Beetlesmith's Ch. 18

The 'eat me' girl was the first to notice me with Karen and Denise. She just rolled her eyes and looked away toward the front door—I'm not sure if she knew who I was, but obviously she found the situation ridiculous.

Oh well, so much for 'The Hef' persona.

When Holly spotted me, she began talking in rapid, high-pitched tones, "Oh hey. Hope we're not late. We got lost on the way over here. Fucking Google maps, it totally sucks donkey dong if you don't put in the right address."

"No, you're right on..."

"Who are these two?" Holly asked, cutting me off with her rapid speech while looking Karen and Denise up and down. It was obvious she was high on something, "I bet this is the 'hers' and 'hers' you bought those presents for, isn't it, Mr. Hers and Hers?" She paused long enough to giggle, then sticking out a hand toward Denise, she continued, "Hi, I'm Holly. I sold Will those plugs. Are you the little Missus, or the Ms. Hers?"

Denise took Holly's hand hesitantly—probably afraid Holly might be contagious. Not knowing what Holly was talking about, but being too polite not to answer, Denise responded with confusion, "I guess I'm the Ms. Hers..."

Holly didn't let her finish as she shifted her hand over to Karen, "You must be Mrs. Hers? Am I right, or aren't you married, Will? Is she still a Ms. Hers? Oh, doesn't matter. You two are really lucky girls. Although, when I first saw Will's...you know...thing...I just about shit in my pants. And then trying to do it with that gigantic plug in...I..."

"Excuse me, who are you again?" Karen interrupted.

It was a rhetorical question meant to shut Holly up, and said with obvious, dripping sarcasm and irritation—at least obvious to the mildly cognizant, Holly didn't qualify at the moment. I'm not sure whether Karen's irritation was due more to Holly's doped up brashness and babbling goofiness, or that I would be stupid enough to fuck the doped up, babbling idiot in the first place, let alone invite her home, afterwards.

I didn't have to wait long to find out, as Karen turned to me, saying, "Jesus, I must have really pissed you off."

"Yes you did," I said, giving her a stern look, reminding her why I fucked the babbling idiot in the first place. She quickly looked back at Holly, and away from my gaze.

Not recognizing Karen's irritation—or mine now, thanks to Karen—Holly foolishly tried to answer the rhetorical, "I'm Holly. I work at Tammie's Toys. You know, the adult toy store. I sold Will those plugs and vibrators. Hey, Will said you guys are having trouble keeping the plugs in, and I can see why given Willy boy's size...I have a surefire suggestion..."

Seeing that Karen was close to apoplexy, and one more hair-brained comment away from bitch-slapping Holly into the next county, I interrupted, "Okay, okay, we can talk about the plugs later. Why don't you introduce us to your friend."

Holly slapped her forehead. Clutching at her friend's arm, while leaning against her in a friendly manner, she said, apologetically, "Shit, I'm sorry Raven. I forgot you were here. I'm such a ditzy asshole when I'm buzzing." Turning back toward us, but still leaning her head against her friend's shoulder in an affectionate manner, Holly said, "This is my friend, Raven. I've been shacking up with her ever since I left Ben..."

"Ben? Who's Ben?" I asked, still confused.

Holly pointed to her tattoos, while saying, "You know, my fuck-stick boyfriend...well, ex-fuck-stick boyfriend. Raven's been just so very rad letting me stay with her while I get my head on straight...just as long as I put out," she finished with a wink.

"Please, Holly, you'll shock the Babbitts," Raven interjected with droll sarcasm.

Now that she'd been introduced, and for the remainder on our time at the front door, Raven went out of her way to ignore Karen, Denise and I—the Babbitts in her eyes—and continued talking directly to Holly as if the three of us weren't there.

I got the impression that in Raven's mind, anyone with a mortgage was a Babbitt. Besides the 'interesting' tattoo and hairstyle, Raven also took a very purposefully dry, sarcastic attitude toward life, going out of her way to project a tedious air of arrogant condescension toward others. It was as if she were above all the mundane proprieties of a civilized society: such as being polite, treating strangers with a modicum of respect, or at least looking people in the eye before setting about insulting them. She, of course, demanded these things from others, without question, and became snippier and more condescending when you didn't treat her with the respect she thought she deserved.

"Let's just go. This looks lame-oid. Real George and Myra Babbitt meet Larry Flint," she said to Holly, prosaically.

