for me. One. Libby brought Heineken. That decides it – I cannot have sex with a woman that drinks that shit.
“So, listen, Libby,” I start.
“Chris, please don’t turn me down,” she begs as her eyes begin to water.
I sit down next to her and place my arm around her shoulders. “Libby, I can’t. You deserve better than a one-night stand – and I can’t even commit to a cable company.”
Sobbing, she mumbles, “I know. But maybe that’s what I need – one night to feel something, anything.”
Libby is attractive and nice but her divorce comes with baggage. Although her baggage isn’t really the main issue, it’s more that I’m focused on my career and only have time for casual sex. If I met her at a bar, I would totally take her home, but this is awkward because I know she needs more. And hey, what’s the best solution in an awkward situation? Laughter.
Smiling, I say, “Libby, I can make you feel something, if that’s all you want. Would you like that? Lay down and hold still.” We both laugh as I attempt to unbuckle my belt. “C’mon, girl – let’s do the Texas Tangle.”
We fall back on the bed laughing, my hand resting on her hip.
“Oh, Chris. I needed that,” Libby says breathlessly.
“Animals need sex, humans want companionship.” Sitting up from the bed, I rub her leg. “You need to find a man that can give you both.”
Libby exhales and then buttons her top. “Easier said than done – seeing as how my first attempt didn’t go so well.”
“Libby, I’m the one that’s embarrassed.”
Libby sits up and rests her head on my arm. “Let’s just agree to never talk about this night?”
Can this night get any stranger?
I stand up from the bed and smile. “Deal.” After pulling her up from the bed, I twirl her around and do a two-step toward my closet. “I want to show you my costume,” I say. As I remove the plaid shirt and belt buckle from the Salvation Army bag, Libby laughs and shakes her head.
“I don’t get it?”
“A cowboy in Manhattan.”
“But what about the large hat and boots?” she asks.
With a smirk, I kick open my closet door to reveal my favorite boots beneath my tailored suits. Proudly, I point to the upper shelf housing my vintage, black Stetson. “Will these do?”
* * *
8:24 p.m.
After presenting Trent with the candy liquidation, I decide to take a cab to Lena’s apartment in fear of being unfashionably late. I read her text to the cab driver, repeating the address several times before he understands. My accent’s not that bad. When we arrive at the location, I remove ten bucks from my wallet and pay the driver. He grunts in appreciation and then speeds off into traffic. Dumbass.
Lena’s building is ten times more posh than mine. Not a single doorman with a pumpkin-themed tie. Nope, her doormen are dressed in wool suits with gold-fringed lapels.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Sure. I’m meeting Lena White,” I answer.
“There’s no one here with that name, sir. Please follow me to the desk so I may assist you.” The doorman leads me to a gold desk straight from textbook pictures of Versailles during the French Revolution.
I remove my phone and text Lena.
ME: I’m downstairs in the lobby.
LENA: I’ll be right down.
“Hey, she’s coming down to meet me,” I say arrogantly as I walk toward the elevators.
Against a wall, I pose like Clint Eastwood during the final sunset of a western flick. Head down, hat tipped, and one boot lazily crossed over the other. As the elevator door opens, I see the tips of her black pumps first, then raising my head, take in the rest of her outfit. A little black dress, off the shoulders and sexy as hell.
She gives me a tiny smile before stepping back inside the elevator. Holding the door, Lena suggests, “Let’s have a drink upstairs before we leave.”
Joining her in the elevator, I ask, “So what’s your real name, Ms. White?” I move within inches of her body, staring down and eliminating any doubt she may have of my objective. The tension is unbearable – the sexual tension is unbelievable.
Lena returns my concentrated gaze, but her full lips twitch into a smile. “My name is Lena. Do you want the drink or not?” she asks, enunciating every word.
Ready to challenge her smart, ruby-stained mouth, I’m interrupted by the opening of the elevator doors. She quickly exits the elevator, looking over her shoulder at me just once. But goddamn, that look she gives me … I’m in way over my head.
Lena leads me into her apartment, or rather, a temptress’ bachelorette lair. The first things I notice are the chill in the room and the multitude of closed doors. It’s cold and mysterious, like an elegant catacomb with secrets – possibly a dungeon or two as well. Every wall is painted charcoal gray, except for the one wallpapered in gray and black plaid. The lighting is minimal, seeing as how the chandeliers are candles and the lamp shades are red silk. Black velvet furniture, gray carpet, red pillows, and an entire wall that resembles an ancient library. The only lightness in the apartment is a large white canvas above the sofa – but even that has what appears to be a blood spatter.
