The Adventures of Holly White and the Incredible Sex Machine (10 page)

She traced the lips, full circle. If she were a man she would be able to step up
to the foot of the bed and press her cock against it. She would need to aim it with
her hands, but surely it would just slip in, as cocks do in
A Sport and a Pastime
.
Now there was some life. Now a little glisten. She dipped her finger into the almond
hole and found the moisture, light blue and shimmering like diamonds, she moved her
finger to draw a circle around the lips, painting them with the glow as one might
paint gloss on a mouth. Above the lips was the cleft, and in this cleft—she glanced
at the locked door—another seed, a tiny seed like the pip of an apple, something
so small and yet a repetition of that larger space. A little tight shut hole. She
touched this too with her finger. Still damp, still shimmering with the brightness
of her desire. She bounced her slippery finger against the tightest resistance.

Holly rolled off the mountain of pillows and watched the shy curl of her body, the
breasts protected by the prick of
elbows, no nipples visible for the greedy gaze
of the mirror.
Heat spreads like a fire. Resolutions burn like cloth.

She pressed her fist against her heart and felt its quick beating. She shifted closer
to the edge of the bed. Sat there, her toes rubbing on carpet. She spread her lips
for the mirror and the reflected glare made her blink. It was bright as a motorcycle
on high-beam. Shaking, tentative, she let the tip of her finger dip into the blaze.
She could feel the stretch of her hymen blocking her path. She moved her finger up
and rubbed the distended nub of her clitoris. A rush of pleasure and the light of
her cunt flared out like a laser, so bright she could barely look at it. She rubbed
the spot, she could feel the heat of it building. She squinted. A bubble was forming
at the outer lips of her vulva. A glowing bubble quivered there, broke free and floated
towards the mirror.

Holly snapped her legs shut. She watched the bubble shimmer and pulse with light.
It alighted like an insect on the reflection of her closed knees right at the place
where her clitoris would be. It trembled there for a moment before bursting, splattering
a thick mucus on the mirrored surface.

Downstairs the sound of a door. The sound of voices. Her parents were home. Holly
pulled the sheet up over her and a mummy fresh from a sarcophagus stared back at
her in the mirror with large, startled eyes. And down there where her cunt had been,
a slippery drip of ectoplasm glowed faintly before the light faded to nothing.

Holly scrambled out of bed, shrouded in her bed sheet. She used the edge of it to
wipe frantically at the accusing moisture. Her hands were trembling. Even the graphic
sex in the Salter book hadn't prepared her for an actual bubble of desire. She wiped
her damp eyes on the back of her hand and smelled on
it a faint tang of electrical
flame. She buried her tears in the sheet instead.

Perhaps Mandy had been wrong. There was something terrible about fantasy, there
was a dark and sinister power locked up in her imagination. Reading the Salter had
cracked open the seal on a Pandora's box. If one second of touching could release
a bubble from her body, what would be unleashed if she brought herself to the ultimate
release? She didn't even want to contemplate orgasm. She couldn't imagine what would
happen.

‘Holly?'

‘Mum?' Her voice was trembling.

‘Dinner in twenty minutes?'

‘Thanks Mum.'

Holly curled the sheet around her and scampered across the corridor to the bathroom.
In the shower she scrubbed till the electrical burning smell was gone. Her hands
smelling of roses, her thighs scrubbed with rosemary and parsley seed. She dressed
quickly and looked at herself in front of her sparkling mirror. Could they tell?
Would they know? When she smiled she looked like any young girl, wholesome, clean,
fresh-faced. She glanced at the stockinged legs on the cover of her book. Quickly
turned it face down.

Tomorrow at book club, she would tell Mandy that this really wasn't for her. She
would go back to her state of purity. She looked at the bookmark, tantalisingly close
to the end. Of course she would finish the story first. Nothing wrong with that.
Two more chapters and she would be done with it.

‘Holly? Dinner.'

‘Coming, Mum.'

Philosophy in the Boudoir

by
MARQUIS DE SADE

The green door was guarded by a tall woman with her hair tied back in a severe bun
and breasts as pert and prominent as a young boy's erotic drawing. When Holly negotiated
the last of the stairs and knocked, the woman stood firm and sized her up. Holly
held up the book, but it seemed that a book alone would not be enough to gain entry.

