7 comments/ 69646 views/ 6 favorites Emerald City By: steamer5139 Carmen Sorrento wanted me to fuck her. Naturally, I wanted the same thing. We sealed this mutually agreed upon deal on the purple futon in my studio apartment in downtown Emerald City, Mecca for coffee aficionados, a city of silvered skyscrapers, steep, frequently rain slicked streets and great, lumbering ferries plying the nearby sound. The new futon, my combination sofa and sleeping pallet, was sold to me by a man with an uncanny resemblance to the fellow who successfully coveted my wife Moira; both men shared the same olive complexion, busy moustaches and wavy black hair. Unfortunately, lots of men with a certain coloring and churlish character appealed to my soon to be ex-wife. On that day several weeks after my marriage went down in flames, I wanted the bastard dead, all the bastards nestled between Moira's legs one time or another dead. Killing him, murdering any or all of them swiftly not sufficient for my revenge, I imagined him, his brethren in metal drums perforated with dime-sized holes, dumping these home made death traps in a cold deep lake, their screams silenced as the last few air bubbles escaped the canisters in their slow, inexorable descent to the lake's bottom. The plan's problem was Moira and her all consuming sexual high jinks with so many men. I needed access to a lot of barrels, lots and lots of barrels. No, it might be more cost effective to hammer the lid home over dear sweet Moira and be done with it. Staring at this doppelganger of Moira's lover, I squeezed my left fist furiously, its knuckles blanched white. Fortunately, I restrained the impulse to punch the guy, purchased the futon, hideous color and all, with as little conversation as the transaction allowed. I needed something to sleep on; it was cheap, served my immediate needs. I knew on an intellectual level this man had no responsibility for my wife's adultery. Or maybe he did, Moira got around. Maybe she had fucked this guy too. I thought it possible she had fornicated with half the male population in Emerald City. What made me want to throttle this man and every other man with similar physical attributes came from that dark place in a man's soul where something of the cave man lies dormant until one's honor is trampled or one's hearth is threatened. No doubt, I was a bit insane too. Damned mad for sure. I adored my wife; my well spring of love for her bottomless. To me no woman was more perfect. Smart, sexy, she ceaselessly thrilled me with her uninhibited sexual play. Petite and buxom with terrific legs, she kept her figure toned from a disciplined regimen in our in-house gym. She was the cheapest whore in private, the cherished wife in public. During our four year marriage not once did I cheat or consider cheating. Unfortunately Moira could make no such claim. I found this out in late July of 2003 when my fishing trip floating down Oregon's Rogue River ended early. My buddy Max Schmeling, the claims adjustor, not the heavyweight boxer, got word his father had dropped dead of a heart attack and he flew to Denver. That left Joe Murphy and me to fish for steelhead. The next day Joe broke his left arm, a simple fracture requiring a cast, and the fishing trip we planned for nearly a year ended four days early. After the long drive home in the plush cockpit of my SUV, listening to Billie Holiday, John Coltrane and Charlie Parker, no fish to show for my effort, I parked in the flagstone drive-way, left the fly rod and the rest of my gear in the vehicle, and entered my sprawling and secluded house through the front door made of mahogany and beveled glass. The four bedroom stone and timber house in the style of an English country home was big enough for lots of kids when I finally succeeded impregnating Moira once, twice or even three times. Close to midnight, I entered the dark house, heard the grandfather clock ticking in the entry way and the much louder sounds of moans from the master bedroom. Was my little green eyed, red haired vixen watching a porno? I smiled; anticipating the randy lamb primed for me the horny goat. I turned the cold brass knob, pushed back on the bedroom door. My eyes saw what my ears already had heard. Moira in the middle of our queen sized bed astride a paunchy man with lots of black hair above his lips and thatched across his chest and legs. Long tresses of red hair streamed down Moira's freckled back, looked like dried blood in the candle glow. I cursed myself for buying the half dozen candles illuminating Moira bouncing up and down. The candlelight cast a buttery glow on her lithe body, the man's dispersed torso, falsely colored their rutting as something endearing and somehow made the tawdry spectacle more palatable to the eye. As the cuckolded husband I was not beguiled by the tableau. Moira leaned forward, gripped the top of the bed's walnut headboard, bucked up and down on the man's swollen cock. Bonded together, their bodies hammered against the firm mattress, the springs squealed in resistance to the pounding. The candles lemon light played across Moira's smooth, creamy back, the firm roundness of her derriere; the man, half lit in light, suckled at my wife's breasts, their slopes resistant to gravity hidden in murky darkness. "Fuck me with that nice sweet cock." Bolero, barely audible, played on the compact disc player. "What the fuck," I said. The intimately joined couple cracked apart, Moira squealed. The man doubled up in a defensive posture, prepared for a rain of blows from the pissed off husband-me. His fluid motion made me wonder if this had happened to him before. I stepped into the bedroom, from bliss to turmoil in one stride; the levitating flame on each candle flared as though my quick movements triggered willful intention on their part to make this little theater more vivid so as not to miss anything important, that my eyes captured every salacious detail. Moira one moment tossing about on this man's prick, a moment later calm, relaxed, refreshed as on late Sunday mornings opening her eyes, smelling the succulent aroma of Starbuck's espresso roast wafting from the white china cup I held under her nose. Gripping the blue sheets under her chin and facing me, Moira showed remarkable grace under pressure as I stared at her with a murderous rage. Her lover simpered. Wide-eyed, hyperventilating, crowned by an out of skew toupee displaced by their furious humping, he scanned the room, looking for an escape route. My God, did this woman have no standards? God, is my witness, I wished to be returning from a hunting trip instead of a fishing excursion. My fly rod was useless in this situation, but with a rifle or shotgun, I could have splattered their blood and guts all over our tastefully decorated master bedroom. "Jack, don't do anything stupid." Yeah, right, I thought. The day I walked down the aisle, you on my arm, was about as stupid as I could get. "God damn it, did you have to use our fucking candles? I looked at