“So, Adam told me you were researching a case.”
Pouring cognac into tiny black glasses, she says, “Mr. Ford shouldn’t have told you that. Shall we toast?”
I’m a dude, and I take masculine pride in never saying omigod in public – I even avoid it internally for fear it could slip out, but … Oh. My. God! Somehow, I just walked onto the set of American Psycho, cue Huey Lewis and the News.
I take the glass from her hand and casually sniff the liquid. “To new friends,” I declare in a scratchy voice.
Lena smiles and taps her glass against mine. “Yes, to new friends and new experiences.”
I take a drink, letting the cognac swirl around my mouth before swallowing. It’s pretty good, and it’s fucking sexy that this woman drinks like a man. “Shall we retreat to the parlor for a cigar?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
Lena places her glass on the bar cart and then takes mine, her red nails scraping against my hand as she transfers the glass. She removes my hat and tosses it on a chair with a tiny smirk. Her hands then glide over my chest, teasing and mocking my thrift store shirt.
“These clothes won’t do,” she scorns. Lena unlatches my stubborn belt buckle, the difficulty of the task forcing her tits to press together and spill over her dress. After noticing the name engraved on my rodeo buckle, Lena’s mouth curls into a genuine smile. Then with her smile disappearing, she rips it off and throws the belt to the floor, the tacky gold contrasting against the chic gray carpet.
I place my hands on her hips but she viciously slaps them away. All right, Lena – take control. My shirt comes next. Lena traces each button with her finger before finally setting it free. Her cool hands reach inside my shirt, caressing my sides and delicately massaging my shoulders. She shakes the shirt off and kisses my chest. One, two, three pecks. Red stains from her lips form a trail of feminine seduction along my chest. I inhale and hold my breath as her hand slides inside the waistband of my jeans.
“Lena,” I moan.
“Shh,” she commands.
Unbuttoning my jeans and pulling them over my hips, she follows them to the floor. Her hands squeeze my thighs, holding her weight as she positions herself on her knees. More kissing. She kisses every inch of my legs, leaving me covered in red lipstick. When her mouth nears my briefs, I nearly lose it, especially when she grabs my ass. I stay still and give her what she wants. After her hand grazes my nuts and then slowly glides along Big Tex, I smile – this blow job is going to be amazing.
Looking up at me, she says, “Wait here.” With a gentle squeeze of my crotch and tiny bite on my stomach, Lena stands and walks away. She opens one of the many doors and closes it behind her.
This is definitely different, but there’s nothing wrong with changing things up. Kicking off my boots and removing my jeans, I contemplate this new experience. What harm is there in a little candle wax or rope? She might be a little dominating, but I find it extremely sensual. It’s decided. I will let her do whatever freaky shit she wants as long as …
“What the hell is that?” I shout as she walks toward me.
Draped across her arms is what looks like a tweed jacket and a bowtie. Oh shit, and a pipe. This just went from an erotic fantasy to an awkward role-playing game. I’ve read about fetishes and sex games that involve a reversal of power and the occasional props, but I just want a blow job – not dress like some creepy old dude and be bossed around. Reaching for my jeans, Lena approaches me with a frown.
“Chris, this isn’t what you think. But if you do something for me, a favor that would require one hour of your time, I promise to bring you back here and do whatever you want.” Lena places the jacket and tie on the chair with my Stetson, and then tosses me a black T-shirt.
As odd as all this seems, the promise of having her bent over the sofa in an hour decides my fate. I pull the T-shirt over my head, stopping midway to watch as Lena unzips her dress. The black fabric falls to the curve of her hips, revealing her ripe, plump breasts in a black lace bra.
“Put on the shirt,” she instructs.
Obliging, I pull the t-shirt over my chest. Lena arches her eyebrow as she observes the tightness of the shirt against my frame. Taking a step closer, she runs her hand across the small section of my stomach that the cotton fails to cover. Her fingers graze the waistband of my briefs – damn, that drives me crazy.
“Now your jeans,” she orders.
Taking a step back, Lena unfastens her bra. Fuck, it’s one of those bras with the hook in the front – like a package concealing a wonderful present. The tightness of my jeans against my erection is infuriating, knowing I have to wait an hour before I can play with her tits.
“Jacket,” Lena instructs.
As I reach for the tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, Lena fondles her nipples. Her skin is so flawless and delectable – I want to nibble and suck every inch until she moans in pleasure.
Pulling on the jacket and exhaling in agony, I ask, “One hour?”
