Chapter Eight

A Round of Billiards

 

 

 

Miranda arrived early at the Guernavaca Café. She sat at the bar, sipping a margarita and watching the door, excited at the prospect of seeing Mark again.

She had deliberately rejected her first instinct about what to wear. Her Indian print dress was gorgeously batiked but long and rather shapeless. Instead, she had chosen clothes that were more revealing while still in keeping with the summer-like weather, a stretchy tank top—no brassiere—and a denim mini skirt. Perched on the bar stool, she crossed and uncrossed her legs, feeling uncharacteristically exposed. She resisted the temptation to tug the hem down toward her knees.

Her costume was not inappropriate. The other women clustered around the bar showed far more skin, halter tops with bare backs, naked midriffs, skirts split to mid-thigh. What would Charles Dickens have thought, Miranda wondered idly. For that matter, how would Beatrice view this scene?

Mark pushed open the screen door at the stroke of eight. She saw him before he noticed her, and she definitely liked what she saw. Mark was clearly oppressed by the heat, as much as she was. He wore a loose Hawaiian print shirt, shorts and sandals. Normally Miranda found men in shorts unappealing. However, Mark’s bronzed, muscular calves and thighs were more than attractive. At the sight of so much of his flesh, her stomach fluttered crazily. She waved, and he hurried toward her, pushing his way through the crowd.

“Miranda, you look fantastic,” he said, hugging her. She returned his embrace, enjoying the brief sensation of his arms around her. He released her quickly, apparently striving for a fraternal tone.

“Thanks. I could say the same about you.”

“Well, I’ll have you know, this is a real Hawaiian shirt, not some cheap replica. I bought it on a surfing trip to Maui three years ago.”

“You surf? Not a typical hobby for a guy from Wisconsin.”

Mark looked her squarely in the eye. “Well, I’m not a typical guy from Wisconsin.”

Miranda was flustered by his intensity. “Well, I’m not sure that I’ve ever met anyone else from Wisconsin, so for now you’re my Wisconsin archetype.”

Their laughter defused the strangeness of the moment.

Before long they were seated, and had ordered, Mark requesting the spiciest dish on the menu. “Compared to Thai food,” he laughed, “Mexican food is mild.” The waitress brought Miranda another tart, salty margarita, incredibly refreshing after the sweltering day. Mark took a few swigs of his beer, then held the condensation-dewed bottle up to his forehead.

“So, weather hot enough for ya?” Mark drawled, adopting a Midwestern yokel accent.

“This is bizarre. It’s only May and it feels like July. I hate to think what July will be like.”

“Well, who cares, we’ll be in cool, foggy London in July.”

Miranda sighed. “Maybe you’ll be in London. As you may recall, the AML rejected my submission. I’ll be toiling away here, in boiling Cambridge.”

Mark grabbed her hands unexpectedly. “Didn’t Harold tell you?”

“No. Tell me what?”

“He wants you to go to London and present his research. He doesn’t feel like making the trip.”

“Really? You’re not pulling my leg?”

“No, really, I was just talking to him about it today. He was looking for you, to discuss the paper, but he couldn’t find you in your office.”

No, thought Miranda with a twinge of guilt, because I was in the library, playing with myself. She forced her attention back to her companion.

“So Dr. Scofield is really sending me to London?” Miranda thought her face would split, her smile was so broad. “I can hardly believe it. I wanted to go so badly!”

“He told me that he’s also arranged for you to sit on a panel discussing Victorian erotica. You should be getting a formal invitation from the panel moderator soon. So you see, you’ll have the chance to expound on your theory after all.”

Miranda felt deliriously happy. Impulsively, she grabbed Mark’s hand and squeezed it. “And you’ll be there, too?”

Mark looked devilish. “I will indeed. And I’ll show you the many faces of London, as I promised.”

There was another potent moment of silence. Miranda tried to take her hand away. After a few seconds, Mark released it, smiling into her eyes. She reflected that she had known Mark only a week or so. He kept hinting that there was more to him than what she saw. The thought of having him as her guide to London’s underside filled her with nervous anticipation.

Awkwardness was averted by the arrival of their food. Their dinner conversation was light and comfortable. Miranda found that she was not giving it her full attention. She could not help watching Mark, his expressive brown eyes, his full lips, his extravagant hand gestures as he described some event in one of his lectures. I want him, thought Miranda, joy surging at the realization. I want him, and I’m not afraid.