fellow trying to burrow under Moira. Get the fuck out of my house douche bag and take my fucking candles with you." With the thumb and index finger of my left hand, I snuffed out the candle closest to the bed, a string of gray smoke marking its passing. "Get out before I jam this candle up your ass." Moira grinned for God's sake. The man jumped from the bed, grabbed his clothing, fled from the bedroom but not before I struck him in the back with the candle. Like a rocketing baseball smacking into the padded center of a catcher's mitt, it made a satisfying plopping sound. A few seconds later I heard the front door slam behind him. Hopefully, one of private security cars patrolling the exclusive neighborhood would see a naked man running down the sidewalk, cradling all his clothing in his arms, and pick him up. Matter of fact, I ought to call the guys at the community's front gate and tell them a naked jaybird, a suspected terrorist was running amok in the neighborhood. Hopefully, they would shot first and shout questions later. "Jack, fuck me. You are turned on, I see it in your eyes; get your cock in me. Now, you know what a slut I am. I have this need to fuck behind your and now it is all ruined." She was not calm and relaxed at all. She was turned, me catching her fucking this man, found the situation erotic, wanted to keep the game in play. I did not. "Fuck you." When I was a sophomore in high school, I wrote a short story for English comp, received a B plus for my effort. I imagined humans making contact with aliens. Human sized, somehow capable of movement on the most fragile of struts, their bodies similar to the preying mantis, heads in the shape of incandescent light bulbs with no visible facial features. For millions of years these creatures communicating in high pitched squeaks studied us. Using a recording medium far in advance of anything so far invented by us, these color images, subtitled when necessary, were gathered by tiny airborne transmitters invisible to the naked eye. They showed dinosaurs, not Claymation or digital ones, but the real thing. The continent of Atlantis with peculiarly defined buildings and strange flying vehicles was no joke. We saw such luminaries as Nero who bore absolutely no resemblance to the guys depicting him in movies, he did sound like Truman Capote. Jesus Christ no hippie with stoned blue eyes, strings of blonde hair streaming down on his shoulders, a trim beard covering most of his gentle face. No, he looked more like an Ethiopian sheep herder with a sharply raked nose, kinky hair, flies and people forever hovering around him. When that guy opened his mouth, people listened. Napoleon seemed always telling dirty jokes and smacking himself in the forehead. We saw common folk living their daily lives, doing the most boring things. We saw the great battles, explorers setting out from the old world, crowds storming the Bastille, the progress of human civilization from Neanderthal to now, every bit of the drama and pathos of real people, not actors playing real people. With all this new data human history required extensive revision. I felt that way about my beloved wife. I possessed rudimentary knowledge of Moira's past and not much more. I knew she was a shiftless laborer's daughter raised in homes most accurately described as shacks by a father named "Rags" Rugulian. Rags preferred fishing and drinking to working. Moira's mother Molly looked for love in all the right places when compared to her lot with Rags but never found it except for frequent one night stands in a series of Idaho establishments reminiscent of the Bates Motel in Psycho. Moira, fed Cheerios, macaroni, and bologna, grew up with perpetually dirty bare feet, suffered from ringworm, impetigo and scabies. The family, Mom and Pop and three daughters were nearly always penniless. Moira's clothes were hand me downs from two senior sisters. Now, courtesy of my deep pockets, Moira, lived in luxury, and was addicted to Versace, Dior and Armani. Apparently, the grinding poverty and uninvolved parents with their own selfish agendas had robbed her of any ability to love, to find contentment with one soul mate. It did not excuse her behavior, her treatment of me but it offered an explanation of sorts, I suppose. When she first told me about her sad state growing up, I was amazed that from that crucible such a polished, beautiful, intelligent woman had flourished. Unfortunately, the minuses of that upbringing had flowered with even greater success. Moira, a much better looking alien then those populating my story, but nevertheless an alien, had swooped down, dropped a veritable bonanza of new information about herself into my lap and like the humans in my story, I nearly buckled under the weight of all this new data and our history together required extensive revision. I turned on my heels, fled from the house, splashed through the river Styx, climbed its far bank and found myself on the shores of hell. Before backing out of the driveway, I pounded my fists on the steering wheel. Tears welling in my eyes, I screamed in rage. Driving down the tree lined street, I passed two yellow security cars corralling the naked guy. His arms twisted behind his back, handcuffs on his wrists, he squirmed on the pavement under crossed flashlight beams. "Yes" I said pounding my fists on the steering wheel passing the scene. Head aching from holding back tears, images of Moira's treason in our home, in our bed kept playing in my head. We separated of course, started divorce proceedings naturally. I learned my marriage was a sham from the beginning. Moira had kept a series of lovers, a veritable legion of fuck buddies throughout our marriage. She had fucked them in our bed, in our cloistered backyard, seedy motels and wherever else proved convenient for coupling. The guy I caught her with, a portly fellow named Mark, a fabric wholesaler, was only her latest paramour. How does one meet a fabric wholesaler? A few days later, from her own mouth, I learned about her whoring in a busy restaurant Mozart playing in the background. To cap it off she said," Jack, you know why we have no kids? I had myself fixed that is why. I like fucking too much; lover, you married a dyed in the wool cock loving slut. I just fucked a guy, a man with a ten inch cock. My pussy is full of his semen and I swallowed his sperm too." Moira smirked, full of herself and felt brave in the crowded eatery known far and wide for its juicy prime rib. I wanted to choke her to death. Four double scotches in me already, giddy from the alcohol, Moira appeared hazy but still as beautiful as an Irish dawn. Her red hair was puffed on the back of her head; make-up highlighted her cheekbones, attracted attention to her emerald eyes and drew one's gaze to her full red lips. The short skirt cut well above the knee, jacket and heels she wore so stunningly all the same aquamarine color. Under the jacket the contour of her full breasts was covered by a polished white silk blouse. Amidst