Lena smiles. “Yes, Professor.”
* * *
9:40 p.m.
We stop in front of a walkup somewhere in SoHo. I pay the driver and then help Lena out of the cab. She pauses on the sidewalk to reapply her red lipstick – slowly and methodically, just to torment me.
“Is this a costume party?” I ask, still unsure of what I’m about to encounter.
“I suppose.” Lena takes my hand and earnestly adds, “Don’t be afraid to let your inhibitions go. It’s more enjoyable for everyone involved when guests are comfortable and open to new things. Role-play can be liberating, especially when encountered with people that share the same objective.”
No way. No fucking way – I’m on the cusp of my first swinger party! I shake my shoulders and roll my neck. “I’m ready, Lena.”
The palm of her hand moves to my cheek. Her thumb glides over my scruffy stubble, grazing the edge of my mouth, as she whispers, “Don’t forget your pipe.” Lena’s other hand slides into my jacket pocket to remove the smoking pipe. I smile as she tries to position it between my lips. “Hurry along, Professor,” she instructs.
If she wants me to act like a professor, I’ll do it. I know a lot about military history, and I can fake my way through a few conversations before the orgies commence. I need a back story – I’m a professor at a college on Long Island. I teach four graduate classes, and I’m currently writing a book on the JFK assassination. This is good!
Mission Three: Accomplished.
I follow behind Lena, watching as her ass shimmies when she climbs the steps to the front door. She presses the buzzer and I quickly pinch her ass. Lena shoots me an annoyed glare, but I simply smile.
A man decked out in a black tuxedo with tails and a tight frown opens the door. “Good evening. I’m Wadsworth, the butler.”
“Hello, I’m Ms. White,” Lena replies.
Wadsworth switches his attention to me as I chew on the pipe. “And you, sir?” he asks with a strained British accent.
Lena places her hand on my arm and answers. “I believe this is Professor Plum.”
“I wasn’t aware you two knew each other,” Wadsworth states.
“We only met today – we received similar invitations to a dinner party at this address and decided to share a taxi.”
Oh, so that’s our story. Hot.
“Very good. Follow me and I will introduce you to the other guests.” Wadsworth sharply turns toward the entry hall, so we obediently follow him. “Everyone is in the dining room,” he adds over his shoulder.
That’s weird – I guess swinger parties start with a nice meal so everyone can get acquainted. Like a potluck dinner that turns into potluck sex.
Whispering into Lena’s ear, I ask, “Why are we eating dinner?”
“Shh, just play along,” she scorns.
Fine. I’ll play along. I’ve read that Manhattan sex clubs have crazy memberships and vetting processes, but so far, this all seems like a silly game. Nothing like that movie with Nicole Kidman and the mask-wearing sex cult.
“Ladies and gentleman, may I present Ms. White and Professor Plum,” Wadsworth announces.
Wadsworth – where have I heard that name before?
Wadsworth extends his arm in a presentation gesture, and then pulls out a chair for Lena. I take the last available chair on the opposite side of the table between two attractive women.
Placing my pipe on the table and checking out the hot chick to my right, I ask, “What’s for dinner?”
She leans into me and smirks. “Mrs. Peacock revealed a few minutes ago that we’re having one of her favorite recipes prepared by the cook.”
Huh.
“I’m Miss Scarlet, and I love a man in tweed.” She pinches the fabric of my sleeve between her fingers and winks.
I wink back at her and then study the guests slurping bowls of soup around the table, none of which are wearing an actual Halloween costume. Across from me is dark and sexy Lena, dressed in black and going by the pseudonym of Ms. White. Miss Scarlet is wearing a revealing burgundy dress and staring at me with lust. Mrs. Peacock is to my left, drinking wine and nodding goofily at the table conversation. A dude next to Lena is dousing his hands in hand sanitizer and squirming in his seat.
“Do you like Kipling, Miss Scarlet?” asks a man with a fake mustache.
In a seductive voice, Miss Scarlet replies, “I’ll eat anything, Colonel Mustard.
“Colonel Mustard, are you a real Colonel?” Lena asks between slurps of soup.
White. Mustard. Peacock. Scarlet.
“Yes, of course. Retired and presently working in Washington,” Colonel Mustard adds.
“And what about you, Mr. Green? What do you do in Washington?” Miss Scarlet asks.
Green. Oh shit – Professor Plum.
Nervously, Mr. Green stands from the table and throws down his napkin. “I work for the State Department and I’m a homosexual,” he recites.
