Incubi

Chapter 23

Susan lay back in her plush bed and stretched like a cat. Desire existed for a reason — to be sated — so why should she feel bad? The two young men administered her from either side; she felt like a dynast on a bed of feathers, with these two as her sex slaves. They were irresistible. She had no inhibitions about leaving the lights on. “We want to see you, Susan,” the short-haired one had said. “Fine,” she’d said. She wanted to see them too. The best sex must slake every sense, like the best poetry.

They’d come on to her at the Undercroft. She’d shot the shit awhile with Craig, who she’d been putting the make on for months. As usual he’d politely declined her rather forward suggestion. “Know any good plumbers, handsome?” she’d asked. “I have a drain that needs to be snaked.” Craig had very kindly given her the local number for Roto-Rooter. It didn’t matter, though. Perseverance always paid off. She’d have his gorgeous ass in bed one of these days, and then she’d show him what a real woman could do. Yes, sir, she’d suck his balls right out the hole in his knob.

Then there was that lush cop — Jack something. The poor fucker had been plowing one Scotch after the next. She’d heard he was a county homicide cop on the skids. He looked like shit: crushed slacks, coffee-stained shirt and tie, and hair longer than Jesus. At eleven o’clock sharp he went facedown on the bar. Craig and another keep had carried him out.

That’s when Susan had been just about to leave. Damn good thing I didn’t, she thought now, and giggled as a pinky slipped up her anus. Because that’s when Fraus and Philippe had walked in.

Where’d guys this young get money for suits like that? These two were dressed to the max. Rich European daddy’s boys, Susan had concluded from their accents and mannerisms. By now Susan had heard every bar come-on line in the book. These guys, though, they had it down. “Miss,” the bigger one had said, “you may find this hard to believe, but I have psychic tendencies.” They stood on either side of her, smiling and beautiful in their crisp Italian suits. “Oh, yeah?” she challenged. “Tell me something about my life.” “You are a poet,” he said.

She’d been taken aback. It was true. She’d dabbled in poetry since college, had even had some published. Most of her stuff was clearly derivative of Anne Sexton (Susan preferred to think of it as emulation), descanting stanzas of free verse which depicted the finding of oneself through sexuality. Sex, she believed, was power, and her poetry detailed that power, often quite explicitly. Her favorite thus far was called “Female Utilitarian Coronation in Knowledge,” which had been published with some others in The Tait Literary Review.

“I am Fraus,” he said. “And this is my friend Philippe. He is also a poet.”

Susan found them immediately fascinating, these two beautiful suave boys. They’d talked for two hours, about theology, poetical dynamics, and the philosophy of sex. Philippe claimed to be published in Métal Urbain and Disharmonisch, renowned European art journals.

“What do you write about?” Susan had asked.

“La beauté des femmes.”

“What?”

“The beauty of women.”

Hmm, she thought. “And you? What do you do?”

“I sculpt,” Fraus said. “On the same theme.”

“Do women pose for you?”

“Not in the traditional sense. I do not sculpt by looking at a model. My models must be women I have loved. I sculpt by the memory of touch, from what my hands have touched in passion.”

Their approach refreshed her. So what if it was phony? It was different and unique. She drank Cardinals through their trialogue of creative innuendos. They drank beer called Patrizier Z.A., which was nonalcoholic. When she asked about it, Fraus replied, “Neither of us partakes in alcohol. The creative spirit is quickly corrupted through the flesh.”

“Drink is not a very edifying pursuit,” Philippe added.

“There are better things to do than drink.”

Now you’re talking, Susan thought. But this proposed a problem. Who would she go home with? Philippe or Fraus? Unless they were roommates, she couldn’t very well go home with both of them.

“Hurry up, please, it’s time,” Craig quoted T.S. Eliot to announce last call. “Or to put it more eloquently, everybody get the fuck out of the bar!”

Susan finished her Cardinal. Immediately she felt even more aroused — her panties must be soaked. Perhaps the pressure of choice spurred her libido further. They paid her tab and theirs, and looked at her, their faces forlorn, beautiful.

Which one do I want? she struggled.

Then came the simplest answer of all.

Both.

“Follow me,” she said. “The blue Miata convertible.”

She hadn’t quite made out their car. It was big and black, like a Caddy. The headlights behind her could’ve been the light of their expectations, which was fine with her. Her own expectations were beginning to drench her. She hoped she didn’t soak through her dress to the suede seat. Once on a whim she’d picked up a middie at the Rocks, whose own rocks hadn’t lasted long enough for her to get it in her mouth. Kids, she thought. They never last. The nut stain on her seat would last, though. For sure.

The complex was dark. In the elevator they’d assailed her, kissing both sides of her neck. Philippe played with her breasts while Fraus stuck his hand up her skirt. She giggled almost embarrassingly as her hands drifted to their crotches, then she giggled again. The elevator wasn’t the only thing going up.

None of them had wasted time on preliminaries. She’d never done two at once before, but as horny as she felt right now, she thought she’d do just about anything.

And that had been that.

Philippe’s pinky slipped out of her anus; she flinched. They bathed her with their tongues. Fraus went down on her like a famished animal brought to a full trough. She gasped at the abrupt avalanche of sensation. Her first orgasm went off like a bomb in her loins, and she shrieked.

“Shh,” Philippe whispered. He straddled her chest as Fraus kissed circles of afterglow around her sex.

The first one always flattened her; it made her feel run over. She lay back in descending bliss. She’d only need a little time to be ready again, and this thrilled her. Most guys would’ve been finished by now, but these two were just starting. Refraction, the sex books called it. After a first big bang she could start having multiples. And Philippe’s penis between her breasts would give her something to do in the interim.

Then, for the first time, the question occurred to her. “How did you guys know I was a poet?”

“Your aura,” Philippe said, gently pinching her nipples.

Fraus kissed the nest of trimmed black hair. “Creative people give off a light, like a halo. You have a beautiful halo.”

What lovely bullshit this was. Of course, she didn’t believe they were psychic. They’d obviously read some of her local poetry, and someone had pointed her out to them downtown somewhere.

“If you were for real,” she said to Philippe, “You’d write a poem about me.”

“I will. I’ll call it ‘Lady of the Halo.’”

“And I will do a sculpture,” Fraus added.

“Of me?”

“Of this.” His hand cupped her pubis. A finger ran gently up the groove. “I will call it ‘Adoration.’”

“And I’ll write a poem about you guys,” she said. “I’ll call it ‘Bullshit Artists with Style.’”

All three of them laughed.

Soon it would be time to play sandwich. They’ll be the bread, and I’ll be the cheese. She’d seen it in a movie once, Room for Two, not exactly an Oscar winner, but the idea had always titillated her. Many things did, in fact. She felt alight with lust; nothing occurred to her then but her desire, not condoms or morality, not danger. Just the pinpoint, knife-sharp edge of the sensations that demanded to be loosed.

She pressed her breasts together and let Philippe stroke between them. “I’m a little disappointed, though,” she joked. “I was hoping you guys really were psychic.”

“Are you ready to go on?” Philippe asked.

“We’ll be the bread,” Fraus said. “You’ll be the cheese.”