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From: "PleaseCain" <pleasecain@aol.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} [deirdre Fest] "Peek" (mf spank voy) by PleaseCain [deirdre Style]
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Date: Tue, 18 Apr 2006 01:10:04 -0400
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Copyright 1998, 2006 pleasecain@aol.com.

Peek
by PleaseCain

Renee gurgled beer onto her top and waddled like a pig on its haunches.
"Pardon me, excuse me . . . but I'm eating for two!" We both busted
out. She fell on the carpet gagging, with beer in her nose. "Is there a
shortage of Ranch dressing here? And can you spare some for a paying
customer!"

I'd only been in town a couple hours and already we had a giddy buzz,
while Renee did a vicious impression of a woman at the restaurant.
Vicious, but right on. We laughed so hard we didn't hear Len come home.
Or didn't care, more like.

Aunt Renee, actually. She's only five years older than me, but a lot
faster, and more like a big sister. She's always cool to me and lets me
hang with her. I've had many "firsts" with her, tales which never fail
to impress my friends, who treat her like a goddess. Renee does that to
people, girls and guys. Blond hair, bod and twitter like a lightswitch,
she definitely fits the red Ferrari Bobby bought her.

The Ferrari's still in the drive, but Bobby's gone. He was totally
smooth and delicious, but Renee says he was an asshole. Len is Number
Two, a contractor, and she moved to Tucson because of his business.

He's also a bore--nice enough, I guess, but doesn't say anything, just
sits stroking the scraps of hair at his temples. My dad loves him. I
stay away.

But he's easy enough to ignore, which we did. Renee hammed louder and
louder, and we were cutting up, more on sangria than anything she was
doing. Len rattled around in the kitchen for a while, then strode into
the room. I said hello and was going to hug him, but his nod froze me
to the couch.

"Waiter, oh waiter," Renee slurred in his face, "could you wrap this
up, and that table's too?" She still laughed, but I tried to hold mine
in, because he just stood there staring.

"And waiter, go and get your manager, please hun. What, waiter? No
habla inglais?"

She laughed. He didn't. Creep show.

His temples danced. "How many have you had?" He was unsettlingly even.

"What? One!" Renee said. "Right, Dee?"

I nodded, not that he noticed.

"In fact, all gone! Get me another." She was really pushing it. "Okay?
Baby?"

Nothing, for a frozen second. A contest.

"Gees," she said, in reedy exasperation.

His blunt finger fished like a wire into the ashtray, producing a
red-greased butt. I wasn't wearing lipstick. He snapped it in his palm,
turned and left. Of course, Renee had a sarcastic face for his back.

I was glad it was over, until I heard him, behind me, "Renee, in the
den."

Renee shushed him: "Len! Now? Come on!"

"Here, or in the den."

"No," she pleaded, a low howl. "Len."

Silence.

So Renee clucked and rolled her eyes for me when she walked past. I
heard her stomp through the kitchen.

"Pardon us briefly," he said, but I didn't turn around. My eyes
wandered the ceiling, wondering what the hell. Just what the hell.

I fidgeted, settled for the remote and turned on the TV. Click, click,
click.

I jumped up for a coke, changed my mind and stood by the running
faucet, downing cups of water. And yes, listening. (You can't really
blame me.) I turned off the water. There was no shouting. There was
noth . . . no, deeper in the background, I heard jagged starts of
urgent be-very-still noise, which sharpened as I prowled the carpeted
hall, focusing at the wide-open doorway to a sequence of sounds even
more mysterious and illicit: gasps and eerie pauses and, yes, fleshy
reports.

One peek jarred me beyond my worst imaginings.

In the spacious sunlit room, down two hardwood steps to the bar, Renee
lay bareassed across Len's lap on one of the tall barstools. I mean,
she was exposed; his bootheel was hooked on the highest horizontal
rung, so that her butt was way up high, with her shorts on the floor
and panties dangling from her ankles. There was her . . . Len raised
his palm and slammed it against her behind. *Oh deir.*

She wheezed, "Oh," and her head strained against the arm locked over
her shoulders, and her feet raised slightly. In the next second,
another hard slap. Another, and another, until her body wilted in
resignation.

He relented then, stroking her tomatoed cheeks and her sex.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," she breathed.

He spanked her. She yelped.

"Do you?"

"Yes," she stammered louder.

He swatted again.

I hurried away for my purse and out the door, under cover of the
blaring television. I unlocked the cardoor, then thought a moment. I
should have left, anywhere, but didn't move. I just couldn't believe,
well . . . what if . . . ?

