Strange Taste LIVE 7: Vixen

Vixen:

There was a loud, persistent rapping on the front door. It could only be Georgie. He leapt off the bed and bounded down the stairs like a greyhound chasing a hare, a hound smelling the scent of a vixen, her scent. Threw open the door. And she was there for him. Beautiful. Adorable. The first change he noticed in her was she was wearing a bright red rouge that complemented her scarlet singlet and tiny hot pants. Her chest, arms, legs, and feet were bare, pale, in spite of her time sunning herself on the beaches of Europe. She was wearing open-toed sandals, a post box red nail varnish on her toes. Her smile lit her face from ear to ear. She stepped over the mantel to be with him, the compulsion in her heart enriching the syrupy-smooth lure congealing within her enchanting voice,

‘Well, how do I look?’

‘You look sensational.’

‘Thank you.’

He quickly shut the door, so the neighbour wouldn’t see her. It would hurt O’Brien if she saw her like this. Georgie dropped her bag on the slate-tiled floor, reached, and took him by the scruff of the neck, stroking his wavy hair, rubbing his earlobes in the way he loved. He drew her soft body to him, loving the warm sensation of her breasts pressing against his chest, the inscribed medallion. They kissed, a deep, longing kiss, fully-open-mouthed, in the style of lovers who want sex: they ate each other’s palates. She panted for him, his starving lioness.

‘Been thinking about you all day. Don’t know what’s got into me. Need you.’

Her reassuring words filled him with affection for her, satiating his lust, heartening him,

‘I really love you, Georgie.’

She took in all the flaking lead paint, the mould on the window, faded rose wallpaper, his threadbare carpet running up the staircase.

So, this is how the poor live, she decided, tinkering with the chain on his medallion. He felt different to her tonight, more masculine. She asked him directly,

‘Can we go to bed, please?’

He struggled to contain himself, to control his pent-up emotions,

‘If you insist.’

She burst out laughing, loving his dry Sussex humour, the feeling of just being with him? She let him carry her bag for her, following him up the creaking staircase. Unlike home, there were no trinkets on the windowsills, paintings, or photographs, only bare walls. This place felt dull, bleak, unloved: a house, not a home. They reached the landing. Two of the ivory lace doors were shut. She wondered:

What lies behind the doors? Who lives here? What are their lives like?

He hadn’t discussed his life. It occurred to her she barely knew him. She only knew that she needed him more than ever to fulfil her secret dream. A third door led to the bedroom where they’d make love. There was a wardrobe in the corner, patterned quilt on the bed. She asked for the toilet, her bath,

‘Have to wash and prepare myself. Will you wait for me on the bed?’

He flushed puce, her candid statement, her enticing question, set his loins on fire,

‘I put the boiler on, Georgie. There’s plenty of hot water, towels, flannels, bath salts too if you need them,’ he said, handing her the overnight bag.

Her puffy lips brushed his ear, ‘Thank you, see you on the bed.’

She entered the small room on her left and shut the door, bolting the latch firmly behind her, opening the frosted glass window to let in some air. Then she stripped off her singlet, hot pants, and thong, hanging them on a cheap plastic hook on the back of the door, and ran herself a bath.

Imago:

Night crept in from outside, cooling the hot air. He shut the window, drawing the curtain so that O’Brien wouldn’t see them making love. Georgie expressed a preference for lying on top of the bed. He wondered if she fancied a walk in the woods in the morning, a naked dip in the stream, drying off on his tartan fishing blanket? He could make up a picnic for her before she left him to return home. Life without her would be unimaginable. She lit his whole existence, a shining beacon of hope in his dark, uncertain world.

There was a spare sheet on the top shelf of the wardrobe. He took it down, spreading it over the bed to protect Mary’s quilt. He supposed he would have to visit her soon, at her reinforced sanctuary in the forest, the hideous mental asylum that reeked of used Dettol, to explain about Georgie moving in. The thought of seeing her: sedated, trussed in a straitjacket, dosed to the eyeballs, drooling, spitting, spluttering, as she tried to speak without her false teeth; filled him with dread – let alone attempting to have an intelligible conversation with her.