Later, they walked out of the restaurant, into the humid, velvety night. “Come back to Beacon Hill with me,” said Miranda. “We can have a cappuccino at the café across from my apartment, and you can meet Heathcliff.”

“Heathcliff? Shades of Wuthering Heights! I thought you shared your apartment with a woman.”

“Heathcliff’s my cat, a real sweetie. Lucy, my roommate, is away. In fact, she’s in Paris, with the latest love of her life.”

“Sounds like an interesting lady.”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” said Miranda. “But anyway, that’s her private business.” She swallowed hard. “So, are you coming?” She tried to sound offhand, but she wanted him so badly that her voice came out in a little squawk.

“I’d love to,” said Mark, putting his arm around her shoulder as they headed for the subway station. “That is, if you want me to.”

Miranda did not answer, simply enjoying his warm, casual, comfortable touch.

Heathcliff met them at the door. He nosed suspiciously around Mark’s sandals, then jumped up on the bookshelf and stared at him. Mark held out his hand. Heathcliff gave it a perfunctory sniff. Then he began rubbing his head and chin against the outstretched fingers, purring loudly.

“He likes you,” said Miranda, delighted at Heathcliff’s approval of her new flame. “He’s a friendly cat, but he’s usually a bit standoffish for the first half hour or so.”

Mark scratched the orange tabby under the chin. The purr volume ratcheted up a notch.

“He’s great,” said Mark. “And this is a fantastic apartment. Fourteen-foot ceilings, oak floors, and a marble mantelpiece. Does the fireplace work?”

“You want a fire on a sweltering night like this?”

“Not when I’m with a hot number like you. But it might be cozy to cuddle up here in the winter.”

Miranda found that she was blushing. His joking compliment, plus his oblique reference to a future together, made her feel even warmer. “So, would you like a glass of wine? Or would you rather go across the street for coffee?”

Mark flopped down on her sofa as if it were his own. Heathcliff immediately curled up beside him. “Wine would be wonderful. Coffee would keep me awake, and I need to be rested for that lecture tomorrow.”

Miranda retrieved the open bottle of Pinot Grigio from the refrigerator and poured two glasses. Handing him one, she sat down next to him with her own goblet, on the opposite side from Heathcliff’s tawny body. “To London,” she said, raising her glass.

“To London, and other adventures.”

They took a few silent sips. What now? Thought Miranda. She tingled all over from nervousness, but for once there was no knot of fear in her belly. Mark was looking at her, searching her face as if trying to read her thoughts. The silence lengthened. Ever so slowly, as if he were afraid that she might flee, he reached for her hand. His skin was warm and dry. She suddenly remembered the way he had stroked her palm, the first time they met. The recollection gave her a little thrill.

She wondered at her own shyness. Given her recent escapades, she could hardly be called sexually inexperienced, yet she felt as much like a virgin now as she had with Geoff.

He was still staring at her, their hands clasped. He must be waiting for me to make the first move, thought Miranda.

“Mark…”

“Miranda…”

They collapsed in laughter as they spoke simultaneously. Somehow, the shared humor erased the tension. Miranda turned toward him and kissed him.

His response was immediate and electrifying. His arms encircled her, pulling her close to his chest, while he returned her kiss with a ferocity that was astounding. It was a probing, aggressive, challenging kiss, a kiss that sought out her secrets. His tongue danced in her mouth, boldly exploring. Her sex rippled in response. It was almost as if his tongue was dancing down there, darting in and out of her swollen labia.

Miranda moaned and rubbed her breasts against his torso. Her nipples were hard and round as hazelnuts. She was hungry for him, dying to have him touch her.

As if in response to her thought, he slid one hand under her shirt and brushed a fingertip across her tit. That simple touch made her writhe. When he rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, the sensations dragged her to the very edge of climax. He continued to kiss her, more voluptuously than before, tracing the outline of her lips with his tongue, nibbling and caressing.

Hazy with lust, Miranda realized that she had never been this aroused. Not with Geoff. Not with Big Daddy. Everything Mark did felt good. He smelled good, tasted good. She wanted him to surround her and penetrate her. She wanted their bodies to melt together into one.

Lazily, his hand left her breast and meandered across her belly. He unbuttoned her waistband and pulled down the zipper on her skirt. She ground her pelvis against him, silently begging him to finger her, fill her, fuck her. He took his time, though, building the tension to fever pitch.