‘Mandy knows I'm a member.'

The woman shrugged. She was wearing tight black jeans and a soft turtleneck jumper,
so textural that Holly had to resist an urge to reach out and touch. She was elongated,
a great stretch of thighs and arms like the limbs of an insect. Praying mantis, thought
Holly, and it really did seem like this woman would be capable of snapping the head
off a mate.

‘Who is vouching for you?'

Holly narrowed her eyes. ‘What is this? A cult?'

She laughed but her eyes remained untouched.

‘Who invited you?'

‘Rodney Timms.'

The woman's stern mouth widened into a surprisingly generous smile, more braces
than teeth.

‘See?' she said, stepping aside and holding out her hand to usher Holly in. ‘All
it takes is a name. Mine is Naomi.'

There was just enough room for Holly to squeeze past and into the shop. She felt
the heat off Naomi, the soft caress of her shoulder, the furred knit of the garment
as silky as a cat. She smelled her perfume, strong and masculine; perhaps it was
aftershave. Holly was suddenly aware of the broad shoulders, the startling height.
For a moment she wondered if this were a man masquerading as a woman, but one glance
at her delicate jaw gave the lie to that.

‘Holly,' she introduced herself, when she had sidled past.

‘Lovely to meet you, Holly.'

Inside, the room was in near-darkness. There were tea light candles in coffee cups
scattered around a low table and a series of softly mismatched lounge chairs languishing
emptily. Holly worried about the naked flames so close to so many books. She resisted
the urge to lean in and blow them all out, but that would have plunged the place
into darkness.

There were people lingering in small groups beside the bookshelves. They glanced
up at her, startled. She was again reminded that she was an interloper, a girl who
sat more easily with the perfect beauties she knew from childhood than the odd bookish
women and men of Sex Club.

Rodney blushed when he saw her. He smiled, then looked quickly away, down at his
feet. She was his guest and everyone would assess him for it; he was clearly punching
above his weight.

Holly moved to stand beside him. He held out his hand and she shook it.

‘Glad you could make it.' His voice sounded thin and a little nervous. Holly held
up her copy of
A Sport and a Pastime
and shrugged. She wanted to tell him that this
would be her first and last meeting, but she felt strangely guilty, aware that her
leaving book club would be a slap in the face to the boy who had invited her. Before
she could speak a shadow fell over them.

‘Daniel, Holly.'

Daniel was even skinnier than Rodney. His features were thinner, his eyes narrowed
to suspicious slits.

‘Pleased to meet you,' Daniel said, although it was clear he wasn't.

Rodney stepped a little closer to Holly, perhaps a small sign of solidarity. Holly
touched him lightly on the arm and enjoyed the flush of colour that rushed into his
cheeks.

‘Holly's in my English Lit subject,' he said to Daniel, who shrugged and turned vaguely
away.

Holly leaned in. ‘I'm a little nervous,' she whispered. ‘Feels like we're at a Masons'
meeting.'

‘Have I shown you the special handshake?' Rodney asked and grinned.

A bright light spilled over the little gathering and Holly turned to see a door open
behind the counter. Mandy, unmistakably silhouetted in the doorway, might have been
a gangster stepping straight out of the 1920s with her fedora pulled down low, her
waistcoat nipped in tight. Holly half expected her to be carrying a machinegun. The
door slapped closed behind her and the room was thrown back into its mediaeval glow.
Mandy propped her fedora up on the counter and settled gracefully into
a large-backed
leather lounge chair. The others began to gather around the table. Holly wondered
if they had established seating, or if she could sit wherever she liked.

Rodney rested his hand gently in the small of her back and guided her into the group.
They sat together on the aging couch, which tipped them awkwardly towards each other.
Holly noticed him shuffling away and smiled. It would be rare for someone like Rodney
to be associated so closely with someone like her. She felt flattered by his awkwardness.

‘
A Sport and a Pastime
.'