the tinkering silverware, voices sounding like hisses in my ears, the flash of a darting waiter's short blue jacket, I tossed the fifth double straight scotch straight into her face; a direct hit, the amber fluid hit her squarely in the center of her forehead, funneled down her nose, trickled down her cheeks and splattered on the linen table cloth. Pounding the shot glass down on the table with such force, the table bounced off the floor as my left hand whipped across the right side of Moira's face with enough force to propel her out of her chair and into several near by diners, an elderly gray haired man and a considerably younger blond with a brief case sitting on the floor next to her. Moira rose from the floor, rubbing her cheek. I stood next to our table, looked about the crowded room, all eyes on our little drama. One of the waiters approached but stood outside my striking distance. I considered saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, if I may disturb you for a moment, I have an announcement to make." Clearing my throat, a bit shaky on my feet, hanging on to the table, slurring my speech as I said, "I just found out my wife, my soon to be ex-wife is a slut." Why bother? Hearing such news only guaranteed males queuing to fuck Moira. My grandfather often said that 98 percent of people could care less about your problems and the other two percent will jump up and down with happiness hearing of your troubles. I dropped 25 dollars on the linen covered table, stumbled out the restaurant on Pine Street, a hop, skip and a jump from my digs. Near the front door, I turned to the maitre de and said, "Buddy, I think the lady needs a towel." Several of the diners and drinkers in the establishment were friends or acquaintances of Moira if not me and within the hour we would be the talk of Emerald City. I felt good. For the first time since returning from my fishing trip some of my rage had bled off. Too drunk to be any sort of gentleman, I was unconcerned about someone wiping my clock or the possibility of an assault and battery charge landing me in jail. Seeing two Moiras in front of me, I was fortunate to hit the right one. Her features were diffused, cloudy in my alcohol befuddled brain, but I still saw her wide-eyed surprise as the cold un-diluted scotch rolled down her perfectly made up face. The red and uneven splotch on her rouged cheek, the brushing away of the smirk made me buzz with excitement. Never had I struck a woman in anger but I felt no guilt or remorse. Leaving the restaurant through its double glass doors, every eye in the place staring at my back, the room silent as an empty coffin, I climbed the three steps under the shading of a white metal awning, turned left and lurched toward my place a few blocks away. Telling my grandfather of my actions, he nodded his head in approval. "Jack, I would have done the same thing. Yep, the same thing." The day after I found Moira in a compromising position and told my grandfather, he did not say "I told you so" but I knew he was thinking it. When I had announced my plans to marry Moira, he said, "Son, that woman is too much for you to handle. Let Max check her out." Max, grandfather's personal lawyer, was one of the few women he associated with for her ability not her body or beauty. "Don't you dare do such a thing." Grandfather said "okay." The single word bloated with disbelief, but he let it go, did not say anything more about it and graciously welcomed Moira into the inner sanctum of the Findlander family. Matthew Findlander, my grandfather, a veteran of the 101st Airborne in World War II, a decorated paratrooper, a Screaming Eagle with two combat jumps to his credit, fought behind the Normandy, France beachhead amidst the hedge rows on D-Day, kept killing Germans as he hoofed toward their Fatherland. One of the Battered Bastards of Bastogne, he was severely wounded in the Ardennes Forrest the day after Christmas in 1944. He was the wisest of men and I should have listened to his sage advice. Not me, I knew better. I loved Moira. She loved me. Nothing else mattered. My trust of her unlimited, I worshipped her, she the goddess, the monarch, the queen of my domain. Moira burned in me as a savage, all consuming firestorm. Matthew Finlander was his own man. No one had a memory of him ever losing an argument. Even tempered, he never yelled, he could be obstinate, especially as he got older, and his word was his bond. Anything he did, he did his best and he expected the same standard of conduct from his family and his employees. Shortly after the war ended he opened an auto parts store. Fifty-five years later he owned 67 Finlander Auto Parts stores in California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Nevada, Arizona, Utah and New Mexico. Worth an estimated 38 million dollars, at 82, Matthew Finlander was still consumed with the pleasures of the flesh, a mover and shaker in the world of business and politics. Some day, in the not too distant future, I expected to inherit the bulk of his estate. I was in no hurry. I enjoyed my grandfather's company and wanted him around as long as possible. For now I managed one of his stores in Emerald City after serving in the trenches as a tool boy and assistant manager in several other stores scattered about the Findlander Empire. My father was president of the company until his sudden death of a heart attack at 57. Grandfather was Chairman and Bill Gilester was interim president until I was ready to assume the reins of the company. Actually, grandfather was retired, living in a sumptuous home in Palm Springs half the year and the other half in Kauai. Ever since December 1944, the Germans doing their dandiest to kill him, the snow and cold, also the enemy, he spent as little time as possible anywhere it might drop below freezing or dump the smallest snow flak on his furrowed forehead. Emerald City In his youth Grandfather cut a rakish figure. Tall, slender, square jawed, a short blunt nose, wavy black hair slapped back across the top of his head, green eyes full of fire and fight, a moustache not much wider then a pencil's lead filling. He often said his slim profile made him a smaller target before, during and after the war. Hardened from war, business reversals and three failed marriages, now at the front end of his eighth decade, he looked twenty years younger. He lived with a mistress 45 years his junior. Unruly thin white hair covered his head and the fiery light in his green eyes had softened to a twinkle. Still energetic, no less a commanding presence, he was calmer, thinner, and bonier in old age. I resembled the young version of Matthew Findlander. With little of his youthful flamboyancy, no moustache and a less severe hair style, I was my own man just as he was. All through his life, Matthew Findlander's slash and burn, take no prisoners, cut throat attitude had served him well in the business world if not the marriage bed. I tended to be more reflective, tactful, and bookish and gave