Like a Skank in the Night
It was a dark and stormy night with the wind barking through the mangroves like the voices of angry two-year olds fighting over crayons and I dreamt of a land far away, very far away, a helluva distance away, probably on the other side of the world where it wasn’t dark nor was there a storm barking through the mangroves, a place where the mangroves were peaceful and green and I could sit reading Shelley or Keats or maybe Sidney Shelton without the wind whipping at the pages of my book or the rain pelting my eyes, blurring my vision of Daphne in a see-through dress with the sunlight streaming through the diaphanous material and I could see all of her goodies and make yummy sounds as she slinked up to me like a skank in the night (no, it wouldn’t be night because we would be on the other side of the world and the sun would be shining – through her dress).
Only it was night, dark and stormy. OK, I already said that, but it was hard to see Daphne with the freaking wind in my face and rain slapping my eyes, rolling from my face to my chest and down my chest, past my goodies to my legs and then even my feet, which were as wet as a frog’s feet. Only not green.
She wasn’t particularly skanky, I just like to think of Daphne that way as she slinked up and licked the rain off my face.
“I’m Daphne!” she shouted because I wasn’t positive it was her until that moment. She was just the skank to me. The wind answered, howling like a werewolf in heat only there was no heat, only the cold rain, the wet, damp, miserable fucking rain.
I said, “Of course you’re Daphne.”
“I didn’t get that,” she yelled.
As I said, I wasn’t sure she was Daphne until then. I thought she might be a Daphne, or maybe a Mona, but not a Shaniqua because she was a white girl, a very white girl, incredibly white, with long blondish-brownish-reddish hair, all stringy with rain, and crimson and magenta lips. Really. She wore two shades of lipstick, magenta on top, crimson on the bottom of those full, sensuous, sexy, imminently kissable lips. Her tongue, thankfully was pink, flesh colored pink, not fuchsia or that other pink like flamingos.
So that was how I met Daphne Pith-Martin, wife of Percy Pith-Martin who came to my office a week earlier with a hang-dog look on his face. Actually he looked so much like a basset hound, I almost tossed him a milk-bone dog treat (only I didn’t have any milk-bones. I had a couple milk duds but that’s another story).
“My wife,” he said, tears streaming down his puffy face, “is fooling around on me.”
I picked up my ball point pen, hand poised over the note pad on my well-worn desk, the ceiling fan above us trying hard to move around the hot, humid air. I had no air-conditioning and it was hot, damn hot, so fucking hot the rubber bands in that little junk tray on my desk seemed to be all melty.
“How do you know she’s ... ” I tried playing diplomatic.
“Because she smiles all the time and we haven’t had sex in over a year.”
Looking at the slob across from me, I couldn’t help thinking no wonder she smiled all the time, not having this razorback-looking pig atop her. He smelled like raw pork, I swear to God, and his skin was all light pink with bristly black hair on his neck and arms. He was a fuckin’ werepig (actually he was a wereporcine, according to the American Lycathrope Society, headquartered in Bogalusa, Louisiana). A cry baby, weeping, snot dripping, red-eyed wereporcine.
“So you want me to catch her so you can get a divorce, right?” Jesus why did I have to do all the thinking?
“Yes. I want you to catch her doing it with other men. Doing the nasty, you know. Bumping uglies.” From a man intimate with the uglies – big time.
I hustled him out of my office as quickly as possible, pocketing the five-hundred dollar retainer. Sitting with my feet up on the desk, I closed my eyes and wished for the thousandth time it could that easy for me to get rid of my pain-in-the-ass, leeching, frigid wife. As if she’d fuck around? She hated sex. Hopefully, this Daphne didn’t because even if she had a boyfriend, I was my agency’s designated hitter, the designated dick, quick to volunteer for the incriminating work. What a job. Getting paid to fuck lonely women (most of the wives weren’t fooling around until I came along and sidled up to them). Thank God for alimony.
With the only high-tech piece of equipment I owned, a digital video camera inside a pack of Marlboros, I went searching for Daphne. It took me two days to catch up with her because she’d left town for the mangroves.
“I’m Juan,” I shouted back to Daphne (we’re back, the flashback’s over) and she smiled, the fat rain drops slamming against her two-toned lips, bouncing off teeth, cascading from her pointy chin like a waterfall. No Niagara, but that long skinny waterfall. Where was that? Africa? Victoria Falls? How the fuck do I know? It was coming from her chin.
“You’re Mexican?” she shouted in my ear.
“No!” I screamed back at her. “My mother called me Juan because she loves tacos. And Mexican men. Poles too and Filipinos, so long as they aren’t too tall.”
