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This story has a special meaning for me, and I hope you like it. I still cry at the end of it.


The Jaguar broke down half way between Albany and New York, a gray day, gray sky, smell of rain in the trees. And Beth thinking: Not here, not here in the middle of nowhere.

She sat behind the wheel in the parking lot of a windblown rest stop, people with tired faces wandering in and out of the squat restaurant like zombies. Were they alive? Oh damn, why here? Why here in the middle of nowhere? Where was it anyway? Served her right for not driving back on the Thruway. Was it some kind of trite retribution for the argument with Claire in Albany? Silly dyke spat, more looks than words. Traveling all the way to Albany to see Claire only to find Claire with someone else, Claire and another woman, Claire’s bed occupied. Predictable, wasn’t it? Claire in no time with another woman. All those hot fantasies during the long drive up to Albany and then finding Claire with another woman, Claire already with someone else, new secrets between them, the way they glanced at each other. Two days in Albany imagining Claire and the woman together, anger at Claire, anger at herself, anger at the world. The woman rolling her eyes as if to say, Listen, who invited you here, why don’t you go home?

And now this.

It took an hour to get a tow-truck, but after that a mere ten minutes to have the Jaguar pulled into the nearest town. Milson Corners. What kind of name was that? Where were the corners? Definitely in the middle of nowhere; definitely not a place where a New York woman ought to be stranded on a Sunday afternoon. Make the best of it, she thought, remain calm, remain in control. She would call Rita and Rita would chuckle and say something nutty about how bad things always happen to people who leave New York, but don’t worry, I can handle things alone until you get the car fixed.

The mechanic looked at Beth as the tow-truck winch eased the car down outside his tiny shop.

“What’s the trouble, miss?”

A man about sixty with greasy clothes, like he’d been living in grease for sixty years, eating it, licking it off his fingers. Did he smoke Prince Albert in a corncob? Beth remembered an old uncle always in a cloud of tobacco.

“I don’t know. It makes a horrible noise.”

“Okay, we’ll find out.”

“How long will it take? I mean how long will it take to get it fixed and get me out of here?”

The old mechanic shrugged. Family in Hudson Valley since 1800. All those generations chewing on corncobs.

“Can’t say yet. Depends on what’s wrong. If it’s a part that’s hard to get, could be a day, two days.”

Beth groaned. “Two days?”

“Could be. You got the keys?”

“They’re in the car.”

The mechanic walked over to the Jaguar, opened the door and climbed inside. In a moment Beth heard the horrible noise again, metal grinding against metal, the Jaguar croaking.

The mechanic called out: “Sounds like the starter motor is gone.”

Beth called back: “How long will it take?”

“Could be more than two days.”

Oh damn, Beth thought.

Suddenly, she noticed the painting, a glimpse of it through the grimy office window, reds, blues, burnt sienna. She stepped closer, peering inside. On the wall behind a counter cluttered with auto parts–a large square painting looking like a Braque.

Braque in Milson Corners? But it was not a Braque, it was something else, not Cubist, better than Cubist. Jumping. Startling.

The mechanic left the Jaguar and walked over to Beth and Beth said:

“Where did you get that?”

“Get what, miss?”

“That painting, the painting hanging in the office.”

The old man chuckled. “Someone I know did that. Can’t make it out myself. You got any idea what it is? What about the car now? What would you like to do with it? Could be we can’t find a Jag starter motor except in Poughkeepsie. Pretty little car, but it ain’t worth a damn when it falls apart.”

“Can I go inside and look at the painting?”

The old man glanced down at her high-heeled sandals.

“Sure, do what you like. Look at all the pictures you want. But don’t trip in there. I ain’t had a chance to clean it out in some time.”

He muttered to himself as he walked back to the Jaguar and raised the hood.

Beth opened the office door and stepped inside. Clean it out indeed. It would take a month to clean this pig-pen. The air smelling of stale beer and unwashed clothes. Piles of cartons, old newspapers, greasy rags. She walked over to the counter directly opposite the painting. Looking at it. Definitely something. Sharp figures of nude women painted over a Cubist-like background. An extremely competent painter; no, it was more than that: someone quite brilliant. A definite talent. The technique superb.

The office door opened and the old man came in.

“It’s the starter motor, all right. Don’t expect I’ll find one anywhere near here, so I’ll have to call Poughkeepsie. By the way, my name’s Earl.”

At that moment a shadow crossed the door, and the door opened altıparmak escort again, and a woman entered. A tall lean woman, a strong appearance, with short dark hair and dark eyes that seemed to burn out of a sun-brown fine chiseled face.

The old man turned.

