1 comments/ 3956 views/ 0 favorites The Reprised Surprise Ch. 01 By: dysartish After the last of her children left the trailer, he waited in the car for twenty long minutes -- long enough to be sure no one else was visiting, long enough to start questioning the sense of his actions. What if it all went wrong? He climbed stiffly out of the rental car -- a mid-range BMW straight off the airport rental lot -- and crunched over the yellow winter grass to the steps leading up to her front door. The steps creaked under his 180 pounds, and he frowned, wondering if she had heard him, wondering who she thought might be visiting. The mailman? Her ex? He ran his fingers through his hair, more from nerves than fashion, then knocked on the screen door. A handful of heartbeats later, the inner door rattled open and a young woman looked out at him. She had the hurried look of interrupted chores, and the damp circle on the front of her t-shirt hinted that there was a sink full of dishes bubbling somewhere inside. The low-def pictures she'd sent him exacerbated the shock of seeing her in the flesh. Her mid-morning reality, tired and hesitant in the doorway of her trailer, forced the air from his lungs, left him speechless in those first moments of contact. Her brownish blond hair, gathered up in a barrette, trailed over her forehead and was darkened from sweat. Her lower lip, restrained by a nervous smile, was full and broad, hinted of a nature that enjoyed food, drink, pleasure. But it was the eyes that captured his attention, large and blue and poisoned with suspicion. The photos were pale mimeographs of their reality. "Yes?" She blinked those eyes at him. It was dark inside her trailer, and the December sunlight shuttered her eyes. He stood staring at her, waiting, only half-breathing. He tried to smile. She cocked her head to the side, seemed on the verge of shutting the door, when recognition animated her face -- "Victor!" The door shook open and he found himself stumbling over her threshold. The thick warm air of the trailer -- the sour tang of cooking oil, the antiseptic tingle of dish soap, the blurred edge of cigarette smoke -- made him feel as though he had plunged full-length onto the cushions of a sagging old couch. Wedged there in unfamiliar space, he smiled like a fool at June, basking in the astonishment of her face. "What the hell are you doing here?" she asked as she shut the door behind him, sealing them together. Her voice was lower than he'd imagined it would be, and hinted that her laughter would be a dark, throaty chuckle, the smokey mirth that bar waitresses trailed over their shoulders. He wanted to hear that chuckle in his ear with an almost painful yearning. This stirring of lust freed his tongue. "June, you really know how to keep a guy in suspense." It was the first message he had ever sent her, and it was strange, now, hearing himself speak it aloud. "I just can't believe it's you." June laughed -- a delicious, husky burr -- and nodded out towards the parked rental. "Did you drive all the way here?" "A loaner from the airport -- I scheduled a lay-over." "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" she was nearly shouting, excitement warring with anger in her voice. Her cheeks blushed red and her arm waggled about in frustrated arcs. "This place is a mess. I'm a mess." She stopped in mid-motion, catching sight of the large water stain darkening her shirt. She looked wide-eyed at Victor. "Uh-un. No fucking way." "Look, it's a surprise. And you can't announce surprises." He waved his own arm at the room. "I don't care what this place looks like. I didn't come here for the decor." Children's toys were scattered over the carpet -- wrestling action figures, a half-broken plastic sword, Matchbox cars -- the clutter of adolescent boys. Huddled along the far wall, a broken-back couch was mounded over with children's clothes. He looked up from the casual squalor. "I came here for you." In 3-dimensions, she was wondrous to him. She'd lost the weight that she'd claimed online -- he'd idly wondered about that; although he enjoyed all proportions of feminine flesh, he'd been curious whether she'd felt the need to lie, such an easy online feat -- and her jeans hung loose about her. Ample still, she carried her surplus of flesh well, generous curves swaddled in over-sized clothes. She'd lamented the reduction of her breasts, unintended martyrs to diet and exercise, but the slightly damp t-shirt that clung to her torso accentuated the uplift and sway of what remained. When his gaze found her face, June was staring back at him as though he'd just fallen off the moon. "What, is there something wrong with me?" He suddenly felt like six feet of awkward. He was built heavy, but muscled, retaining the physique that had carried him through a football scholarship 20 years earlier. Had he dressed too old? Too young? She shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together. He thought she might be on the verge of tears. "Did I do something wrong, coming here?" Dire possibilities ran through his mind -- husband, boyfriend, venereal disease. She shook her head, not speaking, her eyes damp blue. Then, as the adrenaline of his arrival wore off, he felt the truth of the moment wrap itself around him. He was standing in a stranger's home, surrounded by the brick-aback of a real life in which he was only a phantom. If he'd ever shared in this existence, it had been as pixels on an LCD screen, a wash of blue-white light after her children had been tucked into bed. Their digital intercourse -- chat screens strewn with staccato innuendo, emails threaded with desires and revelations, photos proffering blurred faces and poorly-lit genitalia -- had been obliterated by a patch of frayed carpet and a sink full of dirty pans. He stood there, listening to her rapid breathing, smelling the meaty scent of her, and his eyes flickered out through the curtained window toward the muted shape of the rental car that waited on the far side of the dead yellow grass. And in that moment of near panic, he did the only thing he could imagine to do: he opened his arms. And June fell into them. The sudden touch of her body flickered shocks along the length of him, standing