Finally, his fingers reached her pubic curls. But just before he touched her, a sudden jolt of static electricity leaped from his hand to her damp flesh. The shock made her stiffen involuntarily.

Mark immediately retracted his hand. His mouth slipped away from hers. “No, don’t stop,” she said. “I’m okay. Really.”

Mark searched her face. He looked worried. “Sorry,” he said. “I got kind of carried away.”

“No, it’s fine, I liked it. I want you to get carried away.”

He grinned at her choice of words, but still looked unconvinced. “I’m really glad that you feel that way, but I still think we should go slowly, Miranda. I want you to be completely comfortable being with me.”

“I am comfortable with you. More than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“That’s fine to say, but given your history, you might become uncomfortable at any moment. I don’t want to contribute to your conflicted feelings about sex and men. I’m more than willing to wait, to move forward one step at a time.” He smiled again, a bit ruefully. “I think tonight we skipped a couple of steps.”

“Mark, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t want to wait. I want you, right now, right here!”

He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “Patience, Miranda. You may say that you’re sure, but I want you to have time to think about it.”

Miranda could hardly believe her ears. Here she was, aroused and accessible, offering herself to a man who she was sure desired her, and he was refusing!

“Anyway, I had better get home. I’ve got to be up early.”

He petted Heathcliff for a few moments, then stood up. “Please, don’t be offended, Miranda, and don’t be angry. Give yourself, and us, the time we deserve. Don’t worry. I’m not about to stop wanting you.” He kissed her lips, lightly. “Good night, Miranda,” he murmured. “Sweet dreams.”

Miranda stared at the closing door in frustration. Damn him! She understood that he was being considerate, that he was truly concerned about her emotional well-being. At an intellectual level, she appreciated his concern. On a physical level, however, she was sizzling with lust, with annoyance, with the blasted unseasonable heat of the evening. He had brought her to this feverish state, then left her stranded in a desert of desire.

She paced around the apartment, restless and horny. She thought about masturbating, but somehow, after today’s scene in the library, that did not appeal to her. Finally, she stuffed her keys in one skirt pocket and some money in another, and headed for the street. I’ll just get some fresh air, she thought, and a walk. The exercise should calm me down.

She wandered aimlessly through Beacon Hill, for once hardly noticing her surroundings. The night lay soft and heavy, enveloping her in a sticky cocoon. Sounds of traffic, barking dogs, jazz music coming from an attic window, all seemed muffled and distant. Her nipples were still tender. Her cunt felt prickly and inflamed, as if red ants swarmed there. She could not get Mark out of her thoughts—his brazen tongue, his strong thighs, his delicate fingers. She suddenly flashed on an earlier image, remembering him stroking the erection that jutted from his Thai peasant costume. A pang swept through her. She cursed him, and cursed her own tangled psychology, which had inspired his unbearably cautious behavior.

A faint breeze ruffled her hair. Looking around, Miranda found that she had walked almost to the waterfront. She was in the no-man’s land between North Station and the North End, a region of narrow streets, dingy brick warehouses, and seedy ‘cafés’. In fact, there was a typical place across the road.

Bill’s Bar had a sickly green wooden façade, pierced by a couple of small, neon-lit windows. Several motorcycles hugged the curb in front. Country music drifted through the open door.

I need a drink, thought Miranda. She resolutely suppressed any other thoughts as she entered the joint.

Inside, it was surprisingly spacious, with a bare, scarred floor and a ceiling crisscrossed by pipes and ductwork. A bar hugged the right wall. Wooden tables and chairs were scattered around the rest of the periphery. It smelled of stale beer and cigarettes.

The middle of the room was dominated by a pool table, a well of brightness in the otherwise dim interior. Two men, apparently the only customers, were engaged in a game. They did not look up when she entered.

She settled herself on a bar stool and ordered a beer. They did not sell wine. The bartender was a slender, nerdy young man who seemed out of place in these rough surroundings. He put the amber bottle in front of her, then retreated to the opposite end of the bar. From there, he cast furtive glances at her while he polished the glasses.

Miranda turned her attention to the two pool players. Their looks were much more in keeping with the environment. Both wore tight jeans and T-shirts that had seen better days. Both had lurid tattoos on their biceps. One of them was small, lithe and wiry, with a drooping mustache and a red bandanna on his head. The other was a huge, bear-like man. He had a luxurious mop of ragged, greasy-looking black curls. A livid scar ran down one of his cheeks, giving him a disquietingly crooked smile that was almost a grimace. As if responding to her attention, he looked up from the game and directed one of those smiles at her. His teeth were sparkling white.