my life and love to one woman. Matthew Findlander lived his life as a free willing buccaneer with few if any boundaries. Jack Findlander, me, his grandson, lived by a more restrictive code of conduct, tried to live my life as a knight but sometimes I faltered, was more the ignoble knave then a noble knight, but I tried. Last year, back in the midst of my happy, contented days of my marriage, madly in love with Moira, at his home in Palm Springs, Grandfather and I sat near his Olympic sized swimming pool, a uniquely shaped cement pond, drinking lemonade doused with vodka, eating shortbread cookies off French Limoges porcelain. Gwen, his mistress, returned to the house after delivering our vodka laced lemonade and cookies on a silver platter purchased in Vienna during grandfather's second honeymoon. Teetering on high heels, her hips swayed in the tiniest patch of yellow bikini bottoms as she moved away from us. Gwen, a former actress, a supporting player in several Playboy channel teleplays, the star of a series of hard core pornographic films, ex-centerfold, resembled a mature Ava Gardner. A few minutes earlier, leaning down to set the drinks and snacks on the yellow umbrella shaded patio table, her tits, melons equal in size to soccer balls nearly sprang into our laps. All of Matthew's wives and mistresses were buxom as well as insatiable and wicked to the nth degree. Gwen had let me know in no uncertain terms her availability whenever my fixation with Moira abated. "Jack, I hope you live to be 82 and you can hang your ass on the side of your pool, still get hard as a crow bar and be blown to heaven by a woman half your age. That means you're healthy, wealthy, and wise and full of cum," Grandfather said as Gwen disappeared inside the mansion. After separating from Moira, I did not bounce back quickly. Moira may have been a gold digging slut but I still loved the gold digging slut. Like a man addicted to nicotine trying to quit smoking and craving one short drag on a cigarette, I found myself still addicted to my wife, wanting to bed her one last time. I resisted. Once a mere millisecond before hitting the send button on the phone to call Moira, I retained the presence of mind to fling the Nokia into the wall, a pitch which proved disastrous to the phone. Another time I typed a lengthy and pathetically maudlin email to Moira and then thank God, smacked down on the delete button. I drank too much. Chivas Regal scotch so tasty and such a phenomenal palliative for my pain. A eunuch showed more of a sex drive then I did. Even the idea of purchasing Gwen, my father's delectable mistress on my prong did not rally me into tumescence. My parents worried about me. My best friend, Paul Pister's ceaseless refrain to me: "Get your head out of your ass Jacko and move on. Forget the fucking whore." Easier said then done. I wallowed in self pity, my liver worked overtime to burn off my excess alcohol. I often sat around in my tattered bathrobe and ratty house shoes, refused to shave and lived on scotch and the occasional ham sandwich or bowl of clam chowder. At least the fucking whore's, Paul's description, one I heartily agreed with, expectations of netting a hefty sum after our divorce fell flat. After a private conversation with grandfather, she walked out of his study pale with nothing but a small pittance to show for her efforts. In a vast room with a pool table under a tiffany lamp as its centerpiece, my grandfather, who seldom raised his voice, in all likelihood promised her bloody demise if she did not cut her loses and move on. I moved into a tiny studio condo my grandfather hooked me up with. Located near downtown Emerald City, in the 60s, the rectangular, architecturally unimpressive brick building was a swinging singles place. The building looked down on a rolling plot of green lawns surrounded by a high wooden fence. Filled with winding brick pathways, fragrant flowering bushes, walled in declivities for barbecuing, and several tennis courts, the foliage provided multiple locales for buff young men in Speedos and buxom young women in string bikinis to fuck whenever the desire struck them. In the past such erotic imagery would have given me a great deal of vicarious pleasure, but not now, not in my sorry state. In its sexually licentious heyday, fast cars, the occasional Harley, roared in under the portico. Into these colorful chrome chariots, piloted by sexy young men, sexy young women in high heels, short skirts and décolleté aplenty would be whisked off into the night. Breaking bread, inhibitions loosened with liquor, getting high with a communal joint, invariably led to pleasures of the flesh, the transformation of two into a single double backed beast intent on instant gratification. Now, a more sedate crowd populated the Chateau Vista. The apartments now converted into condominiums housed retired postal workers, widows living off fat pensions and young families. One former tenant was the infamous Emerald City Stasher, a fat slob with a bald head, who hacked up nubile young women in his spare time and hid his victims about the countryside for return visits when so inclined. The cops found mementos of his victims scattered about his apartment. His neighbors said he kept a spotless home and was quite the barbecue artiste. I could only image what taste treats the bastard cooked up for his guests. Thank God, he was gone by the time I moved in. From the debris of my broken marriage I extracted my belonging, placed them in storage save for some books and clothing. Along with the futon, I purchased a cheap pine dining set: a table and two chairs, some dishes, pots, pans, silverware, a laptop computer and a cream colored plush rocker. Legally separated, the divorce pending final resolution, I still alternated between aching for Moira, hating her. On a Saturday afternoon in July eight months after separating from Moira, the bright sunlight and cloudless blue sky inspired me. I shaved the infestation of black stubble covering the lower portion of my face, showered, shed my bathrobe, dressed in denim and dock siders and walked several blocks to a book store, a veritable emporium of books, CDs and DVDs. A bit of book browsing, sipping on a latte might lift my spirits. It had worked before. Entering the store from street level, I rode the smoothly running escalator with several other shoppers to the store's lower floor and stood at one of the octagonal shaped tables filled with piles of newly printed books, their dust jackets sparkling under fluorescent lights. I picked up one book, thumbed through it, shook my head at the idea of paying $9.99 for a 57 page book. Quickly dispatched back to the table, I considered such a ridiculously high price for such a slim read to be highway robbery on the order of an 18th century highwayman poking his pistol in the shocked and angry mugs of his victims, demanding their loot. They hung highwaymen. This robbery was couched as literature. Picking up another book, one heftier in number of