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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781573445870 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Start Publishing Llc |
| Publication date: | 05/01/2000 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 216 |
| File size: | 301 KB |
About the Author
Marcy Sheiner is the editor of the 'Best Women's Erotica' series and The Oy of Sex: Jewish Women Write Erotica. She lives in Emeryville, CA.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
INTERROGATION
Susan St. Aubin
IN MY DREAM I'M SITTING AT A TABLE WEARING red socks while my lawyer, a kind man with a soft voice and a plump face whose name is Mr. Marrs, stands in front of me in his navy blue suit and red paisley tie, asking the questions.
"That's Marrs with two r's," he tells me. "I'm not a star," he adds with a chuckle, "but I'll fight for you if you answer my questions honestly."
I feel lucky that he's my lawyer because of his kindness, his obvious desire to put me at ease with his little jokes. We're in a small, white-walled room that Mr. Marrs calls the Interview Room, but I have no idea why I'm being questioned or what I might have done. What view does Mr. Marrs have of my situation? Through the room's only window I see snow drifting from a dark sky.
Mr. Marrs has a nice smile, which dimples his plump cheeks and unmasks the straightest, whitest teeth I've ever seen. "This is just a practice session," he explains. "Think of it as a game, like playing catch."
Although it's cold beyond the window where the snow swirls, it's warm in the room because of the bright overhead light that beams down on me like a halo and because of Mr. Marrs's thousand-watt smile, which makes me want to melt in a puddle at his feet, to answer any question he can think of, to tell him what he wants to hear.
"Remember," he says, "this interrogation is off the record. It isn't even a deposition. You're not under oath at the moment, so nothing can be used against you. Shall we begin?"
No one has ever said "shall" to me, and the polite formality of the word almost makes me weep.
He throws the first ball. "Why are you wearing those socks?" he asks, and I tell him that although I really don't know, I could probably come up with a story.
"Probably?" Two dimples appear at the pointed ends of his smile.
He waits while I smile back at him, though we both know my facial dimples aren't nearly as lovely as his. I think it's the dimples on my ass he's after, and on my thighs, which I tighten. The window has disappeared, making the room seem much smaller.
"Have you ever known a Monica?" he asks.
"I've known several," I tell him. "Do you have anyone in particular in mind?"
His tongue flicks between his lips for a second, but he says nothing.
"I don't think I've known a Monica in the sense you mean," I say with what I hope is a saucy smile.
I can see that I've offended him. As he steps back, his smile droops and his dimples disappear. "What sense would that be?" he asks.
I look at the floor under the table, at the redness of my socks against the dark blue tile. The room seems to grow colder, as if the light has been turned off, though it still burns above us. For the first time I notice I have nothing else on except those socks, which I pull up as far as I can, thinking they might cover me if only they would stretch far enough.
"I didn't mean..." I start, and then I think, Why should I feel guilty? What have I done? Instead, I toss the question back to him.
"Have you ever known a Monica?"
He ignores this, countering instead with another: "And the man who knew her, the —" he consults some notes "— the president, wasn't he? Did you know him, too? Or someone like him?"
I have known presidents of corporations, principals of several schools. "Yes, I have worked for powerful men," I tell him, and he smiles again: the smile that warms the room, the smile that tells me he knows when I'm holding back and approves when I give him the story he wants.
"Tell me what you know," he says, his face suddenly close to mine.
"OK." I take a deep breath.
He sits down in the empty chair that has appeared on the other side of the table and leans forward, while I decide what to tell him. He moves closer, putting one warm, soft hand on my knee, which he strokes so deftly I moan before I can stop myself. His hand slides up my inner thigh and then withdraws abruptly.
"When are you going to tell me?" he begs, his smile a tease that doesn't quite match the tense blue of his eyes.
"Do you want the truth, or do you want my story?" I ask.
"You aren't under oath," he answers. "Remember what I told you in the beginning. This is just a preliminary quest." Has he interrupted himself, or does he want a search rather than an answer? His hand slides around to the back of my thigh. I lift my leg to make it easier for him, and begin:
THE FIRST ENCOUNTER
You could say my moniker is Monica.
(He doesn't react to my pun. His hand continues its climb to the cleft of my ass, which I raise up off the chair so that his fingers can creep forward into my fur, while the light overhead seems to whirl, making me dizzy.)
I've had lots of jobs where Monicas are common. I was a Monica myself, and I've known several presidents, which is I suppose why I'm here, in this dream, with only my socks for cover.
"What did you do as a Monica?" he asks, breathing deeply. He's on his knees now, smiling up at me, the light making halos around both our heads. I wonder if perhaps he'd like to hire me as his assistant, and decide to make the details as professional as I can. This could, after all, be a job interview. It's hard to tell with dreams.
Monicas do whatever they're required to do: typing, filing, answering phones, research, scheduling meetings, arranging travel, delivering papers, just managing everyone's day. We move from office to office, job to job, title to title: At first we're File Clerks, then Personal Assistants, Office Managers, Administrative Aides, Administrative Assistants, Administrators, but always we make the coffee. We manage.