Miranda felt strange, hot and cold simultaneously. She felt her nipples tightening, pushing out the fabric of her top. Moisture gushed into her panties. Normally she would find these men frightening, or perhaps faintly disgusting. Tonight, she saw them quite differently.

“Hey, baby!” said the thin one. “Come on over and play a game with us.”

Without hesitation, she picked up her beer, slipped off the stool and strolled over to the billiard table. She was acutely aware of the way her hips swayed, clad in tight denim. She felt her unfettered breasts bounce with each step. I must look like a slut, she thought, ridiculously pleased with herself.

“Hello, guys,” she said. “How’s the night treating you?”

The burly man winked at her. “Better all the time,” he said. “So, you know how to play pool?”

“More or less. You try to get the balls into the holes.” Miranda smiled archly, and her companions snickered.

“Yeah, right, using one of these sticks.” Gypsy-hair handed her a cue, and pointed to the white ball on the green baize. “Go ahead, babe. Give it a try.”

Miranda took her time. Slowly, she rubbed the little blue nugget of chalk over the tip of the cue, as if she were rubbing her finger over her clit. The image had the expected results. Her sex throbbed in time with her pulse.

She bent over the table to take aim, her buttocks in the air. She found it hard to concentrate on the shot. She could feel the denim riding up over her thighs. Her bikini panties were probably visible. Did her companions catch a whiff of her musk as she leaned forward? She could swear she could smell herself.

A lock of her long hair fell across her shoulder, interfering with her aim. Before she could react, Bandanna lifted it with one finger and flipped it back. He smoothed her rippling mane down her back, then brazenly fondled her butt. She looked him in the eye and smiled. “No fair. You’re messing up my concentration.”

Bandanna grinned. “Sorry, baby. Go ahead, shoot.”

She made one last calculation, and sent the cue ball precisely in the desired direction. The six ball caromed off the far rim and headed straight into the closest pocket. The seven ball rolled directly into the corner pouch, just as she had intended.

Her audience applauded. “That was some shot! You’re really good.” Their lascivious stares seemed tempered by genuine admiration.

Miranda looked from one to the other. The heat between her legs was unbearable. She hiked herself up so that she was sitting on the billiard table, and spread her thighs wide. “Boys, you have no idea how good I am.”

The two bikers looked at each other in disbelief, then back at her. Impatient, Miranda pulled her skirt to her waist, lifted herself off the table, and pulled off her underwear. Playfully, she threw the wisp of silk at Gypsy-hair. “What are you waiting for?” she said. “I haven’t got all night, you know.”

Bandanna had his fly open first. His cock was slender and smooth, rising up from a nest of reddish frizz. Miranda took hold of it and began to pump, feeling the already swollen tissue grow even harder.

The bigger man was not far behind. He grabbed her other hand and wrapped it around the erection now jutting from his jeans. His cock was like the rest of him, huge. Miranda could not encircle it with her fingers. He was uncircumcised. His foreskin slid back and forth over taut, veined flesh.

Miranda worked them simultaneously, enjoying in their grunts and moans. Meanwhile, her juices ran out of her, staining the felt under her bare behind. She caught a glimpse of the young man hovering behind the bar, his eyes wide, transfixed by the scene. She smiled to herself and stroked the two cocks more vigorously.

“Enough!” groaned Bandanna. “I’ve got to fuck you, baby.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” said Miranda. “Come on!” She lay back on the table, her legs spread wide. The mustached biker climbed on top of her and positioned his cock at the entrance to her cleft. With a grunt and a jerk of his hips, he was inside her. She was so wet by now, there would have been no resistance even to a cock as large as Gypsy’s.

He was watching them from beside the table, handling himself, his twisted lips pulled back, his sharp teeth gleaming. “Oh, you are good,” he said hoarsely. “You are absolutely made to be fucked.”

Bandanna screwed her with a manic energy that left her breathless. He was like a jackhammer, in, out, in, out, his slithery rod never still. The friction would have rubbed her raw if she had not been so soaked. He paused for a brief moment to pull up her tank top. Then, squeezing one breast in each hand, he resumed his furious thrusts. Miranda closed her eyes and gave herself up to the sensations in her cunt.