the hair on his arms, banishing the terror of the previous moment. "I can't believe you're here," she murmured, her breath hot against the side of his neck. And somehow, with the reality of her against him, nothing else mattered. He held her softly, his arms sliding naturally around her. He drifted on a wave of atavistic pleasure -- lost in the scent of her in his nostrils, the weight of her in his arms. He felt as though he were drunk or high or cumming. "I had all these plans for this moment, words to say." His voice was thick in his throat. June pulled her head back from his shoulder and touched her fingers to his cheek, tilting his face down towards her. A hint of a smile found her lips, curved them into a heavy bow. The nearness of those lips threatened him with vertigo. "We're strangers," he said. "After all the messages and the chats, we're still nothing but strangers." "Yes." she said, her smile fading into something between fear and desire. "A man I don't know is in my living room, and he has his hands on me, and there is no one here to stop him from doing what he came here to do." Her words swallowed him. The earlier promise of vertigo returned, spiraling him downward into her moist, superheated breath, a warm updraft that mingled spearmint mouthwash and filtered cigarettes. He inhaled deeply, toking the breath from her lungs like a drag of sweet marijuana. As his chest swelled with the effort, he felt her breasts slide over his shirt, her erect nipples trailing fire. "You know what I came here to do," he whispered. "Yes." She shivered against him, her face tilted upwards like a child. "You came here," her lips brushed over his, "because you need," her tongue tasted the stubble of his chin, "to fuck me." Her mouth opened and he sealed his lips over it, their tongues twining together. The taste of her hardened him in his jeans. Her tongue was slick and hot and wet with saliva. As it entered his mouth, he closed his lips over it and began to suck, nipping it with his teeth. June pulled back from him and pressed a hand to his chest, but he held her pinioned in his arms. "You son of a bitch." She twisted her fingers, fastening onto his nipple hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, even through his heavy knit shirt. "Is it rough, then?" "No limits," Victor whispered, the sharp pain pushing him further into a foggy, white-hot delerium. June murmured, low in her throat, and gave his nipple one last, hard twist. "We're already past the limit." She pushed her hips forward and ground them against him, tickling his ears with the muted sandpaper rustling of denim on denim. He slid his hands down from her hips and rested them on the thick shelf of her ass. The cluttered room with its threadbare carpet and aluminum walls, too weak for the lust that razored through his veins, split apart, admitted a torrent of unreality, of dream-time, that blurred his vision, saturated his senses. He wondered if he were losing his mind, or, even worse, was trapped in a hyper-realistic dream that would wash him ashore in a tangle of saturated sheets and parched desires, alarm clock blaring. "Is any of this real?" he asked. She leaned forward against him -- he watched her hardened nipples strain against the cotton of her shirt -- and rubbed her soft belly against him like a cat against a stranger's leg. She took his hand and placed it over the swell of her breast, squeezed his fingers so that they dug into her flesh. "Do you feel that? My body under your hands, in your arms." She glared into his face, ran her tongue along the pouty swell of her lower lip. "What are you going to do with it?" He leaned into her face, lips almost touching hers, and then pushed her backward. June took a step back, half-stumbling over an action figure that was twined in the carpet. As her face clouded with confusion, he slid smoothly to his knees and pressed his face forward against her denim-clad crotch. She groaned. Victor reached up and grabbed the thick meat of her ass, the coarse fabric of her jeans scratching under his palms, and crammed his face into her. His open mouth and lips settled over the lower part of her zipper, his tongue whirling along the brass ties. He maddened himself with the thought of the wet heat that waited on the other side of that quarter inch of fabric. Did she wear panties? His memory of her online confessions failed him, but he felt his cock quiver at the question. June's fingers were on the back of his head, pushing him tighter. He fumed hot, moist breath against her, staining the front of her jeans a midnight blue. The superheated scent of her filled his mouth, a rich, earthy aroma that poured across his tongue like thick coffee. His jaws closed softly over her denim-ed mound, massaging the flesh beneath, like a dog worrying a bone. The zipper of her jeans scratched a line of fire over his wide-spread lips. He felt her fingers worm their way between his forehead and her jeans, then heard the metallic ticking of the zipper as it was lowered. As her short, tapered fingers crept past his eyes, he lashed out his tongue and curled it around her index finger, pulling it between his lips. She pushed the finger deeper into his mouth, and he sucked on it as though it were a nipple or clit, his tongue twirling fierce circles around its tip. "You're filthy," she said, twisting the finger in his mouth, scoring the porous surface of his tongue with her nail. June took a half-step backward, used her free hand to edge the waistline of her jeans past her hips. In a slow shimmy of soft white flesh, her jeans wrinkled down around her ankles in a whisper of fabric, revealing the coral pink of her panties. Victor looked up, her moist finger slipping from his mouth, and found her looking down at him, a fall of blond hair cascading about her face. Her mouth was opened slightly, panting, her cheeks flushed, eyes unfocused. "How filthy can you be?" she whispered, tracing the moist tip of her finger down the swell of his cheek. Victor turned his head to the side and pressed his lips against the soft flesh of her palm. "As filthy as you need." And as her palm quivered against his lips, and as the puckered fabric between her thighs darkened from coral to pink, the door