Four writers for the price of one blog
Music plays in the background. Men in women, in black formal attire, mingle and sip from wine glasses. There’s oak paneling, a Persian rug almost the size of the room, and a table set for dinner. A startling brunette, long-legged and wearing pearls and a tight one-piece evening dress emerges from a bathroom.
She has a second thought, digs lipstick from her purse and finds her reflection in the vestibule mirror. When she turns, a taller man presses lightly at her solar plexus, pushing her back against the mirror. She looks at him, then at the men and women in the further room. She tries to push him away before the fingers of his other hand push into her mouth. She looks angry but he doesn’t relent.
Her hands close around his wrist but he’s pushed her head against the wall. She tries to speak, then looks like she might scream before her eyebrows knot. She rises to her toes. His free hand has lifted the front of her skirt and works between her opening legs. She makes indecipherable vocalizations. His fingers move in and out of her mouth, smeared with her lipstick. His feet move between hers, knocking her ankles further apart. He’s fishing for something in his inside suit pocket. She can’t see. He’s tilted her head back. He drives his fingers into her throat and she coughs. Her eyes water and her expression is panicky. She swallows. Then her mouth opens wide, her eyes roll, and she groans. Then the same thing again, and then again. Each time her ankles move apart a little more.
Then he holds her like that, his fingers sliding back and forth on her extended tongue. She shudders as if growing accustomed. Then he removes his fingers, but her lips remain parted. A web of saliva glistens on her chin. The finger of his other hand is hooked through a ring, which is attached to a chain and the chain disappears under her skirt. She stares at him with shook. He steps back and tugs lightly on the chain. She utters a quick, flighty breath. She steps to him, both palms over the juncture of her legs and dress. He lifts the kerchief from his suit pocket and carefully wipes her lips and mouth. Then he presses his thumb to her bottom lip.
Her eyes don’t stray from his. He smiles. He lets go of the gold ring at the end of the jewelers chain and it falls, dangling between her thighs, swinging just under the hem of her dress. A bead of moisture runs down the chain. When he holds out his arm, she lowers her eyes and takes it. He leads her back to the assembled men and women taking their seats. Her eyes are furtive, looking left and right, absentmindedly pushing the hem of her skirt down. He pulls out the empty chair next to his. She glances at another man, bites her lip, and sits warily, delicately, exhaling when she’s finally seated, thighs parted, back curled.
He does two things. He reaches between her thighs—changing her expression to a nervous question. But he only lays the chain across top of her thigh. The next thing he does is pour her a glass of wine.
William Crimson | October 14 2015