pages and price naturally, I looked up saw her descending on the escalator. Several times in the past few days this woman, bound for me now on the black tread of constantly disappearing stairs, walked a poodle near my place. Staring, licking my chops, she approached me, her homing beacon apparently, and took up a position at the book laden table. I was 33 years old and estimated her to be ten or fifteen years older. Her glossy hair gathered in a bun on the back of her head and secured with a shiny yellow ribbon was the color of a sable fur coat, one of those animal skin garments guaranteed to send an activist into frenzy. Leaving my apartment one afternoon, I saw her through the lattice of the black iron fence fronting the property. She was walking the poodle, a red collar around its neck. Freshly groomed, its fur like white steel wool, the animal pranced. While I was definitely more a dog person then a cat fancier, I barely noticed the small white fur ball; I was so entranced by the prissy canine's mistress. She wore skin tight blue jeans, a too small shirt cut in a wide v to give maximum exposure to her large breasts. High heels, not the closed toed black pumps favored by my mother but the cum fuck me pumps often on my ex-wife's feet. The second time I saw her strolling down the street in front of my condo she once more wore tight jeans, her bust bouncing under a billowing blue blouse. Her black hair tied in a pony tail bounced with the same fervor as her breasts. Her hips swayed and her feet, clad in black pumps with spiked heels, made the most pleasant sound as she strolled down the street toward a coffee place and a health food market. On the busy street every man and every woman did a double take when she passed. I happened to see her from my third floor window. Often at that time of day I looked out the window and watched the passing parade and not once did I contemplate leaping from the window. My penis, limp and disinterested for months suddenly swelled with solidity not experienced since that horrific night I discovered Moira with her lover. In my youth prior to my marriage I had bedded several delectable older women, had a fetish for them. Some of these ladies exuded the same in your face sexual heat as this woman. The others, more demure in demeanor came across as no nonsense, prim matronly ladies proved just as delightful in bed. Standing within a few feet of each other I felt my cock stirring. I noticed a diamond the size of one of Saturn's moons sparkling on the woman's right hand. No poodle in sight, this time she wore black pants cut well above her slim ankles. They adhered to her curves like sprayed on paint. I imagined her lying on the floor to get better traction as she tugged, pulled and pushed her fluid hips into them. A pull over black blouse with a scoop collar stretched over her prominent chest. High heel sandals with wispy straps supported her bare feet. A black ribbon secured her hair into a pony tail. She reminded me of a beatnik, a denizen of a 1950s spot where goateed poets read bad poetry, the occasional work of genius, to a small crowd drinking coffee from demitasse cups, snapping their fingers in applause and saying "Cool." I picked up a book written by a disgraced and disgruntled politician, its cover showering a man in a charcoal gray suit looking plaintive in the picture. I stole another glance. Dropping the book on the table, I retrieved a book on the French and Indian War, looked at her again; not furtively but in the manner you stare at nude model in a painting class, a model who expects you to look, to absorb all her details. She looked at me just as directly. I could feel the heat radiating from her with the intensity of an open coke oven. Her eyes offered promise, an eagerness, and an invitation to come hither. She tended to hold her mouth as though sucking on something sour, to some a turnoff, to me it was a sexy pout. Faint wrinkles bracketed her blue eyes; the flesh on her throat had lost a degree of suppleness, sagged a bit under the impress of gravity and maturity. A few liver spots dotted the backs of hands holding a book by Annie Rice. Her long fingers ending in long nails brushed with black polish were soft yet radiated a toughness, reflected experience. Age had not demeaned her but delivered a woman whose sexuality seemed more stunning at forty or fifty then at twenty. Her firm and toned body stunning to behold was made all the more alluring by its seasoning, a ripeness never spoilt, apparently not in any danger of decay. She carried herself like a breathtaking and confident grand dame not a beautiful and callow ingénue. Our eyes met. We smiled and in the quiet hush of the bookstore with customers milling about, we connected. I was going to fuck her. No doubt of that fact whatsoever. I also knew with a certainty she had decided on the same outcome. "May I buy you a coffee?" "I would love a cup of coffee." Her speech betrayed no regional dialect. Her eyes conveyed a hunger, an attitude I found alluring. Our books dropped unceremoniously on the table and off to the store's coffee bar we headed. I followed her, watched the sway of her hips, her graceful, confident stride in extremely high black heels. My cock is stiff, I realized. If nothing else I was thankful to this woman for affecting me in such a manner. My impotence had drifted away as wind drives off smoke. It felt wonderful. I needed camouflage for this, my first erection, in a long time. Passing a table filled with large books suitable for posting with pride on coffee tables, I grabbed one filled with glossy photographs of celebrity homes, used it to shield my erection. No doubt this particular tome contained aerial photographs of my grandfather's palatial domicile in Palm Springs and an additional photograph of his swimming pool, its silhouette mirroring the lines of a 1957 Chevy. She veered off to one of the brown wooden tables, sat down near an obviously married couple. Buddy, has anyone talked to you about the downside of candles, I thought heading straight to the counter fronted by a curving display case of cookies and pastries and by shelves of foil bags of coffee, colorful logo emblazoned cups and items to tempt the impulse buyer. I returned a few minutes later with the Café Americano she had requested and my latte, too foamy for my liking but today I did not care. The young woman behind the counter, a small diamond stud embedded in her left nostril, saw my erection behind the immense book. "You really like your coffee." I blushed, my face still hot and fiery red when I returned to the table where my new companion patiently waited. Men sit in the coffee corral, thankful to be in proximity to her. Other men more distant cast longing glances at her over the merchandise. "You are blushing." My beet redness returned with full force of course. "Yeah, it was something the girl behind the counter said." My name is Jack Finlander, I said. Trying my best to be charming, to make myself sound interesting, I