The gray clouds that had been gathering over the Morris’s garden broke and rain fell on the miniature replica of the Parthenon below. A few yards away from this piece was a round marble table; on it was a statuette of Dionysus and a tipped-over wine goblet. Red wine had spilled waterfall style over the edge of the table and onto the grass below and her white Chiffon scarf around her neck. Her blue eyes were staring at the Parthenon with her right hand stretched outwards under the side of her head and her left hand on her lower right back with palm faced away from her back from which protruded a number two pencil dripping blood from the end of its eraser onto the grass, contributing its share to the wine god.
The police found Kathy Jameson later that morning at eleven; the coroner ruled it death by stabbing, but there was bruising around her neck. Whoever killed her seemed to have strangled her for a while before jabbing that pencil into her, almost toying with her before obliterating Kathy’s identity. Detective Mark Mitchell thought it was going to be a messy case: the Morris’s were the prime suspects followed by Kathy’s boyfriend, Harry McCormick. Mr. Mitchell was a famous defense lawyer and his wife Ms. Sophie Lorraine was a chief financial officer for a big company. He would also have to look at all who new Kathy intimately. The statue on the table was apparently given to her by one of her history professors, Ms. Gina Swift.
The night before, Frank Morris rushed into his house trying to get away from the heavy downpour outside; the meteorologist lady on the weather channel had said two lows were close by—the cold fronts were sure whipping this part of town.
“Sophie, are you home?” asked Frank. “She’s not home, Frankie,” replied Kathy Jameson, his brunette, five-six and twenty-three-year-old niece, as she came strutting down the stairs in her own sexy self. “She’s gone to the mall.” “Again, huh?” Kathy just rolled her eyes and chuckled. She was always flirting with him. And he never knew how to respond. He just blushed. But he loved it. It made him feel younger. Sophie would always have great sex with him when she felt jealous and threatened by their niece. At forty-five, he and Sophie were going through a rough patch and having Kathy around did not help. But they loved her; at least he was sure he did.
“Would you get me a towel dear?” “Sure, Frank.” “Thank God the papers did not get wet.” “What are they?” “Oh, they are just papers concerning a client I am representing,” he said as he followed her up the stairs. Frank found himself staring at Kathy’s long legs that cutely disappeared behind her yellow elegant mini-skirt. He always told her not to wear that skirt around the house. But she did anyway. He wanted her. Right there on the stairs. The last time they had sex was about a month ago. He thought then and now that it was a bad idea. But for some reason all the other reasons for not taking her right then and there seemed like voices in the distant. They were weak and as pale as ghosts. He reached for her left hand and grabbed it. She turned around, her eyes dilated and glittering like diamonds. Her fiery and boiling eyes made him draw her closer. He placed his hand around her waist and drew her even closer.
His lips stopped close to hers. Both were savoring the silence: the anticipation of what was to come next was like gasping for air when she softly strangled him during their first erotic-bondage experience. He bit her upper lip, letting his lip sink into her cushion like lips as far as her jaw would allow. It was like pushing his face into his pillow just before waking up. She was so soft. His lips then played around with hers with his nose nudging hers and feeling as invigorating as a light breeze at the beach. His lips brushed past hers back and forth before finally lip-locking his mouth over hers and both their tongues seeking each other like reacquainted long-lost friends.
Sliding his hand across her sheen and tracing a path along her inner thigh, he slipped under her skirt and began caressing her black satin panty already soft and wet with thoughts of what was to come. He removed it twirling it into a curl, it reached the end of her black stiletto high-heels, which she shook, making it fall on the plush carpet below.
Her lips were plump and soft. After a few minutes of succulent kisses, deep ones as well as the woodpecker ones, Frank’s lips felt swollen. Even after kissing her, it felt her lips were still there, as if her spirit was still kissing and clinging to his lips. It was also like sucking on a lollipop: he felt the lingering feeling of the lollipop long after it was gone. Would it someday feel like this, if he were to lose her? Would her spirit never let go? Would he want it to let go? He did not want to think of these things. They were both young. They would be fine. And he was her uncle after all.
He moved his lips down her smooth neck, kissed the top of her right breast, plucked her nipple with both lips, and continued moving his lips along her lean and toned belly all the while tickling and massaging her left nipple making her moan. He carried her towards her room and laid her on her queen-sized bed. Kathy raised both of her lean legs and folded then over his shoulders and Frank raised the hemline of her skirt over onto her navel before sliding into her. While he was deep insider her, Kathy let her legs slip from his shoulder blades and tightened them instead around his broad muscular upper body.