Daphne pursed those thick lips and closed her eyes, tilting her head to the side as rain pelted us like little pebbles, stinging us as we kissed and it was electric, so much that thunder answered our kiss, which wasn’t even a French kiss, no tongues, not yet. I felt it all the way to my Achilles tendons (both of them), which became swollen with lust. And when I opened my eyes, I realized it wasn’t rain pelting us, feeling like pebbles, it was hail the size of Republican’s brains, small but lethal.
I grabbed Daphne’s hand and pulled her through the mangroves, across a small meadow and the great gripping mire, which we call a swamp back in Louisiana, only we weren’t in Louisiana. God knows where the hell we were, but it wasn’t Louisiana because there were no mosquitoes (and don’t say there were no mosquitoes because it was fuckin’ storming like a son-of-a-bitch because Louisiana mosquitoes have little goggles, little bitty fuckin’ goggles and rain helmets and waterproof wings and they will bite the shit outta ya’ in the rain).
Now what the hell was I saying? Oh, yeah, God knows where the hell we were. I had no idea, even when I spotted the windmill and we rushed to it, stopping to find the backdoor because the goddamn vanes were spinning too fast for us to walk through the front door, which made me think we might be in Alabama because only a stupid wire-grass redneck would build a fuckin’ windmill with the vanes almost touching the ground like a propeller or an outboard motor going around and around and around, cutting through the wet air, cascading sprays of water like windshield wipers.
Daphne and I tumbled into the windmill through the back door, Daphne first, me stumbling atop her and feeling an immediate rush as our bodies bounced against one another.
“My,” she said, reaching down to brush her soaking hair from her face, her eye-makeup running now, giving her face that gothic Alice Cooper look so desirable to many men. Not me. I felt my desire wane until her fingers brushed across my crotch turning my wavering erection into a pulsating time-bomb inside my jeans. She was a skank all right but smelled fresh and clean, like wet persimmon or maybe nutmeg or cinnamon. Whatever.
When she said we should get out of our wet clothes, I went, “Yee huh,” which is Woody Allen talk for “Oh, yes. Absolutely!”
“Let me,” she said as I started unbuttoning my shirt. I made sure she didn’t drop the Marlboro-video-camera from the top pocket. She gnawled her crimson lip as I removed my shirt and that’s when I realized she was wearing water-proof lipstick, even with her face all streaked with dripping eye-makeup.
I draped my shirt across the banister of the stairs at the center of the windmill and showed her the Marlboros. “Wanna cigarette?” (There were two real cigarettes in the pack in case someone actually wanted one).
I put the Marlboros atop the banister at the bottom of the stairs so it would catch the action. I pushed the record button. Turning back to her, she started in on my belt, which revealed she had two left hands. Really. She couldn’t get my belt undone. I took her hands into mine and there were two lefts, no right hand. Looked freakin’ weird. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m left handed but having two lefts and no right made things difficult for Daphne, so I helped her take off my pants and boxers and shoes and socks so I stood naked in front of her, my cock standing straight up like a flag pole.
And I began to worry that she might be more anatomically challenged beyond having two left hands. I started with her high heels and was relived to see she had a right and a left foot. She dropped her dress with one motion and stood there in her panties, wet panties plastered to her body and so sheer as she did a little pirouette for me, then dropped her panties. She was slim with a nice figure, boobs big but not monstrous, a small waist and nice round hips. She had one pussy, thank God, covered with silky-looking dark pubic hair. Daphne put her hands on my shoulder, those two freakin’ left hands and tilted her head to the side, closing her eyes and we used tongues this time, hot, licking, panting tongues. She pulled her mouth away and I gasped for breath and gasped again as she licked her way down my neck, across my chest and down my belly to my cock which she jumped on like a starving ... I don’t know ... like somebody starving and my cock was the only nourishment around and she sank those two-toned lips around it and sucked it and started moving her head up and down and my hips started doing the same thing.
I winched when she slapped those two left mitts around my ass, pointy fingernail digging in my buns. I started to pull her up. It was my turn to start licking, only she wouldn’t stop sucking my cock. She was getting me so worked up I was worried I’d come before I could sink my cock into that pretty pussy of hers. So I pulled harder and she held on sucking my cock even harder and I started to worry she’d never let go.
So I reached down under her armpits and yanked on her shoulders as hard as I could and her mouth came off with a popping sound and she blinked at me as if in a daze. Before she could recover, her mouth still in an “O”, I licked her soft throat and moved down between those round, warm, pulsating breasts. I licked her pink areolas, which were fuchsia colored and her slightly darker pink nipples, small and pointy, like the heads of FBI agents, only softer and warmer and better tasting.
