Six weeks later
Autumn's threat behind summer's promise has turned into winter's shadow on the door. The sky is gray and will stay that way, except for a few bone-chillingly cold days that seem to bring the sun with them, until about April. The running-sap horniness of summer has settled somewhat, replaced by the occasional gut level desire for the warmth of another body, right now, right here. Usually it passes with a cup of coffee at the office kitchenette. But not today. Today, the shoulder devils are whispering, stereo, in my ear.
We've got a bet running, chief, they are saying. Gentle seems to think she was a one-off or a pro just keeping the customer satisfied. Wicked has her pegged for a natural. Even though she seemed genuine and honest, you never really can tell whether they just want you to be happy or whether you've really found the golden key to the temple, you know? So the plan is we go back there and throw a bit more at her, see if she cracks and tells us to fuck off.
My response is pure caution. So let me get this straight, I ask them. You want us to go over and do God knows what -
Wicked snorts. This is definitely not His department, chief. The blueprints are all mine - I won't even show that transvestite angel on your other shoulder.
- whatever to her, to see if she tells us it's okay after the fact? If she was sugar-coating it last time, why wouldn't she just do the same this time?
Gentle's turn. See, our thinking on this is that she's definitely got a line she won't cross. I just think we're at it, and my obnoxious partner here thinks there's miles to go before we get there. Either way, until we find out, neither of us is going to let you get anything done.
So the phone call, the delighted welcoming voice, the time set up - Wicked is thumbs' up that we're all given less than an hour - and back on the road and up the elevator, fruit basket in hand. She had turned down the wine. Too late, she had said.
She looks exactly the same, a touch less tan. Something about that is comforting. It says, I know exactly what works for me, but I don't try to fight the seasons. Same smile, same wave into the flat, same kitchen, same bedroom...
Different bed, one of those fold out couches. No obvious anchor points. Gentle is shrugging.
She follows my eyes. The bag of scarves, bought in an underpass, does not escape her eyes either. Don't worry, she says. We'll think of something.
Wicked taps his blueprints and gives us the high sign. The mattress flips up, he reminds me. There's a frame underneath, metal, runs around the whole thing.
Gentle stands his ground. Then why didn't she show us that?
Because, stupid, answers Wicked. Even if she's a natural, she doesn't have to be obvious. Besides, she may not want to encourage every guy she meets to go down that road. Ever thought of that?
Gentle ponders, but I realize I'm staring at the bed the way an alpine climber considers a new rockface.
In the shower, as I am soaping up my battle equipment, Wicked tells me to spank it. Gentle concurs. I'm confused. I did not have a problem keeping an erection with a full load last time, what's the problem?
Because we're not here for you, chief, Gentle answers. We're here to settle a bet and you've got to empty the chambers for this to work. Part of being a natural means that she will be able to bring you back to full engagement simply by the way she reacts. If she's faking, your dick will know because it won't be blinded.
About ten grams lighter I emerge from the shower, and Gentle and I let Wicked go to work, but immediately they start arguing again as soon as I kiss her.
The problem is, and it should have been visible from the moment I saw her, is that she's been drinking. Now, for almost twenty years I have found drunk women unappealing. Available, easy, enticing, yes. But ultimately distasteful in bed. Literally. It changes the way that they smell and taste. I don't mean sloppy drunk. Even a woman who has had just enough to put a real glow on her cheeks is unpredictable.
Bull, grumbles Wicked. She'd had wine the last time we were here.
One or two glasses, Gentle counters. Enough to put a slight tang to her saliva, but we couldn't taste it on her pussy. Look at her - her cheeks are red and her eyes are a bit glazed. I know she's not slurring, but it throws off all accuracy in our scientific endeavors.
How? If she's a bit tipsy, she's LESS likely to fake, not MORE. Wicked had worked a while on whatever his plans contained, and he wanted to get busy.
Fine, Gentle counters. Do it. Just don't expect to convince me when it's over that it's not just the wine. Gentle reels off a list of names of girls that we had done it to when they were sloppy drunk, and when we were.
Wicked flips him the bird. Maybe THEY were naturals too? He asks.
Again, she is waiting patiently, lighting candles, apologizing that she'd been at a party earlier, had maybe one glass of wine too many, but she was really glad to see me. Same kiss, same pose, same hardon, ready but not throbbing. Wicked takes over.
Take off your clothes, leave the panties on, I say.
She complies, and stands there.
Wrists, I order.
She holds them out and I tie them together in front of her. Long ends of the scarf trail to the floor. I blindfold her with a bandanna. I hitch her wrists to a hook on the closet door. I turn her to face the wall. She is on tip toes.
She waits, breathing a bit heavily.
I put my hand to the crotch of her panties. Very wet.
I reach for a Bic ball point pen, the kind with the little plastic removable cap. The cap is pointed, but not sharp. The part that fits over a pocket is sharper, but can't break skin unless forced. I start with the cap point, and not the blade.
She's ticklish, so she squeals a little when I run it over her heels and the back of her calves. I push harder into her thighs. She moans a bit. Up her back, she purrs. Over her shoulders, around her ribs. She sighs.