His mind filled with Georgie’s face:

Would she want to see him again after he had administered her bizarre morning surprise? Would she partake? Suppose she didn’t like mushrooms?

He slid his hand into his flare pocket, and extracted the sheaths, tearing off the wrappers, removing each one in turn, arranging them tidily at her bedside to use, at her pleasure, through the short summer night.

He removed his shirt, flares, pants, and socks, then lay in the middle of the bed where she expected him to lay. Proudly, he fingered his sexy medallion. There was nothing else left to do but wait for his beautiful imago to emerge from her chrysalis and spread her wings.

Secrets:

Meanwhile, in the bathroom, Georgie swished the water in the bath with the blade of her hand to make sure it was lukewarm, tepid to her touch, anxious not to trigger another rash of embarrassing sweating before she made love. She turned off the taps, singing to herself, reaching for the pile of towels her lover left for her, neatly stacked on their pedestal. The pink face flannel and matching towels were as good as new.

Who were these were intended for. His mother? His sister?

Intrigued, Georgie scanned the window ledge: a cannister of Brut spray-on deodorant, a dead upturned bluebottle, Johnson’s baby powder, nothing unusual. There was a bottle of Silvikrin anti-dandruff shampoo at one end of the bath, used bar of Wright’s coal tar soap. An unlucky green toothbrush with a rolled-up tube of Colgate on the wash basin. No other signs of male or female activity.

In her experience, homes gave up their secrets in the shadiest of places: in cupboards, drawers, wardrobes, tallboys, bureaux, desks, dressers, medicine cabinets. The sparkling cabinet was hanging on the wall over the toilet. She smiled in the mirror, opening the door with its fake brass knob. Other than a spool of sticking plaster, a tube of muscle rub, tub of Germolene, the cupboard was bare. Except for a small smoked brown glass bottle on the top shelf. Georgie removed it and examined the faded-yellow paper label:

Tincture of Quinine.

Who does this belong to? she pondered.

Her daddy fought in the jungles of Burma during the War, telling her stories of leech-infested swamps, crawling termite mounds, the endless plagues of bloodthirsty mozzies. Quinine was an antidote for recurrent malaria. So where was his dad, his mum for that matter? Her thoughts were interrupted by a squabble of swifts jousting in the eaves. It was getting dark. Any questions could wait until sunrise.

Georgie placed the towels and flannel on the carpet within easy reach and clambered into the bath. She sat with her legs outstretched, contemplating her toes. The warm water came up to her hips, soothing her. She closed her eyes, relaxed, dreaming of how far she’d come since leaving home.

Her journey had been an erotic carnival, a sexual cavalcade of one-night stands, intimate liaisons, close shaves. Perilous near misses that stretched from Amalfi to Rome, Venice, Grimaud, Rochelongue, Tarragona, Cascais, and Reigate. Her acts of rebellion, she called them, reprisals. Retaliatory actions, full of contempt and reproach, imputing blame on her mother for the revolting way that Georgie was physically and mentally abused as a child.

She wondered if she could ever forgive Rachael for how she mistreated her, the ridiculous non-disclosure agreement she signed in return for financial security. Under the terms of the pact, she was bound to a lifetime of silence about Rachael, in return for a guaranteed monthly income until her death, when Georgie would inherit her entire estate. Unless Rachael met with an unfortunate accident: a snake bite, a car crash, an encounter with a venomous spider, she was unlikely to die for years. The devout was healthy, an active fifty-something who avoided the temptations of sex, alcohol, meat, fish, and cigarettes; preferring to place her faith in an ever-forgiving god.

With Georgie’s adventure into sexual proficiency came romance, heartbreak, her trail of broken hearts. Janis had succumbed to her deadly charms, joining her at the epicentre of a complicated web of deceit. Then there were the calculated risks she took: her chance meeting with Pasquale in the red-light district, a sordid backstreet in Marseilles. Pasquale, who invited his friends, ‘mes amis’, to join in the fun. They’d drawn out their flick-knives. Georgie had fled their squalid apartment to save her life.

Now, she was about to entrap him. She soaked her crotch before climbing out of the bath, dried herself, reached for the Johnson’s talc, and patted it on, tenderly, as if she still had her baby’s bottom.

