Chapter 21

Joe awoke early in the large bed in the large rural mansion. He immediately felt the rawness of his penis. In fact he felt more than he liked. A sort of heroin hangover. Feeling. The opposite of being stoned. Restless.

Putting on boxers and yesterday’s shirt, with a last glance at his two naked lovers who had both turned on their sides away from him, and only the disturbance of the sheet that covered them might get noticed when he slipped out of bed, and it wasn’t, he padded out of the bedroom and headed down to Constance’s kitchen.

Nigella met him there, looking like he felt. And Martha, who smiled too wide for so early in the morning. “Cheese and mushroom omelet?” the middle aged cook asked him.

“Sounds great,” he said.

She set a mug of coffee in front of him. He added cream and sugar. Half and half actually.

“You okay?” he asked Nigella, nibbling on her toast over her otherwise finished breakfast plate.

“Yeah,” she shrugged.

“How was the rest of rehearsal?”

“Good.”

“You slept okay?”

She looked at Martha.

“Uhm, Martha? Would you mind if we moved into the dining room?”

“Mi casa et su casa,” she said, which he thought was cool. Never having a servant, he figured those that did made sure they made clear who owned the servant’s place of employment, and maybe the servant herself. But Martha felt a pride of ownership, even if she actually slept in her and her husband’s own little house on the edge of the lake and the land most conspicuously owned by Jonathon and his family. That is, the well-groomed lawn between the mansion and the lake.

As soon as they sat in the dining room, next to each other and close, despite all the room available on the large table, he asked her, “What happened last night?”

Even with the separation of the swinging door that led to the kitchen, she spoke quietly. “Constance must have noticed rehearsal ended. I imagine it wasn’t hard. She met me when I got off the elevator. She asked if I brought the strap-on.”

“How did Constance know?” he asked.

“You didn’t tell her?”

“Joanne and her are closer than I thought,” he said.

“She called me Nigel. I got the picture. I thought you’d made me her mistress like you did Joanne.”

“Nope.”

“Uppity for a sub,” she said. “I imagine she’ll deserve punishment.”

“Sounds like. So you got she likes pain.”

“Yeah. I think that was the point. And being subservient.”

“For Jonathon to see.”

“Yeah. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone so surprised. She assumed the position like Joanne does. I greased up my cock and plunged in. She was dripping, and I don’t think it was just her juices. She asked, politely, to slap her hard. And politely harder. I noticed her bending her neck so she could look at her husband, especially his penis, so I got the hint. Ordered her to suck him. Asked him to sit above her. It took a while, but she got him hard. Then proceeded to amaze him by giving him deep throat.” She stopped talking when Martha brought him the delicious breakfast, including fresh squeezed orange juice. And he told her not to refill his coffee so as not to disturb the narrative any more.

Nigella continued, “She told him to get under her. Took his cock in her cunt. I greased up her poop chute and fucked her there. She didn’t ask, but I could somehow tell. And rammed her pretty hard there. I could see her pull harshly on her nips. Before she came as if demon possessed. But kept going, fucking her husband. Fucking me. Until he came. I immediately pulled out. Stood. Completely flummoxed from what just happened.

“She told him her back hole was reserved for me, since he had plenty much tighter asses to fuck. She told him she didn’t need a pansy anymore for a husband. He got up and left after that.

“She cried. I mean really broke down. I almost forgot to remove the strap-on getting in bed with her. I think she wished I hadn’t, like she’d do something gross like sucking the dirty thing. She said she didn’t mean to drive him away. A poor choice of words was how she described it. I agreed. And suggested she apologize. Explain why she called him that. But she wondered if he’d be able to do what she wanted. If he was stern enough. I asked how he normally treated her. ‘Carefully,’ she said. ‘Like a delicate princess.’ I told her it was because he loved her and didn’t want to hurt her, which made her laugh. I don’t know, laughing and sniffling.” She shook her head sadly.

“She has a history of mental illness,” he said.

“I kind of got that. Her nervousness. But ... the laugh seemed to give her some peace, and she said she’d call him.”

“He didn’t just take another room?”

“No. He grabbed his keys. Uhm, could you check on her? I know she likes you and ... I kind of miss Joanne. A little less unnerving bossing around.”

They chuckled.

“Sure,” he said. “But I’m not sure Joanne’s pussy’s ready for fucking. Me and Cheryl and her had a marathon session last night.”

“The heroin?”

“Yeah. You can have the rest of it at Joanne’s.”

“I tossed the works,” she reminded him.

“You can use mine. I can’t imagine it not being safe. And ... I thought it would be like coming down. Like the hair of the dog or something. Not a lot, but enough, just half a bag.”

“You sure?”

“I don’t think I like what it does for me anymore.”

“Good. I think I’ll wash the strap-on and have my slut wear it. I really need a good fucking.”

“I imagine,” he chuckled.

“You going to punish Constance?”

“Maybe later. I want to make sure she’s okay. And I want to ask if I could use her office.”

“Writing the one-act?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

She looked up at the Kokoschka. “That that guy you like?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“It’s pretty amazing but kind of disturbing for a dining room.”

“I think the entire dining room is kind of disturbing,” he said, gesturing to Freddy’s paint by numbers portrait of Constance. “It’s like eating inside a disturbed mind.”