“Morning, Marlo. This young lady’s been looking at your picture.”

* * *

Later Beth would tell herself it was destiny, fate making her travel to Albany, fate making her drive the Taconic back instead of the Thruway, fate making the car break down, fate bringing her to this old mechanic to be here at the moment Marlo walked in. A woman called Marlo. What a name. What a woman. Beth was deeply aware of her own confusion. Totally swept away, her knees trembling as those burning dark eyes gazed at her. Like a stupid soap opera. Who the hell was she? That marvelous chiseled face.

Marlo looked away and said:

“Is that so?

Beth fumbled.

“Yes, I like it. I’m part manager of a gallery in New York and I’d like to see more of your work. I think–“

“I’m really not interested.”

And, incredibly, Marlo turned and walked out, the door vibrating after she slammed it.

Beth stared at the door, then looked at the old mechanic. “Now what was that all about?”

Earl shrugged. “That’s Marlo, all right. Ornery like her dead mother. Marlo’s my niece, but I ain’t so ornery, am I?” Then he snickered: “No one ever knows a damn about Marlo.”

“I’d like to see her paintings.”

“You can’t see nothing if she don’t show it to you, and it looks like today she ain’t in a mood to show nothing to nobody.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

Earl peered at her. “You figuring on staying awhile?”

“You said it would take a few days to fix the car.”

“Yep, I did at that. I got to call Poughkeepsie.”

“Is there a hotel in town?”

Earl snorted. “Hotel, hell. There ain’t no hotel within thirty miles of here. But I could get you a room down the road at Ma Willow’s, if you don’t mind her neighbor.”

“Her neighbor?”

“Ma’s got one neighbor behind her near the creek. And that’s Marlo, my niece.”

Definitely Prince Albert.

* * *

Marlo sat in an old stuffed chair with her eyes on a girl named Lucy. The girl was blonde, not yet twenty, crazy in love with Marlo, wearing a navy skirt and a pale blue sweater tight enough to show her pointed little breasts.

Now Lucy tossed her long blonde hair and looked at Marlo.

“How should I pose today?”

And Marlo said: “I don’t know yet. Just get your clothes off.”

Lucy gave her a coy look. Striptease. Marlo was fond of the girl but it would not go anywhere. She would not let Lucy live with her no matter how much Lucy wanted it. Lucy would beg and Marlo would always resist. She would not let anyone live with her, had not let it happen in years and years. Not if living meant sleeping in the same bed every night, looking at and talking to the same woman day and night, day and night. Not Marlo. She knew the hells of monogamy. They wanted her; the women all wanted her; driven to her by the special charisma she had; but she would not take any of them permanently. And besides, Lucy was too young. The girl’s parents were dead, but she lived with an aunt and uncle and Marlo wanted no more gossip in the valley, no whispering about how Lucy the drugstore cashier was living with that crazy painter woman near the creek. It was bad enough when people talked whenever Marlo drove Lucy around on her motorcycle.

Lucy said: “Something is wrong.”

She was no fool; she knew Marlo’s moods.

“Nothing is wrong.”

Nothing wrong, nothing said. Marlo thought of the New York woman at Earl’s, the woman with the expensive clothes and the sweet little body and high heels. Definitely hot for it. The way she had looked at Marlo had made it so obvious. An instant connection with their eyes. Marlo knowing them when they looked at her like that. Reading them. Thinking about working them.

Lucy pouted, continuing the slow removal of her clothes, gliding with extreme grace. Marlo appreciated the gracefulness of the girl and she watched her carefully. Lucy moved slowly, aware every moment that Marlo was watching her. She slipped the black flats off her feet. She peeled away the pale blue sweater and white bra to show her jiggling small breasts with pink nipples like gumdrops, each nipple pierced by a tiny gold ring. Marlo’s rings. Marlo had wanted the girl’s nipples pierced and Lucy had been happy to do whatever Marlo wanted. They’d gone to Albany for it; a date with a burned-out witch to get the rings in Lucy’s tits. Now Lucy stalled, slowly folding the sweater and draping it over the back of a chair, standing in profile as she bent forward to show Marlo her dangling little ringed breasts that made Marlo’s mouth water. Marlo wanted one in her mouth, her tongue flipping the ring. The girl gave a coy look to see if Marlo was still watching. Then Lucy’s hands were at the skirt zipper, pulling it down, her breasts shaking as she dropped the skirt and stepped bursa anal yapan escort out of it.

