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From: pleasecain@aol.com (PleaseCain)
Subject: "Peek" by PleaseCain (mf spank)
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EXPLICIT MATERIAL NOT INTENDED FOR MINORS.
© 1998 PleaseCain@aol.com -- Commercial use prohibited
without author's consent.  Remove of this notice is prohibited.



Peek
© 1998 PleaseCain@aol.com

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 Tuscan 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!  Right, Dee?"  He didn't care to notice my vigorous nod.  "In
fact, all gone!  Get me another.  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, cranked it loud.  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 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; one of his
bootheels was hooked on the highest horizontal bar, so 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 opening toward 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 alone, away from the bar.

Then I saw movement, in the foreground, on the couch across 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 I stared, in the open, immobile.

As if beckoned, Len looked up at me, seizing my eyes.  He kept thrusting,
watching, not letting go.  I bounded like a spastic schoolgirl 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 beneath my skirt and felt how wet I was.




I bummed around a while, read Cosmo at Starbucks, shirked 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 on 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 and
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.




deirdre's stories are archived at Transom:  members.aol.com/deirARCHIV
Read Cain's stories at:  members.aol.com/pleasecain


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