Georgie knew full well her promiscuity made her vulnerable to predators but she couldn’t help herself. Couldn’t control the surges of emotion in her mind – lowering her defences. She trusted him, inside her at least. His unfeeling comment, asking if her father hurt when he died, stung her heart. Did he genuinely care for her as much as she cared for him? Or were his cries of love just impulses? She had no desire to have his baby. Or did she? Georgie wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore, other than certainty.

Scent:

The daring lingerie by Ann Summers suited Georgie’s needs perfectly, freeing the siren in her. Thrilled by her sensual transformation, she dabbed some scent behind her ears, left the bathroom, and padded to the open door. He was waiting for her on the bed, a puma about to pounce, staring at the spider’s webs on the ceiling. He heard her whisper, softly,

‘Close your eyes.’

Feeling her presence, he shut his eyes, his heart pumping wildly for her. She set him free,

‘You can open them now.’

He gazed at Georgie in awe of her: his Aphrodite, goddess of love, an angel come to save his lonely soul. She stood at the foot of the bed, beaming at him, dressed in just a g-string. He didn’t know what to do with her at first. Her behaviour was daring. Her love, her tactile touch, intoxicated him, suffocating him, making it hard for him to breathe, smell, touch, taste. He climbed off the bed, his senses returning, smelling the animal scent on her. They lost all self-control,

‘Georgie…’

‘Kiss me, touch me, love me.’

He seized her, pushing the soft hair off her face, forcing her head back, hard, so that he could kiss her deeply, feeling no resistance. She spat out his tongue, freeing her mouth from his love-leech, his overt oral intrusion, imploring him instead to explore her body. He indulged her, leaving a trail of molten kiss down her neck and chest, alighting on her swollen breasts, cupping them in his hands, kneading them as he sucked her shiny nipples erect, a bloodthirsty vampire, ravenous for her love. She purred, her cat’s paws clawing at the hairy small of his back, slashing his skin, loving the lick-spit she felt trickle down her stomach, probing her deep navel, the wet slop of her man’s tongue slathering over her belly, as he ambled ever downwards,

‘Pull off my g-string!’

Not: please, would you take off my g-string? Or: would you mind taking off my g-string? But pull it off! She thrilled as he tore off her string, unbinding her, untying her scorched lust. Felt his coarse fingers grip her soft buttocks. Felt him lick her wet cleft. Went weak at the knees,

‘Lie down!’

‘Georgie, I…!’

Before he could finish, she shoved him in the chest, forcing him to fall back onto the bed. He lay momentarily winded, stupefied by Georgie’s sexual bravado, happy for her to take control. His proud flesh reared, straining for her as she squatted over him, facing the other way, back to his, astounding him with her salacious, sexy, daring, her loving practicality,

‘Keep still while I slip you inside me.’

‘Georgie!’

She felt his hands caress her hips. Felt highly aroused if truth be told!

‘Mm?’

‘I’m not wearing a …’

‘Don’t need to.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m safe.’

He shook his head. She mounted him, reclining, her buttocks pressing into his hairy belly, her slender back hugging his chest. His face was smothered in sweat. She sealed his mouth with a kiss. Their lips parted. He felt her breath warm his cheek,

‘Hold me!’ she pleaded.

He fondled her heaving breasts, then gently slid his palm over her tummy, massaging her soft, hairy mound with his fingertips. She arched her body upwards…

After, Georgie lay on her side facing him, loving his tenderness, the feeling of being held in his burly arms, her deep calm: the aftermath of their lovemaking. She was crying. He kissed away her tears. She read his thoughts, softly kissing him back, saying in a whisper,

‘I’m crying because you made me so happy.’

At first, he was lost for words. When he did speak, his voice was choked with emotion,

‘You’re all I have, Georgie. I love you.’

He burst into tears, crying on her shoulder. She held him to her breasts, stroking his damp cheeks, consoling him, conscious of the colossal risk she had taken: the cap, lying unused in the hand basin, her endless quest for certainty in life,

‘That’s right, sweetest,’ she soothed, ‘Let it all out. Tell me. Why are you so unhappy?’

He remembered the toadstools, the deadly concoction in his fridge, and stopped crying.