A. Homes - The End of Alice

Nearly finished, she goes to her man, stands above him, and lets go, sprinkling him with a steamy stream, pissing on his privates.

His jaw drops. Only the slightest sound, a sort of an Oh, comes out.

“I’ve been saving up,” she says. “All day, I’ve waited for this.”

“Don’t ogle,” Mama says without even looking at me.

Dabbed in dirt, dotted in mud, the boy collects the clothing like litter and they cut through the yard. On the far side of the house, dog boy is asleep in the grass. The girl stops, unchains the sleeping boy, and carefully carries him inside. Still spackled with war paint, piss, and mud, they lay the little one out in his bed. While the girl undoes the leash and collar, Matt pulls off his clothing and slides him into his pajamas. Around his neck is an indentation from the harness; not too deep, not too red, it will have faded by the time his mother comes in to check on him.

They shower — thank God it is not a bath. Praise that she does not run the tub, get in it with him, and go rub-a-dub-dubbing, soaping his cock, sliding it up her bum, and again cumming. They shower — I shower as often as I can. And wrapped in his mother’s robe, she brings her boy to his bed, tucking him tightly between the sheets. Below the covers, it rises again. She pats it a great good-night. “Enough for one day. See you soon, my friend. Sleep tight.”

Downstairs, she runs the washer and dryer. The parents’ car pulls into the driveway and she dashes to dress. Her clothing is hot. As his father drives her home — her pockets pulsating with pay (the cheap thrill of playing the prostitute, the whore, reverberates) — the metal underwire of her bra leaves burns, two smiling U’s etched beneath her breasts.

Drunk. The car crosses back and forth over the yellow line like some zigzag stitch on a sewing machine. And I’m thinking I should have walked. But, it’s one a.m. and who knows what evil lurks — could he you or one of your friends. Anyway, he goes, ” Thanks. Thanks a lot for, you know, your help with the kids, Matt’s lessons and all .”

“Mine, the pleasure is mine, ” I say.

“Well,” he says, “I just want you to know, I appreciate it. ”

He squeezes my knee.

Gross, totally gross, no one ever gets enough.

“Well,” he says, repeating himself, “I just want you to know. ”

Impossible! This is not the way it works. And I’m not referring to the scene in the car, which quite frankly I don’t even believe, but to what went on before — oh, the tachycardia of the critical heart. Don’t you see that her approach, her manner for dealing with the boy, is far too simple, too consciously careless, as though she and he were partners in this subtle crime, when the truth of it is — as you have taken note — she and I are truly the team. Surely, I am skipping beats. How does she know these things? From where does she receive such steamy thoughts? Does she believe these activities have not heretofore been explored, that she has come to them on her own, that she is their inventor? Or is this just sewage spilling, the stew of some imagination — and then the question begs, Is it hers or is it mine?

If only there were someone I could trust, could ask to take a little look-go-see. Surely, she is lying and the story more likely goes that she and he spent the evening sitting on the sofa, their only wrestling over possession of the remote control.

All the same, fact or fiction, her hot air has landed on me like the breath of a bellows, has aroused my flame, made my embers glow. I have come back to life. One wonders exactly what her motive is with this latest move, delivering me the diary of her days. Is the telling of her tale meant to mock and tease or to tempt me with a sticky, sweet treat?

Does she not understand that between us there is a certain agreement and that her foreplay finalis, her fucking the boy, has betrayed my trust? Our letters are our contract— clearly and conveniently she seems to have forgotten that.

Admittedly, I found her story somewhat entertaining, and yet had I been invited in and allowed to participate, it might have had a very different end. I don’t mean to imply the worst, but all the same…

Had I been invited to her party, how differently it would have begun. From the start she would have been bound and gagged, stripped, whipped, shaved with my sharp straight razor. Compared to this, her night with the boy is but an aperitif, whetting the appetite for what turns things take, games a true connoisseur plays.

The examination, the little look-see, would go a little differently. I’d slip her head into a leather mask, hawk’s hood, zippers over mouth and eyes. On days such as these when I am already in such misery, it is far too much to meet eye to eye. Were we to peek, to see each other at the wrong moment, I fear what might happen, what surprise would rise, what wrong would be wrought. Be thankful that I keep her blind.

Besides, bound and gagged, she is free to lie back, relax, and enjoy me.

In order that I might get my proper view, the area must be shaved — I abhor pubic hair, it is not a winning thing.

Even my own, I keep cut, trimmed to a neat square, groomed like the green around a monument. And to keep my concentration, to do my best work, to avoid being struck by flailing limbs, she must be restrained. Quite routine. Wrists tied behind the head — in older girls this keeps the breasts pulled back and helps the chest look flat. Legs spread. Ankles bound. She should be racked and stretched, no way for the knees to bend, no quick reflex to defend, no accidental injury to the operator — that is, me. An inadvertent knee jerk to the groin is the last thing I need. For the procedure to commence, I sit between her legs, her mound faces fuzz up.

A simple aside: Another reason I dislike girls of significant age is that uncorked, uncovered, they reek of sexual steam, like something long simmering finally released. I hate the smell of cunt ready and waiting. I want it green, before it is ripe, before it has an odor easily discerned.

Fast as I can, I spray the muff with a heavy load of shaving cream. In the past I’ve doused girls with a chemical defoliant, but they writhed too much, made claim it burned. (Once, some did leak on me and I got a nasty spot through my pants, a raw, oozing sore on my leg.) So, mostly now, I shave. There is something to them watching me while I work the razor, stropping the blade before their eyes — letting them wonder where it will ultimately go. Before I sharpen, I sweep the dull end over their slits, their tits, and into their mouths, and sometimes if I’m feeling frank, I flip it over, cut off a hank of their hair, and tuck it into their mouths — girls like to suck on that, you see them doing it all the time.

With five fast strokes I scrape them down and then real fast do a second round. I slather them with foam, decorate the raunchy rat with Barbasol or the milky white of sweet whipped cream. Again, five fast strokes, I give it the go, taking care on the corners, trying not to nick the lips. Around the anus and close inside there are strays I can’t get to with the blade, and so finished with the shave, I come back with a candle and with its flickery flame melt the rest away — the hot wax dripping on the skin an extra thrill, a hint of things to come.

Stripped clean, you are my girl. I fuck you with my fingers. Spit on the spot and, using the salve of my saliva, slip the initial indexer in. The ivory of my nail, my tiny tusk, scrapes your hallowed hall. Pit of pleasure, I patiently explore, knocking my knuckles on your private prison walls, pushing at the boundaries of flesh. I jam in, each time adding extra digits, sure if I work it right, soon I’ll find you on my fist.