"No, we just got here," Holly whined back, almost under her breath as if she were embarrassed that I could hear their conversation, "I told you about what happened in the back of the store, this will be fun."

It was a cryptic reference to our time together, of which Raven seemed unimpressed, rolling her eyes at the reference. She continued talking with Holly while looking past the three of us, and into the living room full of guests. "It looks like a scene from the Dawn of the Walking Dead in there. Don't they know anyone younger than forty?" She paused for a second, before going bug-eyed with surprise, "And look at that guy with the white hair. Jesus, he must be the Crypt Keeper. There's no way he can get it up without Viagra and a crane. This whole thing feels so much like a fifties, Felliniesque surreal nightmare it's scary. It's like we just got dropped into a poorly made, Italian porn movie somewhere south of the second circle of Hell."

She may be an arrogant cunt, but at least she got the Dante reference correct. I'll give her that much.

It was obvious her comment about the 'Crypt Keeper' was in reference to Jack. The three of us looked at each other and almost laughed. Not so much at the snide remark, but at the situation we found ourselves. Each of us wanted to take turns beating the shit out of Raven, but we didn't want to risk spending the rest of the day getting booked for felony assault.

Holly cut off her friend's diatribe, "Hush, Raven, you promised you'd be nice."

Raven rolled her eyes again, then looked at Holly incredulously, "Oh come on, Holly. You really want to make it with the Crypt Keeper?" Before Holly answered, Raven blurted, "No offense, but what is that guy, about eighty?" Although she didn't have the decency to make eye contact, it was clear the question was meant for me.

I didn't want to tell her that Jack was only eight years older than I was, instead I played along, "Actually, I think he's older. I don't think he needs a crane, but he has been on a Viagra I-V drip since this morning."

Raven just rolled her eyes, and said, "Whatever."

She didn't want to play along. She really was a drip.

"Hey, nothing's keeping you here. Sorry it didn't work out," I said, as I opened the door for them to leave.

"No, wait," Holly quickly said, and with real panic in her voice.

This time, she pulled Raven outside and onto the front porch, away from us so that we couldn't hear their exchange. The three of us stood in the doorway watching the Goth girls argue.

The conversation was a heated, back-and-forth ordeal that was going on now for about a minute. When it looked like Holly was gearing up for an even longer debate by lighting up another smoke, I finally said, "Enough of this shit. In or out girls..."

"In!" Holly yelled, pulling Raven along with her.

As they made their way into the living room, Raven continued yammering, "I don't believe this. It's worse than I thought...oh my god, is that Klimt? Figures he'd be on the walls. He's so over-rated, although some Babbitts think he's edgy...and I'm out of here if the Keeper so much as looks at me..."

Denise whispered sarcastically to Karen, "Well, isn't she too cute with her 'eat me' tattoo and little, pink bob."

Karen responded in kind, "Yes, I just wonder if the carpet matches the drapes."

Karen and Denise giggled to themselves as they made their way back to the others.

I scanned the living room full of guests, counting heads. Now that the two Goth girls had arrived, it looked like all the invitees were here and that it was time to administer the elixir. I was about to make my way into the kitchen and get the spiked Sangria, when Lisa Grant came up to me with a panicked look.

I noticed that 'look' earlier, right after Jackie and Cecilia showed up. What with Candice and Denise also here, Lisa's light bulb must have finally gone on, seeing all my other motel playmates congregating in the living room, with most of them provocatively dressed like Karen.

"I need to talk to you," Lisa said in a harsh whisper.

Back to the study I went.

Lisa barely waited for me to close the door, asking in the same harsh whisper, "What kind of party is this?"

"It's kind of late in the game to be asking questions now, don't you think? I told you to leave Barbara home."

"Not just Barbara,I should have stayed home. I don't want to be a part of any orgy!"

"What are you talking about? You've been a part of an orgy almost every other night for the past few weeks. The only difference is that there're more men here."

"That's a big, flipping difference. One of those men happens to be my husband..."

"And what about Bob," I began rhetorically, cutting her off, "Don't you think he could use something like this. I mean he works his ass off for you, day and night. And in all that time, you've been fucking me, fucking the other fuck bunnies, even fucking your own daughter. Don't you think you owe him this?"

She flinched when I reminded her about what she had done with Barbara. Lowering her eyes in shame, she declared, "That can't happen again."