"Tell me what you did with him, Monica," Mr. Marrs whispers from his knees, his warm, wet breath spreading over my belly.
"Him?" I ask. "There were many hims, a range of them."
"You know what I mean," he answers, and he's right, I know what to tell him.
We met in the elevator to the 22nd floor, I and the man I thought was the president of the company where I worked. This was my first job: I was the Monica who did filing and photocopying. There in that elevator with ten other people, we locked eyes while everyone else stared politely straight ahead, and from then on, we couldn't resist each other.
Mr. Marrs's hand is patting my damp fur now, his fingers slipping inside me.
We got off the elevator together, walking down the corridor side by side without touching or saying a word, though our minds were in touch. In front of his office he turned to smile at me before going in, his lips forming the name "Monica," which I understood to be an invitation so I followed him in.
"Could you help me with these files?" he asked, but I didn't see any files. I closed the door behind me. He sat down in the chair in front of his desk, the chair he kept for visitors. It was then that I noticed his pants were unzipped, his prick hanging out discreetly, not even hard, just there, flesh against the gray wool, like a hairless pet on his lap.
Mr. Marrs finds my center, the tiny nose sticking up in front of the fur, hardening and becoming more prominent, and gently circles it with his fingertips. My breathing echoes off the bare walls of the room, which seems to have become as small as a closet.
"I love your narrative," he murmurs in my ear before lowering his mouth.
The president smiled at me, spread his legs to let his prick-pet have air to twitch and grow, sit up, left its head, nod.
THE FIRST ORGASM
As it turned out, he wasn't the president of the company, just a junior executive, but that was always my private name for him: The President. He never bothered to learn my real name, either: I was always his Monica. I leapt onto his lap and nestled down. I never wear underpants or pantyhose, just those thigh-highs with the thick elastic on top that almost cuts off your circulation. My toes may have been numb, but my cunt and my clit were both humming as I guided his pet inside my fur, leaning my free hand on the back of the chair. He gasped as we began to move up and down together. My clit rubbed against the loose zipper of his pants, the pressure of hard metal more arousing than painful, until I began to feel a warm glow all up inside that made my toes quiver. When I felt him twitch in me, felt his flow of liquid heat, I realized too late that this really wasn't exactly a safe thing to be doing, but then I thought, it's all right, he's the president (which he wasn't), and anyway this is all a tale I'm telling in a dream. Was I wrong?
Mr. Marrs is on his knees before me, his soft full lips around my clit, tongue lapping like a little dog, and even though this is hardly professional, I'm so excited I rise off my chair, my feet in their red socks straining to keep me balanced. As my hips hit the edge of the table, Mr. Marrs grabs my thighs and forces me to sit again, holding me in place while his tongue twists and swirls, while my chair thumps as I move up and down, restrained only by his hand. Waves of a hot ocean wash over me, hot enough to steam the windows (if there were any). When I lay my head on the table, panting, Mr. Marrs pats my knee and then crawls out to sit in the other chair, licking his lips and smoothing his thin hair back with one hand while he picks up his pen with the other.
"Go on," he urges.
THE SECOND ORGASM
The president tried to rouse me right away, shaking my shoulder while pulling my hair. "Hey," he said, "hey, we have to be careful here; someone might come in."
He was still hard inside me, moving slowly, a man already satisfied, poking and prodding inside me for a repeat. He heaved me onto his desk, scattering pens and papers, one of those dream transportations where you wonder, How did I get here? Fly? And with him still inside me? But there I was, flat on my back, the blotter bunched under my right shoulder, his prick edging deep inside me until, yes, I felt another response building, slowly, quietly, until it popped like a slightly flat bottle of bargain champagne. He was still at it, standing behind the desk with his pants down around his ankles while I twisted around, trying to move my shoulder off that blotter, but I only managed to get a pen or something under my spine.
"Oh man oh man," the president whispered in my ear so loud and breathy I was afraid someone in the hall might hear him. Finally, with a loud grunt, he finished.
Mr. Marrs squirms in his chair like a restless little boy. "Is there more?" he asks. "Is there more?"
"Well, I guess," I tell him. "I worked there six months."
"Tell me about your mouth," he says.
THE THIRD ORGASM
It was in the photocopy room. I was running off a pile of legal documents when he came in with this one little thing he wanted to copy, so I let him, because after all that we'd done, he had privileges, even if it did mean I had to change the paper from legal to regular. I let him slide into the narrow room behind me and rub against my rump as he reached over to close and lock the door. I plucked the letter he wanted copied from his fingers, put it into the feeder, and pressed Print. He turned me around by my shoulders and kissed me while the copy machine flashed and groaned behind us, hiding any disturbance we might make.
Because I couldn't move any way but up or down, I slid down until I was on my knees, my face at his crotch, my fingers on his zipper, which hissed and possibly ripped as I pulled it down so that I could unfold his dick from the wrapping of his trousers and underwear.
He wasn't hard, which shocked me because we hadn't known each other long enough to get that bored. It was more work than I'd anticipated to disentangle a limp penis from its coverings, to massage it with my fingertips, suck and lick it, but slowly it came to life as my mouth surrounded it while he stood facing the copy machine. If anyone had come in they probably wouldn't have noticed me crouched between his knees.