to the trailer began to rattle in its frame. END OF CH 1 The Reprised Surprise Ch. 02 And they were off down the hall, domestic landmarks flashing past as she half-dragged him deeper into her aluminum warren. Victor found himself in a dim bedroom, his knees crashing into the edge of a large, unmade bed. "Behind the door," June said and shoved him sideways into a triangular space between the bedroom door and a dresser, his feet flurrying through a litter of dirty clothing. As June pushed the door open against the dresser's face, deeper shadows found him, pooling over his eyes. "I can't shut it or he'll ask why." "Who --" but she was gone, jogging down the hallway, her heavy footsteps punctuating the metallic hiss of her zipper's upward journey. Victor stood in his patch of darkness, cock pressed ludicrously against his jeans, shaft throbbing with every thud of his heart. From the fog of frenzy, he had been ejected into a cold space, free-falling through the unfamiliar. He stood there alone behind the door, dust motes tickling his nose, nothing but lust and confusion to keep him company. Muffled voices and the thud of the front door told him that June's visitor had been allowed inside the trailer with them. With him. Lighter footsteps coming down the hall pressed his back further away from the door, the top edge of the dresser biting into his back. Whether from fear or adrenaline, his cock grew even harder in his jeans. As the steps drew near the door, he tottered on the edge of orgasm. Another door, close to him, slammed open, hard enough for him to feel its vibration in the wall against his side. June's voice: "Are you trying to knock a hole in the wall?" A shrill voice yelling back: "I didn't mean to." Then, soft and resentful: "Not that hard." Victor heard dresser doors yanked open, the muffled sound of clothing shuffled about. "What did you say?" June's son, that much Victor felt safe in assuming, stopped his rummaging, paused for a second's reflection. "I said I was sorry." "Sure you did." June's voice drew nearer, and beneath it, the rustle of paper. "This says that you can't go back without a vaccination. Why didn't you tell me about this?" "I did." "No, you did not." June's fingers peeked around the edge of the door Victor was trapped behind and pulled it nearly shut, reducing the acuteness of his imprisoning triangle, pouring more shadow into the room. The pink crescents of her fingers slipped from the door and he was alone again. "And why are you changing your clothes?" Her footsteps moved away from him, towards the son's bedroom. He heard the burr of carpet beneath a closing door. Their voices, muffled now through two doors, grew indecipherable. He felt like he was listening to one of the Spanish-language stations that lurked near the top of the FM dial, where his awareness of conversation was reduced to voice tones and syllable rapidity. If his Spanish-language musings were any indication, June and her son were either discussing the World Cup or arguing. His bet was on arguing. The bedroom was dim, with heavy curtains on the windows and a light he didn't dare turn on. Round shapes floated in the murk, the murk itself alive with tiny fireflies that pulsed in time to the metronome of his heart. As the debate in the far room buzzed on, the fireflies grew sluggish and the shapes sharpened beat-by-beat into furniture. In cadence with that slowing metronome, his cock ticked through the adagio measures -- dipping, sagging, falling. Over the top of the dresser, he saw a large mattress, sans headboard. At its foot, huddled a computer desk and a folding chair, bed and desk so close that June would have to shuffle between them sideways. Though the room reeked of stale cigarette smoke and powdery deodorant, it lacked the stifling heat of the front room, and he felt his mind clearing, beat by beat. He was safe, for the moment. But what would happen next? Did she intend for him to wait for her? Or, was the closed-door parley with her son meant to signal his escape? Escape? To have come so far, both in miles and in emotion, only to land in a situation that merited escape -- he sagged against the dresser, shaking his head. Damned fool. He touched his fingers to his lips, the lips that had pressed against her. His tongue played over his teeth, a flaccid imitation of June's frenzied organ. The organ that now, only minutes later, flailed at her son with relentless maternal ferocity. Victor was unwilling witness to her trapped domesticity, a fly ambered in the banality of her life. Escape. If he could know that the door to the boy's room would stay closed, he could try to sneak out, navigate the hallway's half-remembered obstacles. But he had felt every footstep over the past ten minutes, the boy's light taps, June's heavy thuds. His own footsteps would play the loose flooring like a xylophone. No, there would be no sneaking. Alternatively, he imagined dashing through the trailer, blitzing through furniture and clutter like opposing linebackers. He saw himself leaping into the rental car and fumbling with its unfamiliar ignition, trying not to look at the trailer, at the surrounding park, at all the eyes turned to watch the damned fool and his boorish flight. What a grand story he would be that night, gossipy gristle chewed over a dozen dinner tables. No, not that. God, not that. Like it or not, he was hostage to June's timetable, tucked away and waiting. The turn of a doorknob had plunged him from frenzy to farce and left him to soak there, like a filthy pan in her dishwater. When she had time, she'd pluck him from the tepid water and put him away. When she had the time. A sad resentment, equal parts self-pity and self-loathing, began to glow inside of him. Although he was at her mercy, he was the one who had placed himself there. The booking of the lay-over and renting of the sedan were twin insanities to him now, foolish detours directing him inevitably to this pathetic situation. He had been lost to lust, lost to the conceit that their online dalliance somehow freed him from the dull folly of the world. And he'd been shown the fool. Wherever he went, whomever he met, whatever he did -- it would all end in some dim room like this, buried in shadow. He