She felt a stir beside her. Gypsy-hair had come right up to the table. The edge reached only to his thighs. His enormous erection hung over the table, close to her face. She could smell him, funky and dark. He stroked himself slowly and deliberately, a strange contrast with Bandanna’s frenzied pace. He grinned that distorted grin.

“Having a good time, babe? Looks like it to me. So tell me, how would you like a face full of cum? ‘Cause, babe, that’s what I’ve got here for you.”

Bandanna gave a deep moan, perhaps in response to his friend’s words. Miranda felt his body tense before he let loose, bucking and grinding his hips against her. Her clit leaped up in response. Then she felt a rain of hot liquid, on her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. Her orgasm came crashing down on her as Gypsy-hair, very deliberately, sprayed her with his jism.

She lay exhausted on the felt, her hair tangled and matted, a pool of fluids gathering between her legs. An evil laugh roused her.

“Tired? Hey, we’re not done yet. I’ve got lots more ideas for you.”

Miranda would have sworn that her lust was dissipated. Yet the sound of his coarse voice roused her to a higher pitch than before.

Bandanna was lounging at one of the tables, watching the scene with a grin. His burly companion lifted Miranda off the table as if she weighed nothing. He positioned her facing the table, then indicated that she should bend over. She cushioned her head in her hands, her hips resting on the rim of the billiard table. Without being told, she moved her thighs wide apart, exposing her still-swollen lips and the whorl of her anus.

“Very nice,” Gypsy-hair commented. He brushed the hair from her face and grinned wickedly at her. He picked up the shiny black eight ball.

“Now, babe, if you remember, pool is all about putting the balls in the holes…”

Miranda had a flash of understanding, but before she could protest, the biker slipped the pool ball into her cunt. Then he grasped her whole sex in his hand and squeezed.

The ball settled against her womb like an egg, filling her depths. Her clit was trapped between his palm and the slick hard sphere inside her. She came immediately, an explosive orgasm that would have expelled the ball if he had not held it in place. When she regained her senses, Gypsy was laughing.

“Whew, you are hot, girl! And I haven’t even got the ball in the other hole yet…!”

Terror and lust warred in Miranda’s soul. Her tormentor already had her butt cheeks spread wide. She thought she could feel the unrelenting curve of the ball pressed against her sensitive sphincter. “No!” she cried, “I can’t!” even as her mind’s eye showed her how it would be, in lurid detail.

The biker paused, though. The pressure against her rear entrance disappeared for a moment. She felt strange regret.

“Well, then,” he said finally, “if not the ball, it will have to be the stick.” Then without preamble, he slid the smooth, rounded end of the wooden cue into her asshole.

Perhaps because of her recent experience with Big Daddy, perhaps because her nether parts were so soaked with lust, the cue slipped in easily. He worked it slowly, pushing it in till her muscles closed around the tapering length of it, then almost removing it so that her opening gaped like a hungry mouth.

The pleasure was nearly unbearable. Miranda arched and twisted, working the stick around inside her, rubbing her pelvis with its still-embedded pool ball against the edge of the table. She was climbing quickly toward yet another orgasm, when suddenly the cue was removed. Her moan of disappointment turned into a scream as Gypsy-hair replaced it with his hugely swollen dick.

It hurt. He was three, four times thicker than the pool cue, much thicker than Big Daddy had been. He stretched her beyond bearing. In the midst of the pain, though, was pleasure so acute that Miranda could only relax, open herself, let him take her further, deeper into degradation and bliss.

Perhaps she fainted. Perhaps her conscious mind could not deal with the acts being committed by her body. Whatever the explanation, thought slipped away. When she regained her senses, Bandanna and Gypsy-hair were gone.

She was still draped over the billiard table. Her anus twitched. She felt liquid trickling from there, down the crack between her cheeks. The sticky eight ball lay between her feet.

She heard a noise, a muffled moan. Rising with difficulty, she saw the bartender a few feet away, trousers around his ankles, playing with his cock. It was a nice cock, symmetrical, smooth, framed by soft-looking brown curls. The young man looked at her, almost pleading, his dark-rimmed glasses askew.

Miranda was suddenly reminded of Mark. Incredibly, the flame of lust flared in her again. She sat down at one of the tables and gestured to the bartender. “Come on over here,” she said softly, licking her lips. “Let me take care of that for you.”