Torpedo Juice полностью

“Completely,” said Serge, nodding hard. “Especially the naked-but-still-wearing-glasses part. Throws something into the mix I can’t quite explain.”

Molly sprouted a giant grin. “Good!” She jumped off the bed and skittered into the next room, returning quickly with a turkey baster and feather duster. “Let’s try this!…”

Serge pitched in agony against the pain-pleasure threshold. Molly finally showed mercy and let him up for air. “How was that?”

Serge panted until he regained speech. “Where’d you get the accessories?”

“I packed a few things. Wanna see?” She ran in the other room again, coming back with an overnight case that she opened on the foot of the bed. Oils, ointments, fur cuffs, nipple clips, whip, latex mask, double-ended dildo, illustrated manuals, ball of twine, clear tubing, bungee cords and trick-or-treat costumes.

“I wasn’t sure what you were into, so I got a little of everything.”

“From where?”

“That adult superstore in Fort Lauderdale. The one with the shopping carts.” She reached in the case. “Now hold still….”

On it went, Molly’s self-esteem climbing. By midnight, she had lost all inhibition and bloomed into a regular Chatty Cathy. “I have an idea. Let’s… no, I’m going to surprise you. You like surprises, right? You still having fun? I sure am! You’re going to love this one! You don’t have any heart conditions, do you?…” She reached deep into the overnight bag.

“What’s that?”

“Blindfold.” Molly strapped it to his face. Her voice deepened. “Lie down, slave!” Her voice returned to normal pitch. “Is it okay I call you ‘slave’? I don’t really mean it. I read it in a magazine. It’s just a game. I can leave the ‘slave’ part out if you want. I’d like to leave it in because of the story line….”

“Go for it.”

“Shut up, slave! Open your mouth!”

A piece of twine tied his big toes together. He heard some kind of motor start.

The next thing Serge knew, the blindfold was off and he was staring at the ceiling. Molly lightly slapped his cheek. “Honey, are you okay?”

“What happened?”

“You passed out. At first I thought I’d killed you.”

“Make a note. That’s how I want to go.”

“You’re not tired yet, are you? I’m not. I’m just getting started….”

Who was this woman? Still waters certainly ran deep. It continued the rest of the night. Serge tried to remember as much as he could, but there was too much new data, Molly venturing far beyond her shell and into uncharted territory. Three to four A.M. became the profanity hour, which Molly executed with naughty, schoolgirl glee. She was on top, riding fast and hard. “Wow, I’ve never said these words before! I didn’t know it could be such a turn on. Fuck! Pussy! Cock! You like that? I think I’ll try it with the word ‘hot.’ Hot pussy! Hot cock! I like it better that way. What do you think? What about ‘sweet’? Which do you prefer? ‘Sweet’ or ‘hot’? Hey, it’s kind of like mustard. Get it? Sweet and hot mustard? Did you ever think of that, you big-cock mother-fucker?…” Right on through daybreak, Serge stretched out on his back, utterly spent. Molly sat next to him on the bed, flipping through her manual. She turned the book toward him and tapped an illustration. “We haven’t done the Praying Mantis….”

Serge didn’t know how much more he could take, but Molly showed no signs of fatigue. “Come on up!” said Molly. “It’s the ‘Wallenda,’ page 143,” swinging from one of the driftwood rafters.

Finally, mercy. “I’m starting to get tired,” she said, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. “It’s all right if we stop? I need to get some sleep. But I don’t want to disappoint you. That’ll disappoint you, won’t it? I can tell. Okay, one more thing….” She trotted out of the room again and came back wearing one of the trick-or-treat costumes from her overnight bag.

Serge sat up. “Which one are you supposed to be?”

“Buttercup.”

Molly ran toward the bed for her superhero pounce. She pulled up at the last second. “Baby?…”

He was snoring.

Serge usually had an immense aquifer of energy, but it wasn’t bottomless. Now he had to recharge. And there was no more restful place than Little Palm Island. Isolated, exclusive, utterly tranquil. It stayed that way because of the limited access. Only three ways to get there: private yacht, the seaplanes that occasionally splashed down in the harbor with a belly full of executives, and the ferryboat that docked at the landing on Little Torch Key. The landing had a small parking lot where you could leave the car overnight. It currently held eight vehicles. The last car was backed into its slot, hiding the license plate against the bushes. A brown Plymouth Duster.

SHAFTS OF BLINDING afternoon light streamed through bungalow windows on Little Palm Island.

Serge’s eyelids fluttered open.

Molly was in the wooden Jacuzzi, luxuriating in exotic bath gels. She heard him stir. “Where are you, my love?”

Serge banged into a doorframe.

“Honey?”

“Right here,” said Serge.

Molly cupped her hands together and squirted water into the air. “I’m in the hot tub. Why don’t you join me?”