gazed at the room with new eyes, gloom-adapted. If this were all there was to be, then he would enjoy it, eke out his pleasure within its walls, while the real June prattled on, her insectile voice a mockery of velvet-throated fantasy. As an adolescent, summer visits to a succession of aunts had painted him with a voyeuristic streak. Each time his mother and aunt-of-the-moment would indulge in the inevitable shopping trip, he would be left behind, alone in his aunt's home. There, he would busy himself with an indulgence all his own. While his aunt dallied over starched dresses and gleaming shoes, his tongue savored soiled panties fresh from her hamper, his glans burrowed into the cups of her brassiere. As his pubescent lust sharpened and reason clouded, he would dare more, slipping his naked body between the sheets of her bed, powdering himself with the sloughed residue of her body. If he couldn't fuck June, he would fuck the next best thing. Sliding his feet slowly forward, shuffling like a paralytic through a tangle of t-shirts and sweat pants, Victor ventured out from his assigned space between dresser and door. With silent, shallow steps, he drew up beside the bed. He imagined her lying there, slumbering flesh lending sheen and fragrance to sheet and pillow. Now, as he stood there, the violation of her trust, the penetration of her privacy, raised his fallen member, and he slipped himself from his jeans. In the dank air of June's bedroom, the beads of pre-cum on his cock were beads of ice. He fanned his hand over the surface of the bed, the rumpled, unmade ridges and valleys a maddening cartography beneath his moist palm. He felt the almost irresistible desire to strip off his clothing and roll in those sheets, wallow once more in youthful perversion. June's was a queen-sized bed, and he had to lean over it to explore its breadth. Carefully, placing one hand on the bed to support himself, stroking the other slowly along his shaft, he lowered his face close to the mattress, trying to glean an essence of flesh. Other than a faint echo of fabric softener, he was disappointed. Relentless, he shuffled along the length of the bed, toward the void of the missing headboard. He touched a pillow that had been crumpled into a ball, battered through the night by an insomniac's fists. He let his fingers play over its surface, seeing June's face against the pillow, her skin rustling along the fabric, leaving an invisible swath of perspiration and mascara. He leaned closer, the tip of his tongue slipping from his mouth, fist pumping steadily along his length. As he shifted his free hand to balance himself, it touched another pillow, its smooth surface marred by a deep, restful dent near its center. He stopped, the tip of his tongue molecules away from knitted fabric. Straightening, tongue retreating, hand releasing, he retraced the agonizingly slow journey back to the dresser. With the buzzing of mother and son droning in his ears, he eased open the top drawer and slowly slipped his hand inside, fishing out an article of clothing, unfolding it slowly on the slab of the dresser-top, a postmortem of cloth and elastic. His hand slipped inside the garment, fingers following an interior stitch forward, along its center length. With a twist of his wrist, his index finger, still oily with pre-cum, emerged from the flap, a pale digital mockery of June's husband's cock. Strangers, indeed. # When June came back into the bedroom, ten minutes later, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, underwear and cock hidden from view. Already whispering, she shut the door quickly, flicked on the overhead light. "I think we're ok. He didn't notice anything. The damn school nurse --" Her words trailed to silence when saw the way that he stared at her, the enigmatic smile on his face. "What did you tell your son?" June studied his face, shook her head, not comprehending, but knowing that something had shifted in the room, thrown the familiar dimensions of her bedroom off-kilter. "You couldn't shut the door, remember, because he'd ask questions." The smile on Victor's face widened, flashed white. "Asked of you, I'd assumed." "I told him I had to change my clothes." The yellow light from the overhead globe gave her skin a sallow tint, like half-melted candle-wax. "I need to take him to the doctor's. For shots." "Since I didn't notice a car, I'm guessing your husband is going to pick the two of you up?" he asked. "A nice family outing." She touched the door knob with her hand, poisoned eyes narrowing. He stood and she flinched. Flesh that he'd held in his hands shrank from him. The air between them crackled, like he was standing too close to a lightning-stricken tree. "When I said we were strangers, I didn't know the half of it." "What was I supposed to say," she said. "I half expected you were married. And we were just chatting, in the beginning." "In the beginning," he said, tapping his finger thoughtfully against his lips. He smelled the brine of his cock. "But June, we didn't stay at the beginning. "Which makes me wonder, why? So many times that you could have told me. And you must have known that I wouldn't have cared. Not so long as those IMs kept coming, those photos kept showing up in my inbox. "So I ask myself, why?" June cocked her head. "Under most circumstances, you'd think I'd be mad, wouldn't you?" He smiled again, playing out the moment, relishing the confusion on her face. "But I think I understand, June. I really do. We're really more alike that you might think. All the real fun," he tapped his forehead, "happening in here." She kept staring, fingers knuckled white around the door knob. "How it must have excited you, to lay there at night beside him and think of what you'd just finished doing. With another man. Just a few inches past his feet. Such a wonderful, wicked little adultery. With no one the wiser but you. A private sin tucked away in your heart. All your own." He snapped his fingers, the brittle sound making her hand jitter on the knob. "And that's when it hit me -- why you never told me. It wasn't the act between us that got you off. After all, what was I to you? Colored pixels and anti-aliased text." The words tumbled out of his mouth, a