Mandy pulled the book from the inside pocket of her jacket and slapped it down onto
the coffee table as if it were a trump card. Several of the club members fished their
own books out of their handbags or pockets. Rodney didn't move and Holly wondered
if it were her presence that was keeping him so still. She took her own copy of the
book dutifully from her bag and rested it on her knee. There was a piece of paper
torn from her notebook and thrust inside the cover. When she looked down at her lap
she saw the words ‘themes' and ‘voyeuristic narrator' scrawled on the paper. She
eased her fingers across to cover her notes, hoping that Rodney hadn't seen them
first. She was too studious. She had treated the book like an assignment. This was
exactly the kind of thing that lowered her in her own friends' opinions.

‘So.' Mandy inclined her head to one side. ‘I hope we have all had another month
of literary-fuelled mayhem.'

A few people sniggered; beside her, Rodney nodded sagely.

‘I would like you to extend a warm welcome to our new member, Holly.'

Holly waved nervously and a few people waved back.
Mandy shuffled to the very edge
of her padded seat.

‘Now, Salter. In this book, every moment is infused with sensuality: the place, the
people, the solitary moments and, of course, the not so solitary moments.'

There was a murmur of laughter. ‘I know which scenes inspired me when reading this
book, but I wonder if you all found the same sections arousing. So. Who wants to
start us off, so to speak?'

Naomi the doorbitch shifted in her chair. She smiled and Holly saw a glint at the
edge of her teeth, braces catching the light from the candles. It seemed as if she
was about to speak but Rodney stood suddenly and moved to the front of the table.
Holly felt the smallest rush of pride. It was strange. It was as if he somehow belonged
to her, as if he were her younger brother or even her child. When he tripped over
Naomi's long, outstretched legs, she apologised and righted him with a lingering
stroke of his arm. He blushed. Holly felt a pulse. What was it? Jealousy? Pride?

There was a faint bright flash at the lower rim of her vision as if a camera perched
in her lap had suddenly snapped off a photograph. She looked down at her knees, but
of course there was no camera. There had not been a flash, it was just a reflected
glint of candlelight colliding with her silver ring, pooling in the lap of her dress.
She smoothed the fabric down cautiously. Holly remembered the luminous bubble of
last night. She was, perhaps, a tiny bit aroused. She took a deep calming breath.

In a moment the boy had regained his poise. He moved towards Mandy and sat on the
table in front of her. He crossed his legs, self-conscious, then uncrossed them.
He spun around and lifted his knees up onto the table and the book that was
balanced
there beside him tumbled to the ground. There was an awkward dance as he leaned over
to pick it up, and Holly was afraid for a moment that he might fall.

‘You have had a Salter-related experience?'

Holly looked at Mandy's mouth as she spoke. The full lips, the succulence, the warmth
of the damp tongue, the glimpse of teeth. She saw the flash again, the sudden flare
of light, but again her lap was dark and empty by the time she looked down into it.
It was only her fear she was glimpsing from the corner of her eye.

‘Go on then,' said Mandy. ‘Tell us about it.'

Rodney cleared his throat.

Rodney's Story

She pauses in the hallway. She stops. I glance over my shoulder. She has seen someone,
perhaps someone standing in the other room. Behind me a party is in its last sordid
throes. A death rattle of celebration, someone's shoes cast adrift on a wine-stained
carpet, pâté on the furniture, the final gurgle of wine in the bottom of a cheap
cask. I am a little drunk but not so drunk that I might think this woman is looking
at me. She has been incendiary. She started with laughter, short and bright as fireworks;
this at the beginning of the evening. It was impossible not to notice her. She arrived
with a young biology student who seemed uninterested in her. He flopped into a couch
with a bottle of vodka cradled in his lap and proceeded to drink it doggedly. But
now the biology student is asleep. His position has barely changed, the bottle still
propped up in his lap, his cup resting on the arm of the couch, his head tipped back
and his lips slightly parted. I am not sure if they were together or just happened
to come up in the same lift. There is no one behind me: she is looking at me.

She hesitates, as if about to make some momentous decision. She will approach me,
or she will leave. I am suddenly aware that the next few minutes will change the
course of my evening. I have drunk just enough to make something of it. I step towards
her.