told her I was 33 years old, managed an auto parts store. I did not mention being the scion to a fortune made from sparkplugs, batteries and mufflers. She found out I was in the process of divorcing, no children to prevent us from going our separate ways without further contact. She could not see how much I wanted children, did mind a bit to have them around even if it meant less then a total break with Moira. Nor did I tell this new acquaintance of Moira's willful act to make herself barren pained me like acid dripping on an open sore. Even though it had been some time since I worked out on a Nautilus machine and jogged, I made it sound like I did those very things a short time ago. I let her know I was an eclectic reader, often listened to jazz and traveled when I had a mind to. I did not mention my chronic depression or continuing impotence. Keep it light Jack, I thought. Once in an airport before my marriage, I sat in a bar waiting for a flight. A stunning woman sat down next to me. Beautiful, vivacious, flirty, within two minutes I wanted to get in her panties. I imagined these panties to be lacy and maybe crotchless, but definitely flimsy. Then she lowered the boom. She was nothing but an undercover Hare Krishna in civvies selling the cult out of a scratched satchel filled with thin and thick publications. Damn. Hopefully, this woman was not sailing under false colors like a Nazi raider steaming under the flag of a neutral nation. She brought me up to speed on her journey thus far. Her style more polished then mine and she was a much better briefer dispensing her history with clarity and conciseness. Her name was Carmen Sorrento, a name that sizzled as it rolled across my tongue. She freely admitted to being 48, never married, not even close, a former Vegas chorine, teacher of aerobics, model, eye candy in several low budget pictures full of busts and bad acting. Now, she owned and operated several boutiques catering to women with fine figures and fat funds. Sunbathing, she liked to read pot boilers. The image of this sexy woman clad in a bikini and lying on a chaise lounge made my cock rocket upward. Carmen sipped her drink; I caught a glimpse of pink tongue, she leaned across the table, her breasts almost in my face. She licked her lips, whispered, "I give the most fantastic head. Why don't we cut through the bull shit? You want to fuck me and I want to fuck you so why don't we go and do it? I was so near to exploding in my pants I considered standing up and yelling "fire in the hole" at the top of my lungs to give everyone in the coffee nook time to dive for cover. Ten minutes later, a short walk through a human tide of smiling shoppers and frowning wage slaves, skirting a channel of honking cars inching down the street, the odor of exhaust fumes, her perfume mixing in my nostrils. I unlocked my front door; Carmen stepped bravely into the room, not hesitant at all, showing a leap of faith. For all she knew I might club her before she glimpsed the room's décor. I imagined she had some familiarity with the psychology of picking a man up, the danger signals, the warnings giving off by a man. Apparently, I passed muster and she was comfortable with her course of action. I followed closely, turned on one of the floor lamps. My studio apartment, not dirty but cluttered and disorganized, as though I had never quite moved in, settled in, planted roots. Books scattered on the floor, unopened cardboard boxes, a box of four settings of dishes sitting on the small dining table still sealed in its box. In the kitchenette another carton held a new drip coffee pot still packed in Styrofoam and plastic. The futon, the easy chair, the dining set were the extent of my furniture. Two seven feet tall lavender floor lamps, their bowl shaped tops holding three 60 watt light bulbs illuminated the room as necessary. A book I was reading lay on its spine next to the easy chair. On the wall above the small pine dining table, hung a dart board for my entertainment. I considered tacking a glossy eight by ten photograph of Moira to the dart board but I had resisted the notion. I knew the exact picture to center in the board too, the close-up of Moira taken on her wedding day. The one of her smiling, her red hair captured under the white veil, looking innocent, virginal. In view of what happened to our marriage I tried to remember how many dark men, fellows suitable for casting in the Sopranos; the beefcake of Mexican television populated the audience behind us as we took our vows. Did she fuck one of them before or after the ceremony? Was the Pope Catholic? Did bears shit in the woods? Emerald City Thank God, I had also resisted scratching the word "cunt" on the living room wall in five feet tall letters. Carmen looked about. "Honey, did you just move in?" She shoved aside the mound of wrinkled pale blue sheets to make room, sat down on the edge of the futon and removed her high heels; she leaned back, stretched her legs out into the air, the tops of her bare feet curved forward making straight lines of her legs from thigh to toe, a perfect cheese cake pose the way her feet arced so sexily. How many times in my youth did I jack my cock seeing such imagery in a stroke book? "No, I have been here about seven or eight months." "Really." Against the purple pad, Carmen's naked flesh was flashier, vivid, and striking. Raising her hips, she shimmied out of the pants. No panties under the pedal pushers, her pubis clean shaven, her gash not Moira's but its vertical lip hardened me just as readily. The black shirt, its elastic material molded to her breasts, all that remained, but it was a remainder needing to go. "Sweetie, get undressed. Let's fuck." She spread her legs, her fingers busy between her legs. I striped quickly never expecting to do this with anyone other then Moira. My cock, not the biggest or the broadest, strictly average, but until recently it was always at the ready. Carmen, her eyes bright with lust, her fingers moisture soaked, did not shriek in horror seeing my member, her silence I took as vindication of my cock and its suitability for entertaining her. For the first time in months, my penis was erect, engorged and eager. "You want to see my tits? No, I want to see your collection of toenail clippings or some of your sanguine soaked tampons. Of course I wanted to see her tits. What a question. Jack, quit being such an asshole. This modern woman, apparently sexually insatiable, in ancient times a Helen of Troy, an Aphrodite deems to fuck your brains out. She removed the shirt, teasing me in the process, showing me the depression of her belly button in the center of the flat expanse of firm tummy, then her breasts, truly the Great Teton, I expected. Natural, firm, high, round, her nipples boosted from the center of areolas the color of river mud red with iron content. Carmen pushed her breasts together; the chunk of diamond on her right hand sparkling under the diffused light dispersed from the floor lamp focusing