Frankie’s hands were grabbing the two sides of her lower back and pulling her towards him as if she was trying to get away. She curled her two sheens around him even tighter and she lay outstretched on her back with arms outstretched over her head, which was tilting as far back as the mattress would allowed. She wanted him to do this to her. She wanted to snap into two and feel only the electric and tingling and growing sensation where he was in her. He was restraining her like a wild steed. He would try to bounce her lower back and her belly towards him. She was wearing this golden lace around her belly that made her body look like a holy shrine. Having sex with her was divine. He felt it was heaven itself to be with her and in her this way. He had never felt such immense gratitude towards her. He wanted to dive into her. He wanted to meld with her. He wanted his head to fuse with hers. He wanted to become one with her. May be he wanted to become her. She was like a horse. Soon he would be riding her like a rodeo from behind. Yee-ha! He felt ashamed, grateful, and funny at the same time—sex was weird. What would her parents think? Heck, what would his parents think? What would Sophie think? They would all want him dead probably. In the old rude days, he would have been stoned to death or thrown off a cliff. May be that is why sex is kept secret. There is just something cute and rude about it at the same time. Fathers may be secretly ashamed of admitting that their daughters will someday let go of themselves in such a manner. This shame is more so in the case of daughters than in boys. But he did not know why. It would like be saying to a father “look what I am doing to your daughter and how she lets go of herself in front of me” all the while smiling, which to the father would always be a smiles with canines behind it. It is just rude to tell a father that one is doing her daughter, bluntly like that, especially if one’s intention is to have her just once and move onto some other girl. Most fathers would be red with anger. It’s like one is doing them and then tossing them aside. Unfortunately when matters of respect get wound up with sex, even consensual sex, the result can be deadly. But none of this mattered to Frank, he just continued thinking that people are ashamed of sex, though they do it all the time, and probably every night, whether you are a Hindu, Christian, Muslim, or whoever. People were such hypocrites to him. Perhaps that is why fundamentalists of every religion were so pissed off all the time; they weren’t getting some. But it may be necessary in developing good taste. Frank didn’t really care; he did not know much about how our tastes and reasons change with time. He just wanted her. It was simple as that. And no moralist, legalist, or philosopher was going to subvert his current dominant passion to be with her. She liked him. He liked her. That’s all there was to it. That’s all there should be to it. Anyone else saying otherwise was simply mad and ought to be locked up in an asylum. But if his wife knew it would pain her, and he did not want her to get hurt that way. Even if he was being insensitive, he still did care about her. He would kill anyone who made her cry. Well, he thought that what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. But she would eventually find out. He would kill Kathy if she ever told Sophie about them. He did not want to think about it now though; she was so warm. And he liked her. But he liked Sophie more. That is why he did not tell her about Kathy; otherwise, he would have done it a long time ago. It was sad he couldn’t legally have them both. Marry them both. If he had to choose, he would choose Sophie over Kathy. And if Kathy threatened him, he would kill her. He would have no choice. All these societal rules and laws sucked. He was a lawyer and he could never understand why women asked men to choose between having them alone and having multiple partners. Why should he give up his needs for their needs? May be he should never have married and simply made monetary arrangements to live with as many women as he liked? Too much rationalizing here.
She raised herself and her lips yearned for his amidst her overflowing and thick and shiny black waterfall of a hair. It looked like silk. It felt like silk. Even though they were so close, he could not feel the pleasure he was giving her and she could not feel the pleasure he felt from her. It reminded him just how alone they were as individuals, that neither he nor she could fully share in each other’s joys and sufferings. This made him want her even more. With tears in his eyes, he pulled her onto him and gave her a hard kiss at the same time, which again startled her, but she returned the gesture tenfold, almost suffocating him, with her eyes dilated and lit more than ever and searing into him and imprinting the image of her face, her every facial streak into his memory. Allah was great for creating her and sex. And he laughed at this thought and she joined in not knowing why he was laughing so. Her eyes were now teary too. And she kissed him once more. Suffocating him again. He couldn’t wait to try the erotic-bondage session again the next time. This time it was all so sudden. There is nothing more spontaneous than having sex on the stairs. But he felt great and so did she as far as he could tell. Sex relaxed his muscles, his eyes felt softer and at peace, and he felt more grown up and adult during and after having sex. He felt he could do anything.