Fiction by Donald Spelvin

Haven't seen her for awhile. Late night TV just gives me the hunger – dry, itching feeling that wants her wetness. So I get in my car and drive over to her house, 2:00 a.m. heart pounding in my throat, playing the radio LOUD. Suck on my cigarette like I’m inhaling her, holding her deep in my lungs. Need to see her bad. Window down shivers, just from the thought of my eyes traveling over her.

Pull up. Shut off the engine, shaky legged walk up to her dark door. Television light glimmers through the curtain's fissure, cold yet beckoning. Is she awake? What will she say? Brave knuckles bruise the door three times.

“Hello?” her silky voice has a sharp, metal edge.

“It`s me."

“Yeah?”

“I just needed to see you.”

“You know what I’ve told you about just dropping by.”

“I’m sorry... I feel stupid talking through the door.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have come by.”

The sound of her voice, cushioned by the door, is like an elixir penetrating forgotten places in me.

“Could I just see you for a second?”

“I`m not letting you in."

“Please," cat scratching at her door.

“I said no,” sharper; I should pull away, but I stay.

“Just come to the window then. Open the curtain... Let me just see you through the window,” I plead.

Silence.

Then I see the heavy curtain that covers the large living room window open a foot or so. I rush over.. She’s standing there in her pink robe, loosely wrapped, nothing on underneath. Sudden involuntary erection that I know the darkness conceals. She’s smoking one of her long, expensive cigarettes. Blows a heavy plume at the window; half smile on her face, mouths words I strain to hear.

“What?”

“Now you see me,” louder, one hand on the tie at her waist. I stare. Close my mouth’s hanging on her next move, hanging open like a broken door fallen off its hinges. Her fingers fondle the tie at her waist, loosening my brain is ravenous. Wants to feed on her. Top of her robe blouses open revealing a peek of tiny firm tits. One nipple pokes out, pencil eraser hard. My mind is erased, rubbing myself uncomfortably stiff fully extended down my pants leg.

“Come closer.” I see her mouth the words more than I can hear her. I step closer, but my knees run into the brick ledge in front of her window.

“Closer,” she pulls on the tie a bit more, exhaling blue smoke in the flickering TV light. The hard ledge digs into my knees. My face is flush with the window as she unties her belt and the robe falls completely open. I see her beautiful, flat hard stomach; hip bones protrude from a valley where I want to plant my mouth, my hard cock, my seed. And then my eyes seize on the perfectly smooth white altar of flesh above her lips tiny, tightly budded petals. I am remembering every time her

flower has opened into my mouth and dripped nectar down my throat. I see her wicked pleasure in my teasing delight. She lets the robe fall off her shoulders, then turns and stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table, taking one, last pull followed by one more sensuous cloud of blue wrapping around her thin, smooth, firm body. Steps back over to the window.

“Wait here.”

“What?” Dumbfounded. What’s next?

“The waist cincher came in the mail today... Now you'll really see."

She means her 20- inch, black vinyl waist cincher that she ordered months ago. My mind is salivating at the thought of the extreme body modification imposed by the cincher's hard restraint.

While she's away from the window, I step out of my obsession and see myself as her neighbors might with a glance out their early a.m. window. Man in a black baseball hat, black leather jacket and jeans, kneeling on the narrow brick ledge in front of her window. Peeping. What if they call the police? Get up. Walk over to her door. Adrenaline fingers struggle to pull a cigarette from the crumpled pack. Light up. Deep pull. Calm down. No police in sight everyone’s asleep at this hour so no one is up lookin’ out their window at me. I hope. But the fact she lives in a duplex and there’s neighbors so close next door makes the risk and the excitement sky high.

“Are you still out there?” Her voice on the other side the door. “Yeah, I just..."

“Come around the back of the house to the dining room window. I don’t want the neighbors to think you’re a peeper and call the police."

“You read my mind.”

“Don’t I always.” And with that, the living room curtain slams shut.

I scurry along the narrow walkway running beside her half of the house like a hungry rodent out hunting for food. Can’t quite sidestep all the stuff lurking in the darkness like booby traps. Bruise my shins. No matter. I am oblivious to pain; my only thought is getting another, long eyeful of her that way, through the window muffling our words, but not our desire –separated by a pane of glass.

At the back of her house, darker still, stars blink in disbelief overhead. I stand in the sullen November weeds in front of her nearly floor to ceiling, dining room window... waiting. The curtain parts and she stands there, half shadow, half light, starkly illumined by the yellow kitchen glare striking her from the side. And she is fantastically attired: Cinched to the hilt, ribs fanning out above, hip bones pointed in defiance below the shiny black cincher. Wide smile on her face. Long, black, over-the-elbow gloves hold an expensive cigar, one I bought for her. She lights it, brings the huge cigar to her painted red lips. Puffs. Exhales. Nirvana.

Have to let him out, stiff as a board, stroking while she’s smoking. Black lipstick annoints her nipples and her beautiful feet teetering on six-inch, open-toed platforms. Extreme body distortion. She towers above me; the ground outside is below the dining room floor plus the added height of her heels.

“Come closer to me.” I see/hear her ripe red lips make the words. I am flush with the glass again. Bulbous head bumps into cool glass. Her black gloved hand extends to me, caresses cool glass on the other side of my madness. Knees want to buckle up, find the safety of wet weeds and dirt. I crumble in front of her, looking up at her vagina and the cinched waist of the Wasp Woman I worship and adore. Sting me, paralyze me, cocoon me. She puffs away. Smashes her shaved white pubic bone and her little lips against the glass. I lick. And stroke. She steps back. Pulls one glove off, slowly. Brings her fingers to the perfect place my tongue and fingers and cock want to penetrate. Touching herself, watching me touch myself, watching her watching me, around in circles, faster and faster like a tiger chases its tail around a tree, till the tiger turns into butter..

She drops down to her knees as well. She bends down, I lean up and kiss her, tongues stabbing at the cool, indifferent glass doesn't care about our passion. I stand up. Her mouth forms the perfect, gaping, painted hole my cock wants to fill. She flops onto her back, knees up, head held up looking me straight in the eye. Her hand working faster. I’m just waiting for the right moment. Feel it cocked and ready to shoot from my balls at the moment I choose. I hear her muffled moans lifting her face up off the carpet and the painted oval of her mouth lets out a scream that vibrates the glass and I release my white stream onto the window with drool hanging from my lower lip. She spasms on the carpet in front of me like a fish out of water, like a person taking a bath when an appliance falls in. Then she stops. Gets up on her knees. Shimmies closer to the window. She never let go of her cigar. Pretends to lick my splash of semen running down the window, from bottom to top. Stands up. Puffs on her cigar.

“The show’s over,” through a cloud of gray smoke.

“But I just want to...” feeling stupid, limp cock still hanging out of my pants.

Suddenly, the curtain slams shut. Darkness. Dizzy. Look up at the stars while I zip up. Then her voice, from behind the glass curtain,

“Maybe I’ll call you later... if you’ re lucky.”

I feel my way along the side of the house, pause near the front door. Walk across the wet lawn to my car. I turn the

ignition, signaling my resignation, but still hanging on to the hope she’ll look out the front door and ask me inside. Nothing happens. The only thing I can do now is go home, candles burning incense by her picture, and wait for her to call...

But wait! I see her door crack open just as I’m about to pull away. Her black gloved hand beckons through the opening, lures me into her hive to sting me again and again. Carefully cocooned, I am a voluntary prisoner – knowing the Wasp Woman has invaded my soul.