much of its intensity toward the ceiling. "What do you think?" Carmen said, nodding down at her tits, then looking at my hard cock, my flat stomach, the pectorals on my chest, my biceps, the nimbus of hair above my penis. It was curiously restful to scrutinize each others bodies, to enjoy the eroticism of the moment, to treasure the anticipation of pleasure before committing to it. I gasped. My mouth was too dry to utter an affirmation in appreciation of her splendid body, her perfect breasts. I grasped these breasts. Going after them without any finesse as a fielder goes for a half cocked pop fly. My cock was no less fulsome in its approbation of her tits and the rest of her naked natural gifts. "Cock in my mouth. Cock in my mouth... She kept saying the same fragmented sentence, its underlying meaning shut me up with some cock meat. Then she said "Get your cock in mouth." Leaning forward, as directed, I pushed my member into her wide open mouth. Clamping her lips down, she sucked, blew, and laved my cock with her tongue. Pushing deeper into her mouth, she tightened down on me. I withdrew, not too far; she raked the razor edge of her pearly white teeth across the cylinder head fucking her mouth. My hands more attuned to handling an assortment of auto parts reveled in Carmen's texture. In sucking cock, she salved the soreness in my heart, the residual agony of Moira trampling on it. My anger, now less concentrated, like a toothache mellowed by an effective pain remedy. Three months and four days into my eighteenth year, I was a freshman at Stanford, living in the dorm, studying business administration. Jennifer Angstrom, a classmate with a riot of blond curls about her head and a butterfly tattooed on the cheek of her left ass, introduced me to the pleasures of fellatio. Finding pleasure in exploiting Jennifer's fetish, I continued to seek with a series of women including my soon to be ex. Some did it better then others, but no one, not even Moira, showed Carmen's expertise in going down on a dick. I popped from her warm mouth, the sound of a cork popping out of the neck of a champagne bottle. She said something ribald, griped my member in one hand, blew at its helmet. The breeze of breath soaked into the sensitive crown of my cock, sped with the speed of light to the switchboard in my brain's pleasure center. Every action on her part from the positioning of her body in its most beguiling pose to her sexy argot in bed were threads in a tapestry carefully woven as a backdrop to my seduction, and the succoring of all my fantasies in the course of one lazy afternoon. For the first weeks, no, it was more like a couple of months, following the collapse of my marriage to Moira, I worked opening to closing in the store, shuffled home, drank myself into a stupor, climbed off the futon in the morning and jogged. Actually, in sweats, I looked more like a weaving gin soaked rummy or a punch drunk boxer hopping down the street not a fit as a fiddle running fool clad in tight running shorts and a tank top. A hangover my constant companion on these jaunts. Self inflicted pain punching it out with Moira's meted out agony. Of course it did not work. Browsing a bookstore, the glimpses of Carmen parading her poodle should have made me realize that pleasure was a better palliative then pain. I felt it now as Carmen sucked me so ardently. Psychologists said you needed to work through the pain, grieve, and not take things too fast. Fuck the nut doctors, I thought. I griped Carmen's head, yanked it toward my cock and plunged into her mouth. "I want to fuck you." In five short words, I declared my freedom from the tyranny of loving something unlovable. I came in Carmen's mouth. My semen flooded her throat, some of the pearly substance fleeing from between the cincture of her full lips. Carmen, flat on her back, her legs high in the air and spread wide; she clasped the bottom of her feet with her hands, eager to be penetrated. "Fuck me Jack, fuck me hard." I did; I dipped into her, my first pussy since Moira. Up on my toes, my hands on either side of Carmen, arms braced doing push-ups, my cock in her pussy on the down- stroke. Carmen, tight around me, her womb soaked through and through, my cock stirred up by it. In her soaking wet vault my cock was a torpedo speeding through her hot broth, aiming to explode. My balls slapped down against her. She moaned and clutched her legs about my lower back. I kissed her, her nipples then in my mouth; I continued to pump in and out of her. The heels of her feet pressed into the middle of my back. She squeezed. "Give me that hot stuff." "Not yet." I bit her left nipple. "Fuck me." Carmen said. Carmen reached under me and stroked my balls, felt for the underside of my cock as I pushed into her. The tips of her fingers scratched at my nut sack. "Suck my tits," I leaned down, sucked her left nipple and then the right and then the left. Her nipples tasted of citrus. "Pound the shit out of me baby. Give me that hot stuff." My semen spurted; she tightened her legs around me, orgasm rippling through her or she was quite the faker. I withdrew, stood, the proud bull, Hemingway's honored hoofed symbol of masculinity. Looking down at this hard breathing woman, her heaving huge breasts filling my field of vision hardened me again and I fucked her again. Beat your chest, bay at the moon, Jack Findlander, you animal, you sex god. My body slick with sweat, heart racing, and my penis tired out, I collapsed on the futon next to Carmen. Flipping on my right side, Carmen's gifts dazzled me, delighted me. I always made the high school's honor roll and graduated from Stanford suma cum laude with no great difficulty. However, had I been a complete moron, I would have still detected my grandfather's handiwork. No doubt this woman with the hefty breasts, the flat belly, the wide hips and long legs had delighted him as she now delighted me. With a simple telephone call, a whisper, an email Matthew Findlander arranged this meeting between Carmen and me. Carmen owed Matthew Findlander. At some point maybe he owned her. He asked for a favor, called in a debt. She could comply with it or not. My grandfather believed in free will, choices. No way was she a babe in the woods compelled to do something she found degrading or demeaning. By doing this she was settling an account, making good on a debt. At some point I would have found my way to this happy place. My grandfather, God love him, had sped up the process. This was the satiation of lust, not love and I gratefully grabbed for it now. If my grandfather in his own inimitable way was throwing me, the drowning man, a life ring, I would be a fool to cast it aside. A knock on the door, a series of taps, startled me. "Lover, you might want to get that." I stood, jammed one leg in my pants. "Forget the pants, live dangerously." "Are you daring me?" I asked before removing my leg from the trousers. Naked, erect, I moved the short distance to the door. Carmen, grinning, watched