Surprise. No tights today. Lucy had chosen her underthings to entice Marlo. Stockings with lace tops and a white garter belt, no panties to cover the blonde fluff at her crotch. The stockings were new and Marlo had never seen them before. She’d given Lucy the garter belt some time ago, but the girl had always worn it with the stockings bought for her by Marlo, and then only when Marlo told her to dress that way.

Marlo said: “Where did you get the stockings?”

Lucy gave her a coy smile. “I ordered them out of a catalog.”

As Lucy turned her back a moment, the girl’s buttocks were like a pair of smooth beach balls kissing each other between the straps of the garter belt. She looked lovely, irresistible. Marlo felt the tightening in her belly, her clit coming to attention, rising awake and standing tall. Never mind the work she’d planned, the hunger was too sharp.

“Come here.”

Lucy came to her with a smile of victory. The girl sauntered on her stocking feet, the beige stockings with lace tops glistening in a patch of light from the window. She came to Marlo, stood before her with her pelvis thrust forward.

“Do you like the stockings?”

“Yes, they’re pretty. I’ll get you some more the next time I’m in Poughkeepsie. Didn’t I give you one pair with lace tops?”

Lucy pouted. “They got a run. So when I found the catalog in the store, I ordered these with a money order. I knew you’d like them.”

Marlo smiled and kissed her. Then she stared at the blonde thatch, the full mound so surprising because everything else about the girl seemed unripe. She was almost like a boy. Lucy’s face was too thin and angular to be beautiful, but the sweetness was there. And the eagerness. Marlo reached up to pinch a pink nipple, tugging at the gold ring and then pushing at Lucy’s hip to make the girl turn around.

Lucy gave her another hot look as she turned to show her compact little buttocks. She knew what Marlo wanted. After shifting her legs apart, she bent forward a bit to offer herself, to show herself from the rear, to show the gold ring piercing the right lip, this ring larger than the others, maybe the diameter of a quarter. This was also Marlo’s ring, the piercing done about a month after Lucy’s nipples were pierced, but Lucy’s idea really. Lucy had come to her and said she wanted it, begged for it, said she wanted to feel she totally belonged to Marlo. She’d said: I do belong to you, don’t I, Marlo?

God, I love her, Marlo thought. She passed her fingers over a round buttock, her fingertips gliding on the smooth skin, just a tickling touch, first one globe and then the other. Then she moved her hand between Lucy’s thighs and took her, getting inside quickly, no preliminaries, two fingers sliding into the drenched cunt and then her thumb working into the girl’s tight anus.

Lucy groaned. She had already lubricated her back opening in the bathroom. That was something Marlo had taught her: always be prepared. Lucy groaned again, squirming her rear portal on Marlo’s thumb, shaking her hips, shuddering from head to toe as the fingers worked in and out of both openings. The girl came quickly, her sweetness raining on Marlo’s palm as she cried out and called Marlo’s name, shaking again when Marlo finally pulled her fingers away and pinched her clit, shaking through a second orgasm.

No dallying today. A tie on the nearby table. A black leather tie. Marlo reached for it, then quickly tied the girl’s hands behind her back.

“Hold still,” Marlo whispered, her tongue licking at Lucy’s ear.

Lucy moaned as Marlo securely tied her wrists together, her wrists crossed at the small of her back. The girl dropped now, kneeling with her head and shoulders on the floor, her knees wide apart and her buttocks raised. She adored giving herself to Marlo this way, bent over like a bitch-dog in heat, her pink sex open and vulnerable, her most intimate parts ready for whatever Marlo wanted.

Marlo gazed at the ripe little fig, pink and open, dripping sugar syrup on the insides of the young thighs. She bent forward and touched Lucy’s anus with her thumb again, Lucy whimpering as the finger widened the opening and slipped inside.

“You’re wide open.”

“Always for you, Marlo.”

“You want more?”

“Please, Marlo!

“Wiggle it. Wiggle it on my thumb.”

Lucy churned her hips, rolling her ass, her anus gripping Marlo’s thumb as the other fingers of Marlo’s hand remained on the outside of her wet cunt.

Marlo suddenly pulled her hand away and rose.

“Don’t move.”

Lucy remained where she was, remained kneeling on the carpet as Marlo walked out of the room.

Silence. Somewhere outside an owl hooted in a tree.

Marlo returned without clothes, below her waist a dildo, a black strap-on dildo that bobbed up and down as she approached Lucy. The girl looked at it, her eyes hotter than ever because getting fucked by Marlo’s cock was something special, bursa bayan escort a gift from Marlo, an ecstasy.

Marlo held her hand out to Lucy and had her rise. She led the girl to the stuffed chair she’d been sitting on previously and she had Lucy kneel on it with her head draped over the back and her ass facing Marlo. The girl’s hands were still tied. The height was perfect, and without dawdling, Marlo moved in and used her hand to guide the round knob of the dildo to Lucy’s anus.