Cellphone in hand, I walked round back.

I slowed near the wall-sized set of windows that looked out on Mt.
Lemon outside town. My last steps were tentative, though they wouldn't
see me because they were at the far end and Len's den was pretty big. I
glanced, but the stool stood empty, away from the bar.

Then I saw movement, in the foreground, on the couch on the other side
of the glass. Renee's feet bobbing atop his back, coiled about him like
the clasps of a broach, his muscles flexing as he rode her. I stared,
in the open, immobile.

As if beckoned, Len looked up at me, capturing my eyes. He kept
thrusting, staring, not letting go. I bounded to the car and got the
hell away.

I needed to be alone. A movie, I decided, at the local mall, in the
dark and air conditioning, and an oversized box of candy. Yet another
gray film of Irish bombers and weepy girlfriends, but my mind was far
away as I snaked my hand under my skirt and felt how wet I was.

I bummed around a while, read Cosmo at Starbucks, ignored a couple of
jerks--it was dark before I headed back.

I clicked the door shut behind me while my eyes adjusted to the room,
shimmering blue from the TV in the rec room and the sallow glow of a
kitchen nightlight reflected off the refrigerator. I heaved sharply
when Len emerged from the shadows.

"Hi, Cookie," he chirped, then seeing my reaction, chuckled, "Sorry.
Where've you been?"

I grabbed my chest, unsure for a moment whether to be pissed or laugh
it off. He called me Cookie, too; only my dad calls me that, but Len
appropriated it the first time he heard it, being either rude or slow
or his idea of cute, who knows, except that I hated it. After what I'd
seen, I let it go at, "Oh god . . . at the movies." Mass murderer.

"At Southlake?"

"Yeah." Suspended there.

"Good? The movie? What did you see?"

"Oh, no, you didn't miss nothing. I forgot what it was called. The IRA
movie."

"Huh." He paused. "I'm turning in. I grilled some burgers in the
fridge, if you want some. Renee's watching television."

"Oh, thanks." I leaned into a wooden hug; he said, "Good night," and we
both split.

Renee lay on her stomach in front of the TV, in a huge white tee-shirt,
knees bent, kicking circles in the air.

"Hey."

She turned. "Hi." I scooched next to her, sharing the oversized pillow.
"'Sup?"

"Nothing, drove around."

"Are you pissed?"

"No. Why?"

"Didn't mean to chase you away, we just had a little argument. You
probably heard."

"Yes."

"Len said you did."

My tongue died. I had no idea what to say, as the moment spooled away
out of reach.

"That's OK." Renee reached under the couch and handed me a rolled
baggie. "Here, smell this."

I let it unfurl and held it to my nose, and the loamy sweetness of
potent marijuana leapt out.

"Wicked stuff," she gloated. "And Mr. Grumblebutt will probably be gone
on sites all day tomorrow. Soon as he leaves, we're taking that and a
couple pitchers of margaritas out to the pool, and he can be damned.
Cool?"

"All right," I muttered.

"Cool?"

"Cool."

"Good. Well, I'm exhausted," we hugged, "I have the bed all made up
there." She teetered to her feet and grabbed the bottle of aloe lotion.
"If you need anything, hunt it down or call me. You know the drill.
Night, hun."

"Night, Rs." The pink cotton twitched above the tops of her legs as she
padded away.

Christ, the baggy lay open on the carpet. I snatched it up, but before
stashing it, I picked out a bud and examined it close, the compact husk
with mysterious red hairs and yellow veins. I lay back down, zoning to
the flashing screen, absently sniffing the residue on my fingers, and
was surprised I could still smell myself on them as well. I blew a
half-hour? fourty-five minutes? flipping channels. And smelling my
fingertips.

In the cabinet I found "9 1/2 Weeks," and knew exactly what I wanted to
see, scanning to where he calls her at the house and accuses her of
nosing through his things, and through her denials he presses her until
her eyes dart like a caged animal's and she confesses in a peep. I
watched it twice before I replaced the tape and went to bed.

In the dark, I slipped bare into the cool bed, kicked down the covers
and caressed my wetness while I smelled my fingertips. I trailed around
my bellybutton and nipples, then down. As soon as I could, I dipped two
fingers into my sweetspot and rubbed like a busy bee on clover, and my
breath caught with the purple dance of my hips, thinking of two
intoxicated girls caught by a gruff man, and how he untied their
suitbottoms and held each one over his lap.


Find the complete writings of deirdre at Transom:
http://members.aol.com/deirARCHIV

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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