"That's right. That's why you're going to send Barbara home. Then you're going to give Bob some room to move, because he deserves it. Think of the look on his face when you, and maybe Darcy, give him that oral delight I know you're so good at. I won't even mention what it would be like having Cecilia 'French' your pussy while Bob slam-fucks you doggy style, moving from pussy, to mouth, back to pussy again. Hmm? Almost Heaven on Earth."

She stood silently for a moment, thinking about what I said, all of it. Finally, she answered in frustration, almost to herself, "Oh, who am I fooling? Bob's never going to go along with it. You don't know him like I do. He's way too uptight and straight-laced..."

"So were you until recently. Tell you what, first get Barbara out of here, and don't tell Bob what's going on. Just wait and see what happens. If it looks like he's going to have a problem with it, then the two of you can leave before things really start to boil over."

She still wasn't sure.

"There's one more plus in this, Lisa. If Bob does join in, it kind of gets you off the hook for all the other stuff you've been doing. Just in case he ever finds out, you could always say it all startedafter the orgy. He'll have a harder time staying pissed at you."

"You think so? You think he wouldn't get mad about...you know...you and me, and the others, if he finds out?"

"Oh, he'll get pissed alright, but if he thinks it happened after today, he won't stay pissed enough to dump you. Trust me. I've had some experience with that lately."

She smiled at that, "Okay, I'll try. But we're leaving if he starts freaking out."

When Lisa opened the door, we found Karen waiting for us in the hall. Lisa breezed past Karen and back into the living room without even looking at her. Karen ignored Lisa in the same manner.

Such a shame, two good friends now treat each other like complete strangers.

I watched as Lisa made her way over to Barbara, who was talking with the Goth girls, and began what looked like a spirited conversation with her daughter.

"Anything wrong?" Karen asked.

"We'll see in a minute. Watch what Barbara does."

After a couple of minutes of mother-daughter verbal parrying, Barbara snatched offered car keys out of her mother's hands and stormed out of the house.

Karen watched Barbara leave, and said under her breath, "She shouldn't have come in the first place. Lisa is such a dumb, fucking bitch."

Another crisis diverted. Maybe I am what Jack called me at the office, 'a fucking miracle worker.' If not that, then someone 'upstairs' sure favors me.

********

I wrapped an arm around Karen and kissed her cheek. "Glad that's over. I don't think I can take another heart to heart in the study. Give me a hand passing out the Sangria. It's about time we get this thing started before anything else happens."

"Okay, but I'm still trying to figure out how you're...," she started to ask the infernal question, but stopped when she saw the look I was giving her. "Never mind," she concluded.

I had Karen give everyone a wine glass while I poured. She was a bit unsure why I was going through this kind formality instead of letting people help themselves as we usually do, and she was really perplexed when I made it out to the others that it was a kind of a Henry Family tradition to have an opening, celebratory toast to any large gathering of family and friends.

I made the toast a point of honor for some of the guests who were not big drinkers, or were teetotalers, like Phil Thompson or Sara and Rashid Farzaneh. In this way, everyone would feel obligated to have at least one glass.

Once everyone had a glass of spiked wine—all except for Karen and me, I had prepared two untainted glasses of wine for us, earlier—I tapped my glass, getting everyone's attention and gave a perfunctory toast. I mentioned things about good friends getting together, good health and long lives, and may the three always be joined together, or some such salutation. Since we were coming close to the longest day of the year, I think I even said something mystical and pagan about the Summer Solstice—but I can't remember what, exactly.

One thing I am sure of was the curious division that developed between the guests. It was obvious that everyone was splitting into two natural cliques, those in the 'know,' who already had been initiated with the elixir, and those who were still proverbial 'virgins.'

During the toast, the faces of those two groups stared back at me. Comically, the virgin half were probably wondering what I was planning on serving for dinner, while the initiated half were wondering when we'd start fucking. Surprisingly, there was little difference between their gazes—those looking toward food or those looking to fuck—both were looks of hunger.

I was happy to see everyone downed their glass. I opened another bottle of wine, untainted this time, and refilled the glasses of those who wanted more. After which, I sat back to watch how things would develop.

I wasn't going to do anything to help it along or worry about anything that might go wrong, as I'd done in the past. Instead, I was curious to see how events within the large group dynamic would transpire on their own.

