Nicholson Baker - House of Holes

“Sure, that’s what it’s for,” said Shandee. “But wear the mitts, and don’t spank too hard. Some guys spank me too hard.”

Dune blew on her ass and rested both his mitts on it for a moment. “Shandee, honey, I’ll spank you so soft you won’t even know it’s spanking, I’ll spank you real tender, and you’ll know it’s me, because I’m really just touching your ass with a man’s gentle touch and showing you how much respect I have for it.”

“That’s nice,” said Shandee.

“And can I kiss your ass, too? And worship it?”

“Yes, you can kiss and worship my ass.”

He bent close and kissed, closing his eyes, and then he whispered, “And can I pull out your hanky and stick one pinky finger in your pretty pussy? I know I’ll find true peace if I do.”

“If you do that with your pinky, Dune, they’ll cut it off,” said Shandee, putting her knees together. “Look up on the wall above you.”

Dune glanced at the long, bony row of dried fingers that were nailed there. Then he noticed a small blood-stained chopping block in the corner. It was not a pleasant sight.

“Damn savages,” said Dune. “It’s almost worth it, except I play guitar and keyboards. Can’t they make an exception for an old friend?”

Shandee shifted her weight fetchingly, considering. “Krock is a stickler,” she said finally, “but you’ve been so helpful, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Pull out the cloth of Ka-Chiang, and I’ll push some fresh juice from my cunny for you.”

Dune breathed. “Oh, that would be a welcome treat.” He pushed an oven mitt into Shandee’s upper leg, softly, and palmed her left asscheek. Then he thumped the asscheek a little on one side, so that she jumped and her elegant flesh shimmied. He pinched her thighs gently three times and tugged on her hanky till it fell out. “Now let me see your pussy cry,” he said.

Shandee was wet already; she arched her back up and pushed. Dune saw a tender shining weep of wetness that brimmed over her slit and leaked down one leg.

“Oh, my glory!” Dune said, losing control. Before he realized what he was doing, he’d flung off an oven mitt and slid one pinky finger knuckle-deep into her velvet draperies.

There was a bonging sound and a commotion. A disembodied male arm leapt up, twirled once in the air, and seized Dune by the wrist. Krock hurried in and grabbed the knife. Mischa set out the chopping block on a towel. “Dune, why did you do it?” said Shandee, full of disappointment and concern.

“I forgot myself, I’m sorry,” said Dune, disengaging the viselike fingers of Dave’s arm. He turned to Krock and Mischa. “Now hear me out, guys. I play keyboards and guitar, and to be honest I’d rather lose my pecker for a little while than my ability to make music.”

That statement got Krock’s attention. “Daggett,” he said into his communicator, “tell Lila that Dune has verbally agreed before witnesses to lose his pecker.”

Lila was pacing up and down in front of her desk when Dune was led in. “All right, Mr. Pussyfinger,” she said firmly. “Just for that bit of defiance, we’re going to do a switcheroo on you.” She opened a door.

In walked Marcela, the art critic, in a black slip. “Hello,” she said, with a nervous smile.

Chilli met Dave at eleven o’clock at the border crossing. She’d put on a little makeup and was wearing sandals and a sleeveless white shirt with black buttons. “Hi there,” she said. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m really sorry, I can’t go with you.”

“Oh, pshaw, sure you can,” said Dave. “See the sights!”

“Well, just a quick visit then.”

They walked through a thicket and emerged at a clearing and climbed a low stone fence and walked a little farther. Dave pointed out the White Lake and the midway. They bought some falafels and ate them, while Dave told her about the darkrooms, where you talked in utter darkness. Chilli seemed to like that idea, so they checked into a darkroom and sat.

“So how did everything go yesterday?” asked Dave in the dark.

“Just fine,” Chilli said, enigmatically. “Now, tell me how this Porndecahedron works.”

Dave said, “It’s a twelve-sided projection theater, like a dodecahedron. You’ve heard of buckyballs, right? It’s a big buckyball that you go inside of. There’s a cluster of seats in the middle, either single or tandem seats, and you go in and sit in a seat, buckled in for safety, because you’re suspended. You sit there and movies play on all the screens around you.”

“Dirty movies.”

“Well, you pick the playlist. Could be music videos, or a mashup from Brad Pitt movies, or handjobs, or beautiful Balinese dancers, or men having sex with each other — some women like to watch men having sex, it seems. Some people are into fetishes, so then there’ll be twelve screens of, say, men coming on women’s feet.”

“Oh, wow,” said Chilli.

“I personally think all fetishes are just a waste of time. All you need for good porn is a pretty smiley woman who’s having fun, and a dude with a hard dick who isn’t fat.”

“And you watch this on your own?”

“You can, or sitting next to somebody you’ve not met, or hardly met, or somebody you know well. It’s like a planetarium, except instead of planets and stars there are nipples, or cocks, or gorgeous faces, or flowers opening, or sped-up clouds, or whatever, you get to pick, and you’re surrounded.”

Chilli took these varied images in. “And you decided to spend eight hours watching movies of women making themselves come?”

“I love homemade come movies. But not pussy close-ups. You have to see the woman’s face when she comes, pussy and face together, or it doesn’t work. I thought about watching some more movies when I got back from your beautiful field yesterday, but my mood was totally different because of talking to you. Also Lila’s got me on a deprivation schedule, which means I can’t masturbate myself as often as I’d like.”

“How sad for you.”

“Yeah, so for instance right now my cock is dealing with a massive porn overdose. It’s so full of home jizm brew it hurts.”

“By ‘your cock,’ of course you mean the cock you got from the Australian photographer guy.”

“I think of it as mine, but, yes, it’s his cock I’ve been edging with. Do you edge?”

“I don’t know, frankly, do I?” Chilli said.

“Edging’s when you do yourself till you almost come and then stop. You keep right on the edge of the tipping point. Go, stop, go, stop. Do you do that?”

Chilli gave this some thought. Dave heard her crossing her legs in the dark. “If my husband’s away,” she said, “I’ll drop the kids off with my mom, and I’ll do a shop, and then back home, yeah, I have so many crazy thoughts in my head that it sometimes takes a while to get through them.”

“Nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon, edging,” said Dave. “Close, then away, then close, then away, till it really burns, and then finally, whammo bing-bangy ba-doom! Then, blip. Snerp.”

“Um, I don’t know how to ask you this, but—”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think I could feel this unusually large cock of yours that you had grafted on? Just for a second. I don’t want to do anything with it, I just want to touch it for a second.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Dave. “It’s not a graft, though. Let me clarify that. It’s an interplasmic dual crotchal transfer. Very different process. I can explain if you want.”

“No, that’s okay. Let me just grope a little closer to you. Woops, where are you?”

“I’m here. My pants are down now.”

“Oh my god, your balls are like sheep balls. Wow.” She breathed in with a sipping sound, fondling Dave’s cock. He moved his hips a little so that it poked and shuttled through her loose fingers. “It’s been so so long,” she said.