recursive chat session self-cybering him to frenzy. "What I was to you, what I had to offer, was one more vow to break, one more bit of sin to stuff into your heart. Every imagined meeting I messaged, every future I sketched out in those meandering emails of mine, tickled that dark spot inside of you, the part of you that knew none of it would ever, could ever, happen." June's eyes turning inward, cross-checking his words against her interior reality. "I see you sitting there," he nodded towards the folding chair perched halfway between monitor and mattress, "getting your double fill of it. The man behind your back and the man behind the screen, both of us lapping up our little dream of June, the fantasy you spoon-fed us." Did he imagine that a smile hinted those over-full lips? "Quite a scheme, my dear. But, with one slight problem." He flourished his hand at the bed and stepped aside, a carnival magician introducing the lady-sawn-in-half, restored. On the insomniac's pillow -- the one that smelled of hair spray and cosmetics -- lay her husband's underwear, neatly folded. Across the pillow and across the underwear, joining them together, lay the thick, yellowing stream of his ejaculate. "What happens when we all come together?" June's breath hissed in and her hands shot out towards the filth on her pillow. With easy grace, he plucked her hands away, held them firmly in his own. The gesture swiveled them together, belly to belly, so that he was looking into her wide eyes. "Please, I don't understand," she whispered. "Just let me go." Like drunken dancers aboard a listing ship, he swayed them away from the bed, guided her until her thick backside thumped against the hallway door. He leaned against her, the door creaking beneath their combined weight, so close that her short, shallow breaths panted into his face. "Oh, I think you understand more than you let on." He shifted his balance, pulled his right leg back and up. "And I'm not about to let you go. "Not when the real fun is about to begin." Carefully, as though 40 yards out and going for the extra point, he kicked his leg forward and into the flimsy wooden door. The Reprised Surprise Ch. 03 From out in the hall and beneath his feet, he heard and felt June's son approaching. The way that she squirmed against him, trying to edge out, he knew she had sensed it as well. With every tapping footstep, she twisted harder, the look on her face edging from shock to anger, then shading over to fear as the steps stopped on the far side of the door. Victor smiled. With their combined weight against the door, all her son was able to do was twist the knob in his hand, but with every turn of the metal, June shook as though she were being stabbed. "Mom, what are you doing? We gotta go." The boy's voice was close to them, even muffled through the cheap pressed wood of the door, as though he were in the room with them. June's body squirmed again, and Victor slid his free hand up and cupped the heavy swell of her left breast. She jerked like he had slapped her. He nodded towards the blank face of the door, cocked an eyebrow, waiting. "Mom?" Again the rattle of door knob, the spasm from June's flesh. Victor felt his cock awaken. "Just a minute, okay?" She turned her head to answer her son, looking away from Victor. No, that wouldn't do at all. He released her breast and grabbed her chin, pivoting her face back. She couldn't look away from him anymore, escape the truth of this situation, what was happening in the room. Her eyes were slits, as though waiting for an open hand or fist. Did her husband beat her? Did she expect the same, and probably far worse, from him? He stroked his index finger along her cheek, eliciting a shudder. The boy's steps retreated, probably entering his room. Certainly still within earshot, if they spoke too loud, argued too forcefully, made too much noise at all. Victor leaned closer. "He's just in the other room, isn't he?" June stared over his shoulder. "Should I open the door and take a little peek?" He released her wrist and put his hand on the cool metal of the door knob. "Yes, he's in his room," she whispered. Victor chuckled. "So close." He pressed against her, grinding his pelvis, the aching need of him, against the soft puddle of her belly. The door creaked. "And these doors, these walls, are just so damn thin. I bet that when you fuck your husband, you have to be little church mice." She stiffened against him. "Is that what you are, June? A little church mouse?" He released the door knob and slid his hand between them, wormed his fingers between her clenched thighs. "I guess that makes me a big old barn owl. Come swooping down," he grabbed the thickness of her, "to gobble you up." She stood like a lumpy manikin as he pawed at her. "You don't get it, do you June?" She studied an invisible spot on the far wall, a nerve playing in her cheek. "You go online and play at being naughty. Dirty chats and dirty pics while the husband sleeps in that bed behind you. But all the messy bits are a world away from home, aren't they? Something you can kill with a flick of the switch and become the good wife again, the good mother." He released her, twisted the lock on the door, and stepped back. She sagged forward, arms swinging down at her sides, bereft of independent movement. She was waiting him out, enduring what was being done to her in this room. "But ask yourself, is that all you want? To be the mom, the wife?" He walked over to the curtain near the computer desk, knowing that she wouldn't run out the door anymore, wouldn't risk spilling whatever was happening in this room into the rest of the trailer, her life. "Just do it," she mumbled. "Do what, June?" "Does it matter?" Carefully, with a languorous gesture, he straightened the curtains, closing the narrow slit that let in a sliver of the outer world. As the heavy fabric slid beneath his fingers, dust motes brought him the distilled scent of the room, stale smoke and dried sweat, the vapor of dying dreamers. When he turned, she stood as before, as though someone had cut the marionette's strings of her life. "Of course it matters, June." He pulled out the folding chair. "Why don't you sit down while we have ourselves a little chat about why it