Harriet Daimler - Darling

But I' m an artist. I' ve won a drawer full of prizes. I' ve been shown in the Whitney exhibition. He can' t have ruined me. He can' t have left me with nothing to live for but his enormous cock. Just thinking of the rigid boned flesh that had jutted from beneath his hard stomach made her tremble with excitement. I' m lost… lost.

She pulled herself out of the tub and dried her body with the big Cannon towel. She wiped herself gently, with rhythmic concern. When she put the towel between her legs, her thighs pulled tightly together, as if her secret need had its own secret will. Her fingers wandered to her hot vagina. She separated the taut lips with her fingertips, exploring the smooth inner membranes that were the color of conch. She felt the throbbing clitoris. It jumped at her heated prodding. " I can' t," she murmured. She knew that if she flung herself across the bed and induced her own pulsating orgasm, she would be left with a hotter desire. Only the white eyes could save her. She walked into her bedroom, feeling the cruel urge between her legs. Her eyes reflected torture. I' m going crazy. I am crazy.

The green tweed suit, the fawn cashmere sweater, the thick handcrafted belt, the mascara, powder and lipstick, the stockings, garters and thin- heeled shoes were all draped and painted expertly on her when the doorbell buzzed. Only the urgent itch inside of her didn' t change with her cool, fresh- looking exterior. Her secret, hot, hidden desire laughed at her allegiance to civilization. She could put on fourteen sweaters and twenty- two strings of beads, and she' d still be naked and hungry inside.

She opened the door gaily for Paul. " All is forgiven," she announced before he could speak, fearing a drawn- out apology. " Let' s just forget it and not even mention it again. Especially today."

He put a bouquet of tulips and lilacs into her hands, and dared to kiss her timorously.

" You look beautiful," he said, his eyes admiring her fine shoulder- length black hair, cut in straight bangs across her forehead. Her mouth was painted a fashionable orange.

" You are the coolest lady in New York," he said.

Very cool, she thought, even as the furnace raged in her groin.

" Well, let' s scramble the eggs. I' m starving. Something about not sleeping all night must give you more time to be hungry."

She was afraid he' d apologize again. " You should have taken a pill. It' s too much of a bore to toss all night."

He followed her lead. " Next time I don' t sleep, I will. But," he slipped in an oblique apology, " if it' s for the same reason, I' ll just blow my brains out."

Brains, she thought with contempt. Who gives a fuck about his brains?

Gloria pulled eggs, butter, bacon and cream out of the small refrigerator next to the stove and oven. She took a bowl from the cupboard and cracked four eggs into it. Beating them, she felt almost normal. Paul powdered salt and pepper into the bowl.

" You always forget the spice, honey."

She laughed. " I don' t believe in spice."

He put his arm around her. " Is it really hopeless for me?"

" Is what hopeless?"

" Am I going to love you all my life as if you' re a distant statue, a marble goddess?"

" Why not? I am a goddess, you know. I' m Io. Ever met her?"

" No," he said, sensing the desperation behind the humor.

" Io is the only goddess who had an itch. A real terrific itch."

He didn' t answer her.

" This itch," she continued, " drove Io all over the damn earth – across the Caucasus, to the shores of Exxine, across the Macotic Strait, into the arms of the Amazons, out of Europe, to the continent of Asia…" Her voice droned on incoherently.

Paul took her by both shoulders and shook her gently. " Baby, what' s got you? You sound miserable. Really beat."

" It' s nothing, Paul. Nothing. I' ve just got a long trip in front of me, that' s all." Then suddenly, and inexplicably for him, she said, " Have you ever seen a man with white eyes?"

He answered her tone instead of her words. " Maybe you' d better lie down for a few minutes, Gloria. I' ll bring the breakfast in when it' s finished. You' ve got deep shadows under your eyes. Honey, if you don' t feel well, if I hurt you more last night than you' ll admit, we don' t have to go anywhere. There' s a Mozart concert on WQXR. We can just sit here and listen to it. Then we can have an early dinner and make a short day of it."

" Yes," she said, feeling dizzy with the need inside her. " I' ll lie down, but don' t try to get out of that drive to Westchester. It' s just what I need for my artistic nerves."

She kicked off her shoes and stretched lengthwise across the bed. In fifteen minutes, Paul was beside her with a full breakfast tray – coffee, toast, bacon, soft scrambled eggs, and a gorgeous cheese Danish. He put the tray on her night table and sat on the bed beside her.

" Can you tell me what' s wrong?"

" Nothing is wrong. I just didn' t sleep too well. I' m a bit tired. Maybe a little manic, or depressed. Darling, do you think I' m a manic- depressive?"

Paul placed his hand on her back. She wanted to grab it and shove it between her legs.

" What I said last night really upset you Gloria. I' m a pig to speak to a sensitive girl like that."

" It was true yesterday, Paul," she said, looking into his gentle eyes with a mixture of loathing and insatiable desire. " But it' s not true today."

" What do you mean?" he said, his voice hopeful.

" I mean last night I was a frigid bitch. And rotten to you."

His disappointment showed in his voice. " Oh."

" But today," she reawakened his hope, " I' m not frigid."

" Gloria, what are you saying?"

" Make love to me. Make love to me now."

" Baby," he implored, almost killing her desire with his comically serious face, " I didn' t mean what I said yesterday. I want you. Oh God, how I want you. But only when you' re ready."

" I' m ready, Paul. I' m ready. Do I have to get down on my knees and… and… unzip your pants?"

There was a shocked silence. Paul winced. He was used to the ceremony, the eager asking and the grudging permission before he made love. He was not prepared for this dry, toneless command. Sex was a game for him, played in a very prescribed way.

" Have something to eat first," he hesitated to regain his composure. Sure he' d fuck her, but she had to play the game.

In frustrated rage, Gloria picked up the parsley- sprinkled eggs and flung them across the room. They fell in a disgustingly mushy yellow heap. " Fuck me!" she screamed. " Fuck me for chrissake! You do know how? You have a prick, don' t you?"

His face grew black with rage and fear. His anger aroused him until Gloria saw a bulge swell in his pants. Eagerly she labored with his belt buckle and unzipped his sober pinstriped trousers and found his prick decorously pressed against his left leg. He wore Brooks Brothers pink underpants. She reached into the slit in his shorts and freed the stiff, hot flesh. It stood wondrously firm before her eyes. The head was wide and hot and throbbing. She caressed the entire veined shaft, not seeing Paul' s eager frightened face above her. She saw nothing but his taut rod, and felt nothing but the draining emptiness inside of her. She put her mouth eagerly against the cap of his prick and sucked it with long intakes of breath. She swirled her tongue around the velvet helmet, then ran it down the length of his lance. She licked around the base, sucking his balls into her mouth one at a time. She worked back up to the head, pausing only a second before swallowing the entire cock, burying it in her throat until her nose brushed the thick hair at his root. She felt his legs tremble and released him. " Put it in me Paul; put it in me quick."

He was silent with tension. " Take off your clothes," he commanded.