It was my lips that first got me into trouble. And then later, well, it roust have been my tongue. Not its words, just the size of the damned thing. Or the blessed thing, depending on how you look at it. Anyway, I really hadn't meant to be bitchy, coming between husband and wife like that. The blame was mine, of course, but only in a kind of blameless way, strictly a quirk of nature. Oh shit, is it my fault if the boss of the company turns out to be freaky about thick lips?
Freaky about mine, at any rate. The boss, the head man, Mr. Simon Beresford himself, the guy who kept the corporate gears oiled and meshing; what a catch for a kid like me! I was new there, too, a lowly trainee in the Consolidated organization. When it happened – a chance brush-by in the cafeteria corridor – I didn't even know who he was. An executive with a roving eye – married, no doubt – but that couldn't dampen my girlish enthusiasm. I liked his looks. A trifle ancient for me, somewhere in his forties probably, but impressive nonetheless, ruggedly handsome, a manly male under that Ivy League veneer. Better yet, he seemed to like mine – and I had never been the type of charmer who could stop traffic with a rucked-up skirt and a dazzling toothpaste smile. Was the guy really interested in drab little me?
So it appeared. Fascinated by my "kissable" lips and interested to the point of romance. Which would mean just a sneaky affair, I figured – or perhaps only an out-of-town motel weekend – the standard game-plan for a married man. I expected no more than that. And I was ready to give my all, my comparatively inexperienced all, for such a cause. Laid by the boss, imagine! Wouldn't that be a boost up the ladder to success? Besides, after dallying with some of the lower-caste office dullards, I was pretty eager to spread my wings and soar a little. Wasn't that why I had come to the big city in the first place, to try the things I'd never tried before? It would be an experience to savor, something to look back upon in later years. Like a night with a matinee idol. Or a rock star. Or a hit man for the Mafia. Well, something like that. Only this guy, my guy – Simon Beresford, the thick-lips freak – was more important than such lesser mortals. Sexier, too, from what I gathered. Oh yes, I was eager…
And so was he, as it turned out. We made it in my own apartment, of all places, hardly a romantic love-bower. But romance would only have cluttered up our lives at that point – or any point, for that matter – what with so much else on our minds. How that man loved my lips! I was good to him, of course, a little girl with a big mouth, a so-called "generous" mouth, stretching my generosity to encompass his every need. One need, mainly. A bit difficult at first, but a cinch after that, once I got the timing down pat. It was a genuine pleasure after our third or fourth date; how my lips loved that man! I even found a perverse enjoyment in my ability to tease him, to control his excitement, delaying each climax until the last possible instant. And then, glub, it would ail be over for a while and we would relax and talk about ourselves, about our affair, its chances for survival. Good chances, as far as Simon was concerned. He had struck it rich with me, apparently, and was becoming more possessive with every rendezvous.
"You'd make a great mistress, baby. Great for me, that's for sure. Those hot lips of yours…"
"It's not just my lips. I'm learning too, you know. I learn more whenever you come over. I'm still just a beginner."
"Some beginner. I wish my wife could suck cock like that."
"Does she? You know…"
"Huh?"
"Your wife. Does she suck at all?"
"Not any more. We don't even sleep together."
"Too bad. I'm glad, though. I wouldn't want anybody filling in for me, not even your lawful wedded wife. Not that I'm worried, I'll have you know. With the practice I'm getting, I ought to be the world's champion cocksucker pretty soon."
"Rory baby, you're the champ right now. You want to hear something wild? I even bragged about you at home – to Julia, I mean. I told her…"
"No! You didn't. You couldn't have! I thought she didn't know anything about me. You-you told your wife?"
"Not exactly. She found it out herself somehow. It was just last week, maybe the week before. And she's been needling me ever since. So I just needled her back, that's all."
"And that's all you do about it, just needle each other? No fights? Doesn't she get mad? Oh shit, I'll bet she'd like to tear my hair out by the [missing text]."
"Could be. But we're civilized, honey, we'll settle it without violence. In fact, it's already settled. Our marriage has to be preserved for the sake of the business, but aside from that, well, no strings attached. Julia has her friends, I have mine. And as long as we're discreet about it…"
"Oh. So now I'm not a secret any more. And neither is this place, my apartment, it's not so private now. I don't like that, Simon, it makes me uncomfortable."
"Hush now, take it easy. There's a silver lining. The way it's working out, maybe I can pick up your tab for the rent from now on. That ought to cheer you up. A steady deal?"
"You darling man! Just for that… mmm…"
"Hey!"
"Let me, let me."
"So who's stopping you? It's all yours. See? Come on, hot lips, earn your keep."
"Nnngg."
"Little cocksucker…"
It seemed almost ludicrous. Me, little Rory Mitchell, a kept woman? A rich man's mistress! Shouldn't a new image go with the job? I'm a kept woman! I wanted to dye ray hair, change my makeup, let my nails grow, maybe even enroll in some charm school. But no, I didn't do any of those. Simon decided that I ought to go on working at Consolidated – and without even a raise in pay – "so it shouldn't look too suspicious." (Businessman's talk, real pompous!) Which ruled out even minor alterations, much less a drastic overhaul. So I played my discreet role and remained unchanged, unglamorous, my natural sweet self. Sandy hair, a mop, all close-clipped curls. About the color of salt water taffy. Not bad, actually, since it went quite nicely with my eyes, hazel, kind of brown with a reddish-yellow tinge. Nice but dull, the whole effect, hardly spectacular enough for a girl in my position. Except that my lips must have compensated for all that, at least in the opinion of the boss, my lover-man. And who else mattered? He was paying the rent now and keeping the liquor cabinet stocked – sometimes even the refrigerator – a good provider, certainly. I was beginning to save a little money, feathering my nest for some future rainy day. If and when he got bored with me, I'd have something to fall hack on.
