Jac Tellier, Laura and Grapes

by hargitai

He waited by the window of her room overlooking Silver Towers, overlooking the street from seven stories high - steep and bottomless like a dark canyon. There were some noises, but it was past summer and so they weren't those melancholy hot New York City noises, and they weren't yet like the muffled but determined and sharp silent street winter noises. The time was somehow somewhere in between, although still a few days shy of what Jac thought, for the sake of the tempting word-play, fall in New York.

She washed dark grapes, holding them carefully in her cupped hands in lieu of a strainer. Then she offered him the grapes from her extended hands in lieu of dishes, and then excused herself and headed for the shower. He wanted to go with her but she declined, jet-lagged, fatigued, but then mercifully she opened the sliding door of the shower and pulled him close for a touch, for a reassuring ear-close whisper, yes, there will be sex after.

And he leaned against the cold wall of the bathroom and looked at the figure behind the milky white glass of the shower, and at her request that came sharply through the cascading water opened her over-packed traveling bag, Heathrow to New York, and rummaged among the carefully arranged containers until he found the fresh set of underwear; panties and bras and a peach-colored towel among the books and notes she had written and her husband had written, and returned to the bathroom and carefully laid the items on the terry-cloth top of the toilet. And then he backed out again, contemplating a last-minute change-of-heart escape. But her voice, her carefully pronounced, jarring voice, called him back: "Did you find my medication?" And he uttered a servant-like, obsequious yes-lie and went back to her now-opened and once-searched traveling bag and searched it for a second time, now for the antibiotics she needed for a stubborn infection of her ears, and when he finally found the bottle he took the medication together with a little plastic spoon and placed them on the sink with a barely audible porcelain knock. And when he looked up, not noticing the tightening squeak of the faucet, not noticing the sliding of the sliding door, he saw her for the first time naked, her body dripping, her body steaming and breathing through red over-stimulated pores, and her hair, her hair like a plastic cap was sticking to her scalp, and her breasts were large but somehow carried low and loose, and her waist was large and her thighs were large and her feet worn and the nails yellow, everything about her except her eyes that sparkled young and bright, everything about her was old and worn. He shrank back, trying very hard not to show the rush of surprise, the rush of shameful revulsion, but then after a fragile pause he moved forward, eyes closed, lips touching her shoulders.

"I'm old," she excused, "almost fifty years old!"

"I'm scared," he said collapsing, teeth biting into her skin.

And they made love, each taking what was needed. She took, with good husbandry, in her mouth, in her pouches, like a hedgehog, like a groundhog, like a crazed busy squirrel, seeds to germinate, seeds to grow, seeds to be nurtured. And he took, first and most, momentary reprieve, momentary refuge from fright. But as his cock ripped into her he understood that the moment was gone, again he was deceived, again there was no solace, no forgetting and no soothing return.

And he looked down on her after many contorted and overdone bitter positions and felt like minutes ago by the window staring into the steep darkness from seven stories high, and he saw in that darkness the very darkness: his mother in her. And he saw under her breasts, under her arms short copiously growing patches of hair, and he saw other ugly growth of age, and again he saw his mother, like at careless stolen moments, inch-thick patches of fat under her blouse, and that crack under the spinning knee-high see-through, and he felt like ever that cold acid shame. And then there was more, even more, the taste he tasted in numbing pain, the taste of smoke so much like that on his mother's lips and breath, and too, and most, he felt the impatience and the fury under him in the woman, that electric rage he knew so well from his mother's touch.

And so trapped, he thrashed and turned and turned and the grapes that she had so playfully and so maturely placed in her cunt burst with each thrust of his cock, and he thrashed and turned and turned her 69, and she sucked him with a keen mouth and he sucked her with a keen mouth until the red-blue juice of the grapes mixed with hers squirted as she came on his frightened nervously twitching face. And he screamed and wailed like a dizzy distorted blood-smeared newborn child.


Copyright 1995
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