matters." She walked over to the chair, brushing dully against him as he stepped close to the window, positioning himself between her and the outer door. "Show me how you sat when we had all those wonderful little chats of ours." Zombie June slumped in her chair in front of the computer. He made an impatient sound, and she raised her arms, positioned her limp fingers on the keyboard. Victor stood there and admired the tableau he was creating. With every command he issued, and with every meek, dead response from June, the dark ice that filled his veins grew colder, fell closer to absolute zero. His nitric blood could shatter rose petals. "Alright, I'm starting to get a feel for the scene. I can almost imagine that big lump of husband snoring in the bed behind you, oblivious. Such a nice moment for you, wasn't it? Him sleeping while you play-fucked at his feet." She shrugged. "Come on, June, own yourself. I think you loved it. I think that was precisely the appeal for you. You had this safe little life wrapped around you, all warm and cozy, but somehow, it had slipped over your head, smothering you. The real you. Not the person that cooked their meals and cleaned their dishes and washed their clothes." He stepped behind her and and put his hands on her shoulders, leaned down, whispering in her ear. "Let's talk about the real June. The one that wanted to fuck and to be fucked. The one that only came out when the lights were off and your fingers got busy down below and there was some stranger on the other end of the line, keyboard and cock in hand." From this angle, a tall mirror on the wall beside the desk reflected them, her looming in the foreground, him pasted in the background, and, behind all, the bed stretching out like a wrinkled wasteland. "Admit it, June. Just for once in your life, come out into the daylight. Fuck the facade. We're over -- we both know that. All we have left is this instant, this moment together to show our true faces. This life is wrapped around you like a quilted shroud, all soft and warm and fitted for a corpse." He slid his hands from her shoulders, cupping his palms on her face, felt the cold down of her cheeks swell and fall with her shallow breaths. "You are in there. Not the wife or the mother or the cyber-queen, but the real you. "The you that lives in darkness." And it clicked. June cocked her head at the mirror, as though her mind were racing after a thought, a juxtaposition of images. Slowly, as consciousness overtook intuition, June's face awakened, her eyes lifted from her own reflection to his mirrored gaze. If ice could burn, his blood blazed. "The June I've never seen," he leaned over and brushed his lips against her forehead, like a man kissing his dead, "just came out to play." And in the mirror, June smiled. # A hundred trailers squatted over a farmer's re-zoned and partialed field. Metal tubes parked permanently and stuffed with humanity, specks of flesh encased in aluminum and carpeting, pickled in television light and radio waves. Long ranks of them, each bottling their tale of drudgery and fever -- the old dying slowly, the young burning quickly. And in one trailer, in one little casing where a mother had sat and typed messages to strangers in the night, something began to happen. The wind that chilled the aluminum skin of the trailer knew nothing of this change, the eruption of thought and desire blossoming like the petals of a night orchid. The cold November sun that glinted off the edges of the shuttered windows revealed nothing more than it had when the BMW had crunched to a stop. And the son. Did he know what was going on inside his parent's bedroom? Did he hear noises, rustlings, exhalations that his adolescent mind, lulled by internet images and pop lyrics, reduced to safe, knowable acts? Did the father, driving his oil-burning Taurus down the highway 30 miles away, casually feeding his lungs their first after-work cigarette, feel his mind tug away from the anticipated night of televised sport -- could the Colts cinch the playoffs? -- towards some dark presentiment, some augury of flesh and betrayal and lust? At the pivot point of this unseen revolution sat the bedroom. Victor still stood beside the chair, but June has transformed, leaning forward, mouth open, laboring over his resuscitated cock, brownish blond hair bobbing as she worked up and down the length of him. Victor had been sole witness to the metamorphosis, watching as her lips had wrapped around him, felt her tongue worry the underside of his glans. His cock had been coated with residual cum as she had pulled him from his jeans, and as she had taken him into her mouth, she had squirmed on the chair and furrowed her brow as his salt infused her palate. Now, he let her work him, felt warm saliva coat the base of his cock and slowly spread down over his densely haired testicles like a warm bath. When he felt the first stirring of orgasm, he pulled himself from her, his thumb sliding along the swell of her lower lip. Her moist breath swirled over his hand as her tongue lashed him. Leisurely, he unfastened his jeans and slid them down his legs, stepping out of them and his shoes with one deft movement. As he crawled into June's side of the bed, he pulled off his shirt, the skin of his chest prickling in the sudden chill. June watched him from her chair, head hanging forward, eyes shadowed. His naked body sprawled on her sheets, the scent of her oozing over his flesh as his hand slid down his stomach, fastened around his cock, began to pump slowly, steadily. She stood, walked over to him, and stood beside the edge of the bed, arm resting on the top of the dresser. Her cool eyes followed the easy motion of his hand, slowly trailed up his body. He knew how he must look to her, a rude obscenity sprawled in the bed where she lay at night, internet-spawned wetness drying between her thighs as her husband slept ignorant beside her. He clenched his ass at the surge of electricity that shot through him, the voyeur unmasked and spitted on his quarry's gaze. Nonchalantly, as though she were about to crawl into bed for the evening, June shed her clothing onto the pile of laundry on the floor. Her breasts were large and swayed over her ribs while a