me. Hopefully, Mabel Anderson, one of my neighbors, an 83 year old lady with white hair and thick ankles was not standing in front of my portal with a tray of warm chocolate chip cookies. My nakedness might keel her over, drop her dead to the floor like a punched out cow in an abattoir. I took the coward's way out and cracked opened the door an inch and no more. In the carpeted hallway, on my doorstep, Ava Gardner stood on the black rubber mat, in its center the word WELCOME in red letters a quarter inch high, barely decipherable from a distance. She wore a black trench coat. Unfortunately, Ava Gardner was dead. The woman standing in front of me, bearing such a striking resemblance to Ms Gardner was Gwen, my grandfather's mistress. Precariously balanced on turquoise pumps, the spiked heels a good five inches tall, Gwen was definitely the next best living thing to the late movie star. "I am here to party." I opened the door. Gwen stepped into my quarters. "Hello Carmen." "Hello sweetie. Just as you said, Jack is one sweet, adorable fuck." "I knew he would be. His grandfather is like the Energizer Bunny and Jack is 50 years younger. I cannot wait to have his cock in me." "Guys, I am in the room," I said. "Sorry Jack. I have to admit the two of us set you up." "Set me up. This was not my grandfather's idea?" "No, this was totally my idea. My womanly wiles did not seem to be working on you, so I asked Carmen to help me out and she seems to have succeeded admirably," "I thought my grandfather had set this whole thing up. "Honey, you need to work on your confidence. Who is to say I just found you attractive and wanted a good hard fuck," Carmen said. So, you and Carmen are friends?" "Oh yes, we go way back don't we Carmen." "Way way back," Carmen answered. "Jack, I never saw a man in more desperate need of having his ashes hauled and that is what Carmen did and what I plan to do." Gwen said. Gwen looked down at Carmen swaddled in the damp sheets. Teasingly, Gwen slowly untied the belt surrounding her waist; taking her sweet time, she unbuttoned each black buttons running down the front of the trench coat. Without any strip teasing music but with perfect rhythm and with all the sensuality of a seasoned ecdysiast, Gwen's luscious body came into view, the lush nude body of a former centerfold, a porno goddess of unrivaled sexual skills if no true acting ability exposed in all its glory. Gwen stepped close, kissed me on the lips, fully and firmly as her nipples brushed against my naked chest. As she held the kiss, she reached down and stroked my cock with her right hand. Gwen plopped on the futon next to Carmen, they kissed. "Jack, join us." Gwen said. "Yes," Carmen waved at me. I sprawled between them, flat on my back. Gwen climbed between my legs and took my cock into her mouth, sucked, swallowed my cock to its very base. Her blow job was proving to be just as proficient as Carmen's if not actually superior. She tended to lick more then Carmen but her suction was just as rigorous, no less heavenly. Still wearing her cum fuck me pumps, her head down, bottom up, a common position for praying in certain parts of world, Gwen preyed on my cock. Carmen shifted about, squatted behind Gwen, and used both her hands to push out the hemispheres of Gwen's ass. Her tongue snaked into Gwen's pussy. I could feel Gwen pushing back against Carmen's mouth. Carmen licked and Gwen lapped. Was this the Twilight Zone? When did I discover I had died and this was my new found paradise or merely a pleasant interlude to lull me into a complacency before being shoved off a ledge and dropping toward the bottomless pit of hell. Fucking two buxom, sexually uninhibited women never seemed in the cards for me, the staid married man totally into monogamy. Wiggling her ass against Carmen's tongue, Gwen sucked me harder. "Come in my mouth baby. I love to swallow warm sperm." I had no idea where it came from but I did come in Gwen's mouth, I came furiously. For a time the three of us rested. I opened a dusty bottle of merlot. The three of us, my cock quiescent at the moment, their smooth bodies and my rougher one cooling down on the futon, we sipped warm wine. Surrounded by huge breasts and shaved twats, I was one happy camper. Kiss my ass Moira. "I want to light my candles," I said. When I gathered my few possessions, I took the six candles Moira had deemed to use so dishonorably the night I caught her fucking the guy with the lose toupee. Let her get her own candles. "I love fucking in candlelight," Carmen said. "Me too," Gwen answered. I removed the candles from a cardboard box and positioned them about the room and used a wooden match plucked from a box kept in a drawer in the kitchenette. After finishing the wine, Carmen started stroking my cock with her long, slender fingers. Gwen joined in, her fingers sweeping across my penis. In the glow of the candlelight Carmen took my cock in her mouth and Gwen sucked my balls into hers. It reminded me of the way Moira licked at my balls when we made love. I pushed Moira out of my mind as these two women played with my cock and simultaneously licked me. This was truly paradise. My hands found their bodies, my fingers played with their breasts then my index fingers, the left one for Gwen, the right one for Carmen gravitated into the tunnels between their legs. I finger fucked them, they mouth fucked me. I came in Gwen's mouth. Before she swallowed my semen, she dribbled some small portion of it into Carmen's mouth like a momma bird feeding a baby bird its sustenance. I assumed a lotus position in the chair, watched these two women fuck, do the female to female thing. In the dwindling candlelight Gwen's mouth nuzzled Carmen's pussy. They eagerly attached each other's orifices, stroked each other's flesh, kissed tenderly and played like puppy bitches. Watching, my left fist played over my cock. The candles burned out. I fucked Gwen. I fucked Carmen. We slept, me sandwiched between them. Carmen was on my left, her left hand holding my shaft. Gwen was on my right, her right hand griping my shaft too. Falling asleep, they promised to blow me, using their mouths simultaneously. I looked into the dark. Often in the past I sat in my easy chair, stared into the darkness, felt comfortable in its cloak, willed it to stay, not successful with my pleas, seeing a smudge of gray followed by the draining away of the dark, the advent of morn and me cursing my weakness, my loathing of myself for not having the strength to move on. Now, I wished to see this darn darkness go away pronto. I need to get out of here, find a bigger and more comfortable place. I can afford it, I thought. Something grand, gold taps in the bath, a walk-in freezer in the kitchen, a living room opening to an eye catching vista, a bed the size of Montana, the entire package a luxurious oasis shared with these two delicious women. I think I could sell grandfather on the idea. He would just have to Gwen and bare it. A pathetic pun but it made me feel wonderful.