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No, Keri decided, if Jeremy wants to talk to me, he can call me himself.
She looked down at the cock, seat-belted in on the passenger's side. As the car swayed into traffic, it seemed to nod in agreement.
Keri took a bath, shaved her legs, and began preparing dinner. The cock reclined on the living room couch, waiting.
It was after her first glass of wine that she realized how much she'd missed having the erotic charge. How she'd unconsciously shut her body down after finding out about Jeremy and the redhead and moving nearly 3,000 miles away. Her days were filled with lesson planning and research, her nights spent in deep, dreamless sleep. She hadn't considered the sexiness of her own body in months.
Not that other people hadn't noticed. Keri's male students blushed and stammered when they came to see her during office hours. Even Lin — who would probably earn the class's one "A" — couldn't help touching herself compulsively in Keri's presence. She constantly rearranged her clothes during their private conferences, tugging at her skirt hem, pushing her shirtsleeves up to her elbows then back down again. At first Keri thought maybe she intimidated the students. But now, as her blood moved hotly through her veins, she realized she'd been ignoring some pretty overt sexual signals.
She'd also chosen some pretty provocative material. The eighteenth-century stuff was much sexier than most people thought. Even Jeremy had to admit that. Jeremy had loved it when Keri read him eighteenth-century pornography. As she stirred her pasta sauce, she recalled a particularly vigorous lovemaking session that occurred after reading him a few chapters of Fanny Hill.
Keri sat down beside the cock, with a second glass of wine and her whole-wheat pasta. "Would you like me to read to you later?" she asked.
The cock, curled toward her, seemed ready for anything.
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The cock, curled toward her, seemed eager for anything.
When Keri finished her meal, she took it in both hands and lay back on the couch. "You did miss me, didn't you?"
The cock was silent, but she thought she could detect a change within it. It was a subtle thing, like Jeremy's moods. The cock was waiting for her next move.
Flush with wine, Keri began stroking the cock. But it stoically resisted getting any harder.
"It's all about me tonight, isn't it?" Keri whispered. "You were always a more generous lover than Jeremy allowed you to be."
Keri got up, dimmed the lights and put on Kind of Blue. Then she turned and began removing her clothes slowly. First the blazer, then the T-shirt and jeans, were thrown across the back of a chair. The clothes-tossing startled Priscilla, who darted from the room.
Continuing her seduction, Keri removed her lace brassiere, the nylon panties decorated with pink tulips, the sexy little things she liked to wear beneath her professorial armor. She slid back onto the couch. Taking the olive oil from where she'd left it on the coffee table, Keri poured a small amount on her palm. She rubbed the cock, which glistened like the real thing.
Keri lay back and ran the cock over her body. She rubbed it down her arms, over her belly, across the insides of her thighs. With her eyes closed, she tried to pretend that it was Jeremy, running his fingertips over her skin. Telling her that she was not only beautiful, but smart and capable, everything he had ever wanted in a girlfriend, everything he had ever wanted in a wife.
But the fantasy kept dissolving. Keri pictured Jeremy's face: his expression was so fucking condescending.
When Keri opened her eyes, there was only the cock, the cock that she had used for pleasure countless times, the cock that she had teased and treasured, and yes, if you really got down to it, had loved. This, in her hands, was a deconstructed piece of the man who had betrayed her. Could she take his cock out of context? Could she make love to it without knowing how it had been made, why it had been sent? Could she take it into her body when she couldn't be sure if she ever wanted to touch the real thing again? Her body slick with olive oil, her skin warm from the wine, she held it in her hands and set about finding out.
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| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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Mary Kann graduated from St. Christopher's parochial school in 1988 and has been looking for ways to be naughty ever since. Her short stories have been published in Salt Flats Annual, Small Spiral Notebook and The Hartford Advocate. She lives outside Boston and is currently working on a novel about Niccolo Paganini, reincarnation, witches, and characters who drunk dial almost as much as their author. |
©2007 Mary Kann and Nerve.com.
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