That was bound to happen, I figured. A guy like that had too many other opportunities, too many willing bed-partners within easy range. Pretty ones, prettier than me. Time would tell. Although he showed no signs of it as yet, no hint of any inclination to forgo ray loving lips and perhaps trade me in for a newer and more fully equipped model. Quite the contrary! More and more, he seemed eager for that peculiar kiss of mine, evidently satisfied with his choice of a mistress, his thick-lipped little cocksucker, an unseasoned but already prodigious freak. Oh, I was good, all right. Maybe even too good, in view of my own gradually changing attitude.
Uh-huh. The anticipated boredom cropped up, sure enough, only in reverse. I wasn't even aware of it at first, just vaguely irritated for no reason at all. The routine, perhaps? A very definite routine – the same nights each week, the same allotted time, the same preliminary drink and chat before getting down to the nitty-gritty; all so predictable! Did we have to stick to a schedule. Couldn't he switch nights unexpectedly and try to screw me up just once, catch me with my pants down maybe, act like a jealous lover?
No, not my Simon, he wasn't the type for jealousy. Too sure of himself. Too sure of me! Enough to take me for granted – which grated on my nerves, naturally, but only in passing. What the hell, I was being paid for it, wasn't I? He probably knew darn well that I spent my "off" nights bathing and shaving and generally grooming my girlish young body just for him. Not that he ever noticed it much. He just liked to see me lick my lips, that was his idea of grooming. And that was what finally rubbed my nerves raw. The one-track-mind dedication to that same old nitty-gritty. Just once, just out of sheer deviltry, couldn't he do the unexpected? Never mind screwing me up, just screw; me! Even a simple fuck would have seemed deliciously novel. And any more daring twist would have been heavenly, a divine inspiration. Anything but that same old routine blow-job! Even the world's champion cocksucker needed a change of pace now and then. There were moments when I seriously considered picking up some hunk of muscle – an unknown quantity, please? – from the nearest neighborhood bar. Only it would be just my luck to lick my juicy lips at the wrong time and wind up with another mouthful of cock. On my knees in some dark hallway, like as not. I wouldn't dare bring such a prospect home with me. A rich man's mistress? That dark hallway would be the lesser risk. Just something to alleviate the boredom…
Funny. What if I'd gone out that night? I might have, except for the weather – a last glance from my front room window catching the flash of fat silver raindrops reflected in the headlight beams of a slowly moving taxi. The evening mist had turned to rain. And I was all dressed, too, about to seek the beery conviviality of some nearby pub. I just didn't want to be alone. My latest visit from Simon had left me in sad shape, frustrated and feeling sorry for myself. Ready to give the local boys a break. If only it hadn't been raining out there! Not hard yet, just heavy enough to make my first such venture a washout. Who goes bar-hopping in messy weather? Just drunks and punks – and maybe a few stray chippies taking care of business. Mighty slim pickings for an honest woman with horny ideas. Anyway, that was my excuse for staying in. The safest place to be on a night like this. Especially for a waif like me, a born target for trouble.
Only I sure had a case of the blues, all alone and lonesome in the big city. And when my doorbell rang, I could have cheered aloud. Anybody was welcome at that point, even the nosy girls from the office snooping around for more gossip to spread. That was that I thought of first; who else would drop in at this hour without phoning ahead?
I was wrong, though. And all but stunned speechless when I realized how wrong. Even loneliness was preferable to this! It was bound to lead to bloodshed. And she was so much bigger than me, the kind of adversary to avoid at all costs. But then again, well, no man's mistress is overjoyed at coming face to face with his wife all of a sudden. I recognized her only instinctively, of course, a total stranger occupying my doorway with all the impassive poise of a fire-breathing dragon…
"Hmph! Rory? You are Rory, I assume. Aren't you going to ask me in?"
"Oh. Sorry. Do come in, please."
"Thanks. About time."
I shut the door behind her. She swung around and gripped my shoulders, peering down into my face. The trench coat she wore seemed to add extra bulk to her figure, somehow. Not that she needed it, the way she towered over me, taller and heavier and bigger in every dimension. Standing so close to my small body, her statuesque form was well-nigh overpowering. I felt like a scrunchy little schoolgirl.
"You're such a tiny thing, my dear. I had no idea. You do know who I am, don't you?"
"Uh-huh."
"And why I'm here?"
"I-I guess so."
"Good. Every little bit helps. We must both make an effort to be civilized about this, don't you agree?" She let go of me and stepped back, her eyes shooting sparks, belying the serenity of her pose. "As a matter of fact, I could do with a drink right now, something to preserve this peaceful atmosphere, hmm?"
"Of course. What would you like?"
"Scotch is fine. With a little water."
I went to the liquor cabinet, glad to put some distance between us. My feeling of numb astonishment was fading, giving way to a more sharply defined concept of our confrontation thus far. One thing stood out in my mind, undeniably prominent despite its rather trivial nature. Irrelevant, anyhow. No, it wasn't trivial, not even in such gravely serious circumstances. The woman – my rival, Julia Beresford – was she really that beautiful?
Fussing with the bottles and glassware, I tried to recall her features in detail. High cheekbones. The dusky complexion, darkly amber, remarkably so for someone with hair that color. Blonde. Shimmering shoulder-length golden waves, a natural look. At most, just touched-gray. I her middle thirties, I figured, or maybe even younger. But it was her eyes that stuck in my mind above all else, the green eyes that had showered me with sparks – big and deep and green as glowing emeralds. I was almost afraid to turn around again, afraid of the strange power of those eyes…