at your feet, or look at me, but don’t close your eyes. When you do it at the gallery, your eyes will be open, you will look at the people looking at you and you will make yourself come. You can make yourself come, can’t you?”
“Of course I can,” she said, fingering her clit.
“Go to town, baby,” he said, “slip a couple fingers into that hairy little twat.…”
She did this.
She looked at the ceiling and then she looked at him.
He was standing far away, observing, touching himself between the legs, squeezing the penis he had inside his pants.
“Do it,” he said, moving closer.
She was rubbing her pussy hard, her pussy was dripping wet, and she came…and came again.…
She was breathing hard…
“Oh fuck,” and she made herself come a third time.
“Good, good, I bloody knew you had it in you,” Edward Kaff said.
He was stroking her hair. He was sitting next to her. He touched her neck, her tits, her belly.
“You have nice skin, nice sweat,” he said, “it smells sweet…it smells so…what’s the word I’m looking for… feminine.”
She smiled.
“You will do this to yourself, at the show, and then I will come to you like this, I will touch you like this, and I will do this,” and he reached down and gave her a kiss. It was just a peck. He gave her another kiss, his tongue in her mouth. They kissed and he reached down and slid a finger into her.…
“Okay?” he said.
“Okay,” she said.
“I’m going to eat your pussy now,” he said.
“That sounds…okay,” she said.
“I’m very good at it,” Kaff said, and this was no boast. When he got between her legs, and licked her pussy and her asshole for half an hour, she came three times. No boast at all. The man knew what to do with his tongue and two fingers.
He stood up and took his pants off. His cock stood up straight, was long and thick and veined. She said she wanted to suck on it but he told her that wasn’t necessary; he told her it was time to fuck. “I’m going to fuck that cunny of yours for a very long time,” he said, “and you’re going to love it.”
V.
Did she love it? Well, she enjoyed it—she got off—the old man was a great fuck, and let’s face it: he was probably the best fuck she’d ever had. He kept going and going and she wondered how he was able to do that, what this “Tantric” stuff was all about. Maybe it was Viagra®. But he fucked her for a good three hours and after her twentieth orgasm, she stopped counting. They did take a break, when they drank some water and moved from the couch to the upstairs bedroom.
“Suck my cock now,” he said, and she did, tasting the strong taste of her cunt juice all over that fat dick.
And then he came.
He came a lot.
He came so much she coughed, almost choked on all that semen going into her mouth and down her throat.
“Oh, oh,” she said, spitting the stuff out.
“Yeah,” he said, touching her hair.
“That’s a lot.”
“Lick it up.”
She licked some of the sperm off the bed sheets and his flesh. He scooped a glob of it onto a finger and inserted the finger in her mouth and she sucked on his finger until all the semen was gone from it.
“Wow,” she said.
“Did you have a good time?” Kaff asked her.
Kathleen admitted that she did.
“Good.”
“Did you?” she asked him.
He said: “I always enjoy fucking women…especially young women like you.”
“I bet you do,” she said and smiled.
“So…I think we should rehearse this at least two or three more times before the show.”
“Yeah,” said Kathleen, “me too.”
VI.
Kathleen went home that night feeling freshly, wonderfully fucked and even a little bit sore. She couldn’t help herself and she masturbated, thinking of Kaff and his man meat and his impressive stamina. In the morning, she wanted to see him again, she wanted to “rehearse.”
She went to the bank and deposited the check.
Her pussy was wounded so she knew she’d have to wait a day or two before more action. She didn’t want to call him; she didn’t want to appear over-anxious, eager, or horny—this whole matter was wrong, illicit, odd, not the sort of thing normal people engaged in when it came to sex, money, and the refuge of art.
She paid all her bills, paid rent for two months in advance, bought a lot of groceries and rented some movies to watch.
Three days later, Kaff called.
“You should come over,” he said.
“Okay,” Kathleen said.
VII.
And who was Edward Kaff? He was born not long after World War II, his father came home from the war (where he saw no action, he was a supply clerk) and married a girl he saw walking down the street one day. She was as pretty as sunshine. “Sweet one, some day I will marry you,” the father said, and the mother said: “What’s stopping you today, handsome?” They were wed a month later. Edward Kaff came along a year or so after that. He had an okay childhood, as far as childhoods go; nothing major happened until he was nineteen was his father shot himself in the head, in shame and fear, after his mother ran away with a woman. “My mom, the lesbian,” mused Kaff; he never saw her again after that. He didn’t even know if she knew her husband committed suicide. These are things that made Kaff a very cynical and angry young man. So he joined the Royal Marines and was shipped off to Northern Ireland to help keep the peace. He took some shrapnel in his leg from a poorly-made bomb that exploded 100 feet away from him. In the hospital, he befriended another soldier, Lance Williams. Williams had a semi-famous father who wrote pulp novels in the 1940s, a lot of science-fiction, mysteries, true confession, soft-core erotica, you name it, the man did it. The pulp days were over but Lance’s dad, Luke, was writing the occasional space yarn or private dick tale under pen names as well as publishing some low-grade skin magazines out of a small office in Liverpool. “I’m going to go work for him, and so should you,” Lance said. Kaff figured what the hell, why not, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his life. Instead of working there, Kaff became an investor; he had some money in the bank left over by his father and this girly magazine business