“Constance’s disturbed mind,” Nigella nodded. “Do you think it’s intentional? Like he’s getting back at having to deal with her mental problem?

Joe shook his head. “I don’t think it’s consciously intentional. But subconsciously, yes.”

She chuckled. “You really are into the surrealists.”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole Freudian thing with Dreamscapes.”

“Maybe. But maybe more Jungian. The hierarchy of archetypes.”

“Whatever,” she chuckled. She gave him a kiss and left.

He finished his breakfast and brought the empty plate and glass and cup to the kitchen, where Martha was busy feeding Joanne’s kids and Tom.

“Joe!” Essie exclaimed.

“Joe!” Charlie copied her.

He kissed the top of each towheaded angel’s head.

“You didn’t need to bring in the plate,” Martha practically scolded.

He shrugged. And headed to Constance’s bedroom.

“Joe,” she murmured.

“I didn’t give Nigel to you,” he growled.

“Are you going to punish me?” she asked eagerly.

“Later. I’m busy. I’m going to need your office.”

“Yes Joe.”

“Go to Joanne’s room. Make sure Nigel gets off. Something you forgot to do. And yes, she can be my surrogate. But Joanne takes priority with her. Understand?”

“Yes Joe.” She hopped out of bed naked and kissed him. He embraced her, squeezing her ass a little too hard. He nibbled on her nipple. She shivered. When they separated, he gave her a hard spank. “Put on a robe. Take it off as soon as you’re in Joanne’s bedroom. And make sure everyone in there cums. But not you.”

“Yes Joe,” she smiled.

“Tonight, after rehearsal, I’ll give you what you need.”

“Thank you, Joe.”

She donned a light robe and followed him out of her bedroom. They separated at her office. He didn’t acknowledge her. A little bit of punishment.

She had an old fashioned Royal, which he actually enjoyed working on. It had obviously been well maintained. As soon as a fresh sheet entered the chamber, he typed.

A few minutes later, Cheryl entered the office carrying her Selectrix. “Constance said there’d be room,” she said. It did contain a large old blond wood desk with little on it. She set her typewriter at the corner and slid a second chair, nice but not as luxurious at the one he occupied, in front of it. Her legs spread a little to accommodate the corner.

“Unlike you,” he warned her, “I can be easily distracted.”

“I’ll be good,” she promised with a smile and a quick kiss. She had one of his shirts unbuttoned enough to show her delectable cleavage and a belt to define her curves. Simone, but better. He somehow managed to ignore her seductiveness.

They clattered away for hours. With occasional questions, readings and brief conversations. A quick lunch brought by Martha. A club sandwich for him. Not knowing Cheryl’s preference, Martha made her a chicken and avocado sandwich with bean sprouts and a tarragon infused mayonnaise. Delicious when Cheryl allowed him a taste, and getting a quarter of his club in exchange.

Earlier on Cheryl went off and came back with a boom box and some tapes. Eddie and the Monsters live tapes. Inspiration and sort of reference for her article. His play too, being a rock and roll rite. A sort of mini opera or musical. Probably more the latter since words would be unsung, at least at the beginning. By the end it would be chanting with the completion of the rite. Death and rebirth. Sloughing off normal to become a rock and roll god. You’re typical rite of passage. Rock and roll style.

It was about Eddie. And Joe being sloughed along with Rachel or Sam. He even brought in the drama of Belle, with Eddie pulling her out of Sam’s attempted grasp of removal. He started it with the actors amongst the audience. Something he found effective in Dreamscape with the dancers. This time symbolizing the common world. And the crowning of a rock god would happen on stage. His place of coronation being built by a chorus of worshipful fans. His final performance as god or king on top of the corpses of those that had held him back. Joe and Rachel and Sam.

It actually was a sort of stylized version of his long play. And some of his words came directly from it, which already had a poetic nature. Not exactly heightened. Prettified normal speech. His style it seemed, since Dreamscapes had a similar style.

It felt great to get back to composing. It felt more effortless than it ever did. As if let go from a gate, the releasing of a race horse, letting it gallop relentlessly towards the finish line. No pauses. No distractions, if it wanted to win. Even if there had been pauses actually. The brief interruptions by both Cheryl and him. And lunch. But once they ended, he was at full gallop.

Freddy ended up being the one who broke the spell, entering the office. “Rehearsal?” she smiled.

“What time is it?” Joe asked her.

“Six. Belle just got here.”

“Wow,” he said, and Cheryl giggled.

He had neared the climax in the writing. It seemed perfect to come back to it with a fresh mind.

“Did Luke come?” he asked Fred. She’d met him at a summer art class. A night class put on by a community college in a nearby suburb to their home town. In his early twenties and shy, Fred liked his looks and his height, nearly the same as Joe’s. A blond version of him, maybe. Fred had to do all the work, ingratiating and seducing. Despite his talent as an artist, he was being groomed to take over the family business. Raising pigs for slaughter. Hormel a few miles south. Not the most appetizing business, but lucrative. And necessary to feed the masses Spam. Maybe not quite Joe’s substitute. He was a lot more muscular, working the farm most of his life. Though Fred cooed about his gentleness and his ability to be trained.