Elliott Mabeuse - Triad

When Helen and I had both quieted down, Steve pulled out of his exhausted wife. I figured he must have come too, but I was wrong. He placed his wet cock in my hand. Getting a tight grip, I tugged until it shot hot cum. Steve’s healthy white jism landed across Helen’s breasts. It dripped down her curvaceous belly as she laughed riotously.

“Ah, my husband!” she said, leaning forward to kiss his lips. I couldn’t watch.

Helen was crushing me. I had to get out from under her.

They dressed in front of me. I wrapped my robe tighter around my little body as I watched. Helen told me I was a great teacher, but I refused to take her money. I’d taught a woman to find pleasure in her body. I ought to feel great about myself. Why was I so apprehensive? What did I think would happen after they left? Well, I wouldn’t continue seeing Steve. That went without saying. Now that our affair was out in the open, it wasn’t even that appealing an idea anyway. Putting on a false smile, I proclaimed Helen cured of her affliction and sent her home in her husband’s care.

I watched as they walked out to the driveway and loaded his bicycle into the trunk of her car. There was something about the interactions of married people that made me feel uneasy. Maybe it was the knowledge that they would never be a single entity. Even during sex, which ought to be the ultimate joining of man and wife into one being, there were always external factors at play. They would never know each other fully and completely. Helen had discovered one of Steve’s secrets that day, but there would always be more beneath the surface. She had her share too, no doubt.

The car died before Debra knew she was in trouble. In her mind, she'd been going over her evening's sales pitch for the old Whateley place, wondering if there’d been anything she could’ve done to spark the off-island buyers’ flagging interest when the big Chevy’s engine sputtered and died. She’d barely had enough time to pull the massive car over to the side of the lonely road before it became an immovable rock.

Getting out and trying to find the problem was out of the question; even if she hadn’t been wearing her real estate clothes-wool suit and fancy silk blouse-she knew absolutely nothing about cars except they needed gas. God knew the Impala's big V-8 sucked plenty of that down. She’d just sit and wait-one of the island’s cops or Rufus with his tow truck would be along soon if she was lucky. In the meantime, she’d just go over her strategy for selling that rambling Whateley farmhouse on Sweet Bottom Road.

It was a charming old home, traditional New England with extensive grounds and beautiful gardens. Of course, winter wasn't the best time to impress potential buyers with those, but she'd really thought she had the young Boston couple on the hook. What had she said or done wrong?

Getting out of her two-tone red and cream Impala, she took off her suit jacket and got her bulging brief case from the back seat. Earlier, she’d had the fifty-nine Impala’s heater cranked up all the way. Now it was stifling in the car. Shivering in her white sleeveless blouse, she realized how chilly the December evening had grown, right after she'd tossed her jacket on the other side of the wide front seat. She’d probably be putting the jacket back on within twenty minutes or so, especially if rescue was slow in coming. Beneath her white slip and bra, Debra felt her nipples shrivel and stiffen, perking up to assert their agreement. It was going to be a cold one. There was a definite dampness in the air too, heralding rain, or maybe even a little snow. At least this time of year, the fog wasn't creeping in from the coast. Usually. She shivered and looked back towards town, hoping Rufus or Chief DeCosta would crest the hill soon.

She’d barely gotten back inside, coaxed her flashlight to feeble life, and found the house listing she wanted to review when she heard them. At first she thought it was the rumble of distant thunder, but then she could pick out the throaty roar of the solitary Harley as it barreled up Break Neck Hill. Her heart hoped-maybe it was a handsome cop to her rescue. She just loved those tight uniform pants and highly polished brown boots. Silly-Grim Island had no motorcycle police. Hell, they only had two police cars that she knew of. And she didn't remember seeing any handsome stud-muffins hanging around the new station house in the center of town. Muffins was the operative word for most of the island's cops-short and round like a donut. She looked expectantly up the hill, just starting to see the dim glow from the oncoming motorcycle’s headlamp, and realizing for the first time that it had started to spit a freezing rain. God, just don’t let them be Hell’s Angels. Hammering down the Impala’s door locks, she scrunched down in the driver’s seat. Maybe they’ll just zoom on by into the night, and leave me alone. It’s a pretty black miserable night outside.

No such luck. She heard the bike skidding to a stop alongside with a crunch of slick ice-it must be more like sleet than rain now-followed by a rapping of brazen knuckles on her window. Sounded like a cop in one of those hot rod movies-the ones with James Dean or Steve McQueen. Maybe the island had a motorcycle cop after all- she didn’t know everything about Grim Island. Feeling like a fool, she decided to sit up and risk a look. She hadn’t heard any footsteps leading away, though she did hear voices. There were at least two of them shivering out there.

It wasn’t a cop or one of her bad boy Hell’s Angels. A good-looking guy was staring in her window, his shivering girlfriend still sitting on the tail of the battered Harley. He looked to be about Debra’s age, the kind of stud she’d date in a heartbeat if he was cleaned up a bit more-maybe a shave, a better hair cut, more conservative clothes.

“Everything all right, Miss?" He flashed a dazzling smile with his pearly whites.

God, he’s handsome when he does that. "You okay in there-got car trouble?” With his brawny right hand he was indicating she should roll down her window while they talked.

Debra couldn’t see his left hand and that bothered her a little. God, I’m so paranoid. Not everybody's a rapist, out to get your body, Debra. Besides, when was the last time you actually got laid? She couldn't remember. She glanced at his girlfriend, a pretty blonde, about nineteen by the look of her. Sweet, almost elfin looking waif. Ethereal, looking pretty miserable out there in the cold. She was really shivering now-well, that wasn't surprising. Just look at her. Look how she was dressed! Cheap trash-no lady, that was for sure. Except for the open leather jacket and her high-heeled boots, she was dressed for summer-cut-off jeans and a top that looked like lacy underwear.

“I’m fine, thanks. Some car trouble. It just died.” She’d rolled down her window, but almost wished she hadn’t. This close, waves of primal animal attraction threatened to engulf her. Denying her yearning, Deb wondered again if he might not be a rapist, or worse. She was far from unattractive, and here she was all alone on a desolate road with a dead car. Helpless. Fighting the urge to crank up her window in his handsome 102

face, she threw out a casual warning instead. “The town tow truck should be along any minute. The garage owner, Rufus, lives out this way-he’ll get my baby going.”

“I sure wish we could help you, but I’m not much good under the hood. Sure is a pretty car, though. Fifty-nine Impala, right? A real classic.”

She ignored his comment, or missed it. Obviously not a car guy, though she could imagine what he could do with those big strong hands. “She’s almost brand new-I’ll have it paid for come February. Cars are just so expensive these days. I do like the smell of a new car though-I just had to have her. That’s why I can’t understand why it just died. Anyway, thanks for your concern. I’m sure Rufus will give me a tow.”