pale bulge of belly quivered as her feet shook free of shoes. A thatch of brownish-blond hair covered her pussy -- the unshaven sight quickening his hand along his shaft. She spoke then, the first words since transformation. "Stop playing with yourself, Victor. You aren't allowed to cum yet." Her face was hard, eyes cold as the outside wind. "I want you hard." His hand fell onto his hip, cock pawing the air. She rummaged in the nightstand beside the bed. Knowing but not believing what she was about to do, he held his breath. All the adolescent perversions and warpings of sex had driven him towards this special need, this inexplicable craving. He couldn't explain it, merely squirm beneath it, luxuriate in his need. With a crinkle of cellophane, she shook a Marlboro from a pack that she tossed casually back onto the nightstand. With practiced ease, she lit the cigarette. The fresh bite of tobacco drifted over him as she drew heavily, tapered fingers holding the cigarette between her lips. As white smoke tendrilled from her nostrils, he eased onto his elbows in the bed, needing to see clearer now, to feast on the proffered fetish. Slipping the yellow-filtered cigarette from her lips, she plumed smoke into his face. As he squinted into the exhalation, his fist found his cock, pumping savagely. June's hand shot out and knocked his hand aside. She sat on the edge of the bed, cool hip touching the outside of his thigh. Dangling the cigarette between her lips, she stretched her left hand over his abdomen, blocking access to his aching member. Her right hand slipped between her legs. As she drew again, cigarette pursed between her lips, she rubbed her wet fingers over his lips. He sucked her digits into his mouth, tasting alkaline moisture, fellating her fingers as she drew and exhaled, cigarette rising and falling with every cycle of breath. From the door, after a chain of footsteps that neither of them noticed, "We gotta go, Mom. The doctor's office is going to close." June stiffened, cigarette clamped between her ivory teeth. Victor reached his arm out and speared his fingers inside of her, found her dripping with arousal, his wedged fingers slipping easily into her, knuckles burrowing into the furry mound between her thighs. With a sharp intake of breath, she pivoted her head, swept her gaze onto him, found his eyes. A slow, wicked smile curled around the Marlboro. She reached up her right hand and plucked the cigarette from her lips as her left settled around his cock, squeezing the shaft until his head turned a delirious purple. "I have to take a shower, honey." She licked her lips, arched her back as Victor curled her fingers inside of her, massaged the wrinkles of flesh along the canal of her cunt. "I'll be done soon, and then we'll go. Okay?" Confused silence from the other side of the door. "But it's already 4:30. It's going to be too late." June swiveled her hips, her vaginal muscles clenching over his fingers. Victor lay in the bed, sinking into the mattress as he watched her deal with her son, cigarette and cock in hand. "I've got to take a shower, Kevin. Just wait until I get out." Her voice held the whipcrack of their earlier conversation, and Victor felt the mother mask slipping back onto her face. He rubbed his thumb up the juncture of her lips, tapping her swollen clit. June tipped her head back, reached her right hand down and clasped his wrist in hers, pushing him deeper. The sight of the lit cigarette between her fingers, the filter pressing into the skin of his wrist, smoke spiraling upward, sent Victor's cock throbbing, hips spasming against her fist in the need to fuck her hand, pursue this ecstatic moment into orgasm. June loosened her fingers, permitted his cock to slip up and down to the frenzy of his motion. The bed creaked and groaned. "I'll just have Dad take me when he gets home." The boy's voice was sullen. "Never mind." His footsteps faded from the door, back towards the front room and the unglimpsed laptop, towards the front door that would, according to the son, admit the father in time to make the doctor's office. The first trickle of real fear pooled in Victor's abdomen, stilling his upward thrusts. If June felt fear, it didn't show. As his thrusts stopped, she let his cock slip free, then stood. She walked calmly around the bed, side-shuffling between mattress and desk, then disappeared into the attached bathroom. Victor lay on the bed, consciousness splitting as one ear listened to the door to the hallway, the other to the hidden bathroom. He heard a shower sputter and stream, filling the air with a damp white noise. He closed his eyes, listening to the gurgle of the drain, the spitting of misaligned water nozzles. Slipping into a voyeuristic dream, he imagined June's morning body plunged beneath it, skin still lined from the night's twisted sheets. He wriggled his toes in the sheets pooled at the foot of the bed, turned his head to inhale the scent of the bunched pillow. But then June was standing beside him, pubis glistening near his head. Somewhere between bathroom and bedside, she had returned the cigarette between her lips. She dragged deeply, cheeks hollowing, then set the half-burned butt into an ashtray. Leaning over quickly, hungrily, she curled her fingers into his short hair and tilted his head back, sealed her lips over his. He groaned into her as smoke flooded into his mouth, slipped down his throat. The unfamiliar rush of nicotine shot along his veins, sparked into his consciousness. His throat burned as his lust blazed. The flame of fetish evaporated the fear from his guts. June straightened, fingers still twined in his hair, then fisted his face against her. Thick, wiry hair scratched over his face. The smell of her, thick and earthy, filled his nostrils. He opened his mouth to take her clit between his lips, and transferred smoke slipped up past his eyes, gauzing her in an ecstatic gray film. Her clit was between his lips, her pubis spread over his face. He ate at her like an animal, tongue and fingers and lips slipping over and into her. Awareness of his own erection faded, became a dull ache as his consciousness was swallowed by the cunt against his face. Time dilated against her, and he pressed his