As what usually occurs, about ten minutes after taking the drug I could see, hear and feel an increased raucousness in the guests, augmented by loud, raunchy talking and even louder, boisterous laughter. Many of the guests fanned themselves, as if there were an increase in the temperature of the room, and some asked if I could turn up the air conditioning.

About twenty minutes in, somebody put on music—one of my old, old albums—then turned up the volume when the song, 'Don't Fear the Reaper,' began playing.

Sara Farzaneh started dancing the minute she heard the song, moving more toward the center of the room and a little bit away from the group she was with. At first it was your typical dancing to a good rock melody, as she moved her body—hips, arms, legs and head—in time and to the beat of the quick rhythm of the song.

At first, no one was paying much attention to her as she gyrated in place, except for her husband. He stood with his arms neatly folded along his chest, smiling as he watched her. When she caught him watching her intently, she trained her eyes directly at him and began dancing more seductively with an obvious Middle-Eastern flare.

I knew it was only a matter of a few minutes beforethings would get going. Taking Karen by the hand, I pulled her away from the group she was talking to, and sat down in the lounger with her on my lap.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Just watch," I said, so no one but Karen could hear.

Karen's eyes briefly scanned the room before she caught sight of Sara.

Sara was truly doing a dance of seduction. Teasing her husband with a brief show of thigh or shoulder, or running her hands slowly up and down her body, then taking longer pauses to cup her breasts or squeeze her buttocks playfully, before shifting them back above her head as she slowly turned about. Her eyes radiated a deep violet and remained trained on Rashid, even when she pirouetted; snapping her head back around the way ballerinas are taught, then catching him with seductive, sideways glances, wide-eyed with slightly opened mouth, and always wetting her lips slowly with her tongue as she ended her turn facing him. She would pirouette like this, moving ever closer to him at the end of each turn, but before he could playfully grab at her, Sara would pirouette out of his reach, teasing him further.

The men closest to Sara and Rashid saw how Sara was dancing, and offered their own brand of encouragement by clapping and hooting loudly to Sara's lewd display. This brought the attention of everyone else, and soon all eyes were trained on Sara, and her dance of seduction.

It was then that all things became clear to Karen. Whispering into my ear, she guessed correctly, "You put something in the Sangria." She waited for me to nod my head, before asking, "What is it?"

"Just sit and watch for a while. Then we'll talk."

By this time, Rashid was sporting a pretty noticeable hard-on, evidenced by a very large, obscene bulge in his pants that he didn't even try to cover up.

Sara definitely noticed it, because she would take a break from her slow pirouettes, to dance closer to him, brushing her hip or buttocks across his crotch before dancing away again.

In her slow maneuvers with her husband, she teased him unmercifully. If he attempted to grab or even touch her with his hands, she would stay at a distance from him. However, when she slowly approached him, and he remained still with his hands at his sides, she would linger, and continue to covertly rub at his crotch with a part of her lower torso—hips, ass, or pubis. In the end, she made him a static, tortured pawn in her dance, where he couldn't act on his impulses or even move, but could only stand, motionless and accept whatever she gave him.

By now, most everyone had noticed the front of Rashid's pants, and clapped and hooted louder, encouraging Sara to gyrate faster and longer against her husband's front. I heard fun, half-hearted calls for Sara to give him a lap dance, and even brasher, more serious calls for her to strip while doing it. Sara ignored the more obscene requests, but branched out her seductive dance to include the other men in the room; making and holding eye contact as she slowly pirouetted, and always running her hands lewdly over her breasts or down her thighs as she rubbed herself against each of the men in turn.

So far, the dance was done all in good-natured fun, with only a little, over-sexual drama added in as she rubbed her body against the other men; and all done, I might add, with a wink, nod, and giggle from the wives of the men Sara danced for.

It was then I noticed an eerie similarity between Sara and what I've seen of Karen—both at times when Karen and I were having sex with others, as well as with the Karen of my dreams. Maybe it was the way the overhead lights reflected off her face, but Sara's skin became lighter in shade, almost corpse-like in its paleness—odd, given the natural darker tone of her skin. I didn't think anyone having her olive completion could even remotely appear so white. Somehow, the shading from the light also made her eyes appear as sunken, black voids, and combined with the over accentuated grin she sported—flashing white teeth seemingly unhindered by any lips—from my vantage, her face took on the appearance of a grinning skull sitting atop a dancing torso.