He swayed his hips back and forth while stapling his copies and stacking them neatly on top of the machine. I just followed him with my mouth.
Mr. Marrs leans back from the table, thrusting his hips forward. "And then?" he breathes. "Did he come?" He puts his hands casually into his pockets, his two forefingers pointing directly to the dog I know must be twitching impatiently beneath the zipper, ready for a walk.
Well, I could hardly tell when he came. Maybe he sighed just before he suddenly went all limp, as I found myself swallowing globs of cum down my throat, which I usually like to avoid doing by pulling away at the last moment and letting guys shoot in my hand or breast or down my dress or anywhere, I don't care, I just don't like the taste of it, that day-old fish with rotting, garlic bread bouquet. The president tasted like stale bread with rancid butter, not the worst I've had but not something I'd recommend, either.
Mr. Marrs looks disappointed, leaning back in his chair, frowning a little as he sucks his lower lip, his fingers still pointing to his zipper, which glints in the folds of his pants. He looks at me and then looks around the room at the blank walls that seal us in.
"Were there any gifts?" he asks.
THE GIFTS
Yes, of course we brought little things to work for each other, mostly lunch food. I gave him pasta salad with sardines. Then I read how you can change the taste of a man's semen by what you feed him, so I only brought sweet things: cookies, cupcakes, cream puffs. It didn't work, but I eventually got used to his taste. He gave me a pink-and-orange troll to set on top of my computer, a pencil with a pumpkin on it for Halloween, and a pink eraser that glowed in the dark.
When I went to Hawaii with my girlfriend, I bought him a T-shirt that said "Keep on surfin'" across the front. That's what we used to call it when he went down on me: surfin'. When I did it to him, it was fishin' with his pole in my mouth.
Mr. Marrs leans forward. I can feel his warm breath, which smells of milk, of chocolate, of cinnamon.
"How often did you go fishing?" he asks.
Once a day, at least, he'd request a file from the file room — and when it was something about fish, or surf, or Hawaii, or anything at all to do with the ocean, Liz, the file supervisor, would bring it to me to take to him. I think now that he must have told her to do that. Anyway, I'd take it right up and he'd lock the door to his office and I'd go down on my knees, unzip him, and — well, it gets repetitive. Mr. Marrs?
He's down on his knees now, as though he's begging, head in my fur, tongue routing around until he finds my clit and grabs it with his lips. I think of surfboards cresting waves, and shout as I hit the big one, crashing and falling to shore. My legs rise up and kick the table, almost tipping it over.
"Careful, careful," says Mr. Marrs as he gets up with his hands on his head. "Were there trips?"
What's the difference between trips and gifts? I wonder if this is a foul ball, a trick question, a way to find out whether I'll demand travel funds if he hires me as his assistant.
THE TRIPS
He didn't take me many places because he had a wife and family, even a dog, and he didn't want any of them to see me accidentally. He did take me to Alaska once, though, to look at an oil rig. The company was paying for him and his Personal Assistant, who didn't want to go, so he asked me instead. We flew up to the North Pole (so we joked, because it was December, just before Christmas) and spent a couple of days in a hotel, which I never left. He went out alone and came back at night, when we'd have dinner in the café on the first floor and then go up to bed, where he'd impale me on his own north pole all night.
We were there two nights, and I don't think he slept at all. I slept all day. We didn't wear anything but our socks because our feet were cold no matter how high we turned up the heat, internal and external. That's Alaska for you. His dick was always hard — the magnetic influence of the North Pole, he said, ha-ha. Sometimes I'd hang stuff on it: a scarf, a necklace, a bracelet, but I never gave him any of those things because they were mine, and they weren't gifts, either — they were things I'd bought for myself. I did give him a pair of white socks with a blue Sourdough's face on them: you know, that bearded prospector who's the symbol of Alaska. And he gave me red wool socks, these socks I have on now, which he called my Santa Claus socks.
I lift my foot so that Mr. Marrs can admire them. "You mentioned his wife," he said. "Did she find out about you? Was she angry at you?
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Best Women's Erotica"
by .
Copyright © 2000 Marcy Sheiner.
Excerpted by permission of Start Publishing LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Title Page,
Introduction,
INTERROGATION,
THE FIRST ENCOUNTER,
THE FIRST ORGASM,
THE SECOND ORGASM,
THE THIRD ORGASM,
THE GIFTS,
THE TRIPS,
WIVES,
THE END,
SERVICE ENTRANCE,
LITA,
THE INSTIGATOR,
THE ALBUM,
CYCLES,
SOMETHING FOR THE PAIN,
EGGS Mc MENOPAUSE,
SANTA'S LITTLE HELPER,
JACK'S PRIDE,
KALI,
MY KIND OF WOMAN,
SÉVERINE,
ARROGANCE,
BETWEEN THE TOES,
STRANGE BEDFELLOWS,
CAL'S PARTY,
RATATOUILLE,
ABOUT THE AUTHORS,
ABOUT THE EDITOR,
Copyright Page,