face forward hard enough that his neck burned, his tongue numbed. Humidity spilled from the shower and into the room, lending a sodden weight to the odor of their frenzy. He smelled the bitter waft of ashes as her cigarette burned untended in the ashtray, but still maintained his labor, wanting to feel her orgasm sweep out from beneath his lips, feel her hips slip loose as she shook apart. The bulk of her body moved against him, spilling him back onto the bed. June's right leg pushed his head deep into the mattress as she swung on top of him, her pussy hovering over his face as she faced his feet. Heavy breasts spilled over his thighs, mounded there. "You don't get to fuck me," she whispered. "I'm sick to death of getting fucked in this bed. You want to play this game, you play by my rules. "Eat me." He shivered and raised his head, lapped at her by way of reply. And her mouth closed over him. He thrust upward, felt her accept his length. She worked into a rhythm, elbows planted against the bed, one arm snaked beneath his thigh. Her hand tugged at his scrotum, rolling testicles between finger and thumb. His hips sagged back against the mattress, prone beneath her expertise. His mouth brushed her vulva. At this reversed angle, her cunt gaped above him, inviting his tongue. He plunged deep, stabbing into her. A part of his mind tripped over the image of her husband's cum dried inside of her, liquefied now by lust and saliva. He shook his head clear of the phantom, though a barely acknowledged part of his mind tucked the image into the backwater of his frenzy, a homoerotic spicing. How long they labored, gulping and licking, he didn't know. It seemed only a moment, but also seemed without beginning, that she had always sucked, that he had always lapped. Heavy footsteps. Victor's tongue slipped from her cunt and his head fell to the pillow, turned to look at the door, stare at the knob the instant before it rattled in a furious semi-circle. "June!" A father's voice. A husband's voice. "What the hell are you doing in there." June still had Victor's cock between her lips. Her hips heaved downward, ground her bush into the side of his face, dampening his hair, muffling his ear. The door rattled again. "Goddammit. Get out of the fucking shower." The door shook as though kicked. Victor held his breath, frozen into a rictus of celibacy. June's hips squirmed insistently, pressed him deeper into the mattress, her teeth scoring the base of his shaft. Thrusting upward in pain, he reached up and clawed his fingers into the cheeks of her ass. As he shot upward, he heard her gag as the head of his cock pressed beyond her epiglottis. "What?" insanely, from the other side of the door. Something swept over Victor then. The fear didn't diminish, rather heightened, but the terror of discovery -- his play act rendered real, his dalliance with danger pinned now beneath June's cuckolding passion -- began to fuel his lust, spiraled it upward on a bonfire of destruction. He hammered upward. Her elbows locked against the underside of his thighs, sealing her face against him as he fucked her mouth, as she rode him like a bucking bull. Her cunt, smeared with saliva and oily arousal, basted his mouth. As his fingers spread her labia wide, she ground her pelvis against him, the dense hair of her mound catching between his teeth. The Reprised Surprise Ch. 03 And the husband stood outside the door. 36 inches of empty space, humid air still roiling with cigarette smoke, with 2 more of pressed wood, separating husband from wife. Victor's mind peeled back the roof of the trailer like a sardine can, saw the husband compartmentalized from the woman that played at wife and mother but now fucked herself on a stranger's face, swallowed engorged flesh. "I told you." The boy's voice, close up against the door. Victor imagined a youthful ear pressed against the wood, ferreting out the sound of shower head, of draining water. June moaned, her voice vibrating against his stiffened flesh, and he knew similar thoughts filled her mind. "Why in the hell she taking a shower now?" "She was doing dishes." "So what?" The father sighed and shook the door. Victor felt himself tightening. He worked his lips harder against her labia, trilled her clit into and out of his mouth, whipping his tongue over the nub on each entry. He pressed an index finger into the tight circle of her anus. "Get your shoes on. We're leaving as soon as she gets out. Goddamn it." June shook over him, hips scissoring against his face as she began to cum. And as the footsteps shook the floor, travelled up the legs of the bed-frame and transformed to soft ripples within the springs of the marriage bed, Victor plunged upward, stabbing his cock into June's mouth as he spilled over her tongue, as his mind spiraled up towards the ceiling, paused, then crashed back down onto the mattress, sunken there beneath June's rolling weight as she sagged, panting over him, sipping and swallowing. # As he turned the BMW into the rental lot, he licked his lips, tasting her, remembering. The back of his shirt and jeans were wet from huddling in the bottom of the bathtub, vinyl shower curtain pulled, as June had opened the door and given the bedroom and bathroom back to darkness. Angry voices had ambushed her as she stepped into her life. They themselves had not spoken. Act consummated, betrayal concluded, true faces revealed and recognized and relished, they had fallen back into stranger's bodies, even as their juices dried on the other's faces. A vague gesture towards the bathtub had been her closest approach to communication, all the months of late night confidences betrayed. What they had shared had obliterated them in the instant of sharing, consumed them like a candle's wick. As she had turned and sidestepped her way between bed and desk, he had considered speaking. But what had been left to say? In the end, Victor had lain in the cold tub, hugging his arms to his chest, floating in the enameled womb. What had been conceived and gestated in darkness had finally been born. And as a misfiring engine struggled to life and carried the woman away, the newborn died, plucked from life like a spurned infant, blue and shivering between cold metal tongs.