Lucy groaned as it went in. She relaxed and opened herself. A half hour ago, she had lubricated herself carefully with the hope Marlo would take her this way. They had done it often enough and she knew how to take it. She spread her knees further apart on the chair cushion and groaned again as she felt Marlo’s hands grasp her buttocks. Having her arms behind her back in this position was a bit painful now, but she gloried in her submission to Marlo.

“Easy, girl.”

“Oh Marlo.”

“Feel good?”

“I love you, Marlo.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you, Marlo.”

“And I love you too.”

Marlo started fucking her slowly, watching the black shaft as it slid in out of the girl’s stretched anus, the hole like a round mouth sucking on the black cylinder. She slid a hand under the dildo to find Lucy’s cunt, pushed three fingers inside the girl’s elastic vagina and worked them as she continued thrusting. When her smallest finger found Lucy’s clitoris and started strumming it, Lucy began a continuous moaning.

The girl trembled as she came. Marlo kept at it until Lucy had another orgasm, and then finally she pulled out and made Lucy turn around.

“Go on, get it in your mouth,” Marlo said, her voice coaxing.

With a soft cry, her hands still tied behind her back, Lucy lurched her face against Marlo’s belly to get her mouth on Marlo’s black cock.

Marlo stroked Lucy’s hair, a tender stroking of the blonde head. Sometimes she loved Lucy so much it made her chest hurt. I could cry, Marlo thought. She caught a loose wisp of blonde hair and curled it behind Lucy’s ear.

I could really cry, Marlo thought.

* * *

Marlo twelve years ago at Syracuse University. She stands outside the library, tall, thin, a white sweater, gray slacks, dark hair cropped short like a boy in a Ralph Lauren ad. She avoids looking at anyone, no eye contact, no interest as she turns away to walk along a path between two rows of trees.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s in the living room of a small house near the stadium. Paula Wakeman, middle forties, an Art History professor, brown hair, brown eyes, a round cherubic face, has just entered with two glasses of iced tea.

“You look lovely,” Paula says. “You always look lovely.”

Paula feels drab when she’s near Marlo, hypnotized by Marlo’s sleek boy-look. Today the boy-look is more emphatic than usual: Marlo is a breathtaking vision. Paula asks about Marlo’s day. Has she had lunch? “You mustn’t starve yourself. You’re still young, you’re growing, you need the nutrients. Let me take you to dinner this evening.”

Marlo shakes her head. “No, not this evening. I can’t.”

Paula flushes in her disappointment. She moves closer to Marlo, puts her tea down and leans forward to kiss Marlo’s cheek. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“But you need to eat something.”

“I’m fine, really.”

“What are you doing this evening?”

“I told you I have plans.”

“Yes, but what? Can’t you tell me?”

“There’s a group meeting to study for an exam.”

“Which exam?”

“Western Civilization.”

“You could study with me. I could help you.”

Marlo says nothing.

Paula leans forward again, this time kissing closer to Marlo’s mouth.

Casually, as though it’s an afterthought, Marlo brushes her fingers over the front of Paula’s blouse, over one of the large breasts thrusting at the fabric.

Paula shudders as she feels the touching. “Yes, darling. Oh yes.”

Eager to get things started, Paula quickly unbuttons her blouse and unsnaps her heavy-duty front-closing bra. She brings out a large breast, one hand supporting the globe as she offers it to Marlo. “Here, my love.”

Marlo gazes down at Paula’s ripeness, at the formidable nipple already showing signs of tumescence. It was Paula’s breasts that intrigued her from the beginning, these motherly pillows that are still a novelty to Marlo because she has never been with a woman like Paula.

Her voice quavering, Paula says: “Kiss me, darling.”

And Marlo kisses her, takes Paula’s mouth with her own while she holds the heavy breast with her hand. She slides the other hand down Paula’s back and over the lavish curves of Paula’s ass.

Paula groans as she feels Marlo’s hands. “You make me feel so wanton.” She pulls back, her expression simpering, her face flushed with excitement. “Don’t you want to stay with me this evening?”

Marlo shakes her head. “I told you I can’t.”

Pouting, Paula frees both breasts and supports them with her hands, looking down at them, gazing at her prize possessions. “You like these, don’t you?”


Marlo feels a flash of renewed interest. The affair is only a month old and Paula’s lush body still excites Marlo intensely. And the way Paula so easily assumes a sluttish attitude. The slutty professor holding her tits like a chorus girl.

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