My tongue traveled down her flat belly to her soft, silken pubic hair and down to the hot folds of her pussy lips. I flicked my tongue across her clit and she let out a little squeal. I sank my tongue into her pussy and sucked then began working my tongue against her clit as I slipped a thumb into her pussy and started rolling it inside her. She gasped, her hips gyrating as she slowly sank back on the stairs, me slipping two steps below her, my mouth still stuck to her pussy. She wrapped her legs around my head and bounced and screamed that she was coming.
When she came, she damned near killed me, twisting my head around as she bounced. Finally, her legs let go and I pulled my face away. It took a minute for me to catch my breath and I looked down to see my erection was as hard as ever, so I laid her on the bottom step, well within camera range of my Marlboros and pressed the head of my cock against her pussy lips and she took me in like a starving ... person from one of those third-world starving pits.
She had muscles in her pussy that worked my cock as we pumped against each other like pile drivers. I tried to hold back, slowing down, only her pussy was so hot I thought my cock was burning, so I had to put out the fire with a good gushing. I came inside her in the longest ejaculation of my life and finished a dehydrated husk of a man.
There should have been music the sex was that good. Mozart or Beethoven or music from that chubby guy who wrote the score to The Phantom of the Opera. Daphne wrapped her arms around me, freakin’ left hands squeezing me as we hugged and she kissed my face with little kitten kisses up and down, around and around. Then she started purring and I had to look down to make sure I hadn’t just fucked a werecat. In the warmth of Daphne’s arms, I felt sleepy and was just drifting off when she shook me and said, “Let’s do it again.”
In a minute I thought, but my cock had its own mind (it usually did) and started throbbing, so we went through the her sucking my dick scenario. This time I didn’t have trouble pulling her up, turning her around and popping her doggy-style. She hung on to the railing as I fucked her. She let out squeaky, mousey noises with each of my plunges.
I was in mid-stroke when the strobe light flashed across us. For a second I thought it was lightning, but looking up there were no windows and looking down I saw the wereporcine standing with a camera in hand. The strobe flashed again. It was then I saw someone standing behind him next to the banister. Please note that my hips, led by my cock, continued pounding Daphne. The second figure moved from behind big, fat, pig-faced Percy Pith-Martin and I saw it was – you guessed it – my wife.
“Gotcha!” she said, a sickening smile on her thin, cadaverous, pasty face as she snatched the Marlboros. “I know all about this little camera,” she called back as she and Percy ran out of the windmill.
By the time I had my dick out of Daphne, who’d continued bouncing on my cock though the picture taking and removal of my Marlboro-digital-video-camera, my wife and Percy were long gone lonesome blues and I was literally ... fucked.
I plopped down on the dusty stairs as my cock went flaccid between my legs. Man-o-man, I’ll be paying alimony for fucking ever. Daphne went down and dressed calmly, so calmly it was eerie.
“We’re both good and fucked,” I said.
She shrugged, pulling up her dress. She used her panties to wipe her face, getting the eye guck off. She dug a little brush from the little purse I hadn’t noticed before because I was paying too much attention to her goodies. She didn’t look so skanky all clean-faced with fresh lipstick now. Crimson on top and magenta on the bottom for a change.
“Wasn’t it good for you?” she purred.
“Sure, the screwing was good. We’re fucked because of the alimony. You’re out on your ass and I’m gonna pay for the rest of my life.”
She pulled her hair back into a pony-tail and wrapped it in one of those rubbery things. “What makes you think I’m out on my ass?”
“In case you weren’t paying attention. Your husband and my wife caught the both of us.”
She laughed. “I’m not married.” Daphne reached into her purse, pulled out a business card and dropped it in my lap before walking away.
I looked at the card, which read: Daphne Martin, AAAAA Detective Agency.
I said, “What?”
Over her shoulder she called back, “I’m the designated hitter. The designated pussy, if you’d prefer.” And she walked out of the windmill back into the dark and stormy night.
Copyright © 2006 by O’Neil De Noux. All rights reserved.
A former homicide detective and private-eye, O’Neil De Noux (http.//DeNoux.Tripod.com) is the author of six published novels, a true-crime book, four short story collections, and over 200 published short stories. His most recent books are New Orleans Confidential, a short story collection of 1940s private-eye stories (PointBLANK Press, 2006) and New Orleans Irresistible, a short story collection of erotic detective stories (EAA Signature Series Books, 2006 http://www.lulu.com/content/310042).
Two additional books are forthcoming: American Casanova – The New Adventures of the Legendary Lover, a collaboration of 15 writers directed by legendary editor Maxim Jakubowski (Avalon Publishing, New York, 2006) and Mafia Aphrodite (Neon Books, London, UK, 2007).
Mr. De Noux has had stories in The Mammoth Books of New Erotica, Historical Erotica, Short Erotic Novels, and Best New Erotica, Volumes 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004 and 2005.
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