Satyrday Afternoon

Satyrday Afternoon

Part Two of the Satyr Saga

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~~ All characters in this book are 18 or over. ~~

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Owen Howard's mind whirled. After months of enforced celibacy, he had just engaged in mind-bending sex with the one person who he never expected to go to bed with, his boss and long-time crush, Anaya Ansari.

Not that they ever got to a bed, of course. They had made love in the tiny office of Mama Juliana's Pizzeria right before the day shift started, screwing in a chair like something out of The Kama Sutra.

"Making love" seemed a thin and weak way to put it, though. The passion which had sprung up between them, full grown like a phoenix rising from its own ashes, had been almost elemental in its fiery heat. Even now he had to convince himself that it had really happened, and wasn't some sort of bizarre daydream.

He glanced over at Anaya, spooning sauce onto a crust on the prep line as he bagged his first run of the day. She looked back at him, smiling in memory, her eyes hot with the promise of more to come.

Something strange is going on. He gripped the copper bracelet which the strange woman, Phoebe, had given him the night before. Ever since he met her, the women in his life had been acting strangely. His mother, Isabel, had unzipped her pants and touched herself in front of him the night before, and this morning had not only spoken alarmingly frankly about her sex life with his long-dead father, but had seemed to be on the verge of trying to make out with him before he had left for work.

He snorted at himself. Delusional much, Owen? Mama finally opens up a little bit to you, and you manage to score with Anaya, and you think that some tacky-ass bracelet is having an effect on them? Get a grip. He clocked out his run and left the store.

For some reason, the thought of taking off the bracelet never crossed his mind.

%%%

"Get out, and stay out!" Samara Howard shouted, shoving her former boyfriend out the door. She stormed back into her apartment and made a quick scan of the premises. Grabbing Charlie's overnight bag, she tossed his stuff into it. Toothbrush, mouthwash, hair product, cologne, more hair product, the spare clothes he had left behind at one time or another, shoes...

She opened the door again and heaved the bag into his handsome, stupid face. "I'll have the rest of your crap boxed up and outside the door before I take off this afternoon. You can pick it up once I leave for Des Moines. Keys," she demanded, holding out her hand.

"Listen, Angel, I don't know why you're so upset..." he began, a condescending smile on his lips. He moved towards her.

"One more step," she grated, "and I call the police.

"Get. Out."

Charlie's model-perfect good looks faded as a cruel snarl dropped like a mask over his face. He twisted her keys off the ring and dropped them at her feet. "Best thing that ever happened to me. Don't have to deal with your Latina bullshit any more. Never could tell if you were on the rag or not. Stupid bitch." He turned on his heels and stalked to his car, peeling out of the parking lot in a macho stink of burned rubber.

Samara went back into her apartment and huddled on the couch, shaking in anger.

It had all blown up this morning. After she got off the phone with her brother earlier, she had been in the mood for a quickie with Charlie. And then, afterward, a not-so-quickie. Her sex drive had been gearing up for days, and she had been woken from a particularly hot dream when her brother called. A day spent in bed with her boyfriend before they drove home to visit her mother and Owen had seemed very appealing.

But Charlie wasn't in the mood. In fact, over the last few months of their relationship, had rarely seemed to be in the mood at all. Whether he was undersexed or simply oblivious to her ever-more-blatant hints had been confusing her for weeks. And a frustrated remark about her needs had led to a conversation steeped in the sort of ignorance and casual racism which drove her into an absolute frenzy.

Latina women. Hot-blooded Cuban.

Not like us Americans.

Anchor baby.

She went into her tiny bathroom and splashed water onto her face, wiping away the marks of her tears. She scowled at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was practically the image of her mother's; dark skin, coarse black hair pulled back in a hair ring, dark eyes dilated by anger. Nothing of her father in her at all. Only Owen had gotten anything from him, with his height and his fair skin.

A muffled giggle broke through her fury as she remembered her half-panicked conversation with her big brother earlier in the morning.

God, what a dope. Mama mentions her sex life with Papa and he thinks she's had a stroke or has brain cancer. She snorted more laughter, then broke into full-bodied hoots, sitting on the cool linoleum of bathroom, clutching her stomach, her hysterical anger at Charlie fading.

When she regained control, she felt as calm and hollowed-out as an old gourd.

Fuck him. You don't need him. Anyone who thinks that Donald Trump has some good ideas is a waste of fucking time. She got a cardboard box from under the sink and began a thorough search of her small apartment, dropping Charlie's crap inside. She'd send him a text before she left.

Good riddance.

%%%

Owen pulled up to the small, cheerful house. Balloons were tied to the handrails leading up to the front door, and cars lined both sides of the street. A big sign in the yard read "Happy Birthday Tommy!!" and from the back and inside he could hear the shrieks of children.

He grinned as he pulled the pizzas out of the back seat of his Pontiac. He liked kids, and they were usually happy to see him. Or, if not him, at least what he had with him when he arrived at their houses. He checked his watch, which read just a few minutes after one o'clock.

Right on time. Good. He stuffed the toy he had grabbed out of the bin at work into the top bag, then walked to the door.

He rang the front doorbell, and excited shouts of "Pizza man!" immediately followed. The door opened, and a cheerful woman wearing a flower-print dress appeared.

"Come in! Come in!" she said, holding the door open for him. "The mother is getting the birthday boy ready...oh, here he is!" Owen walked into a brightly decorated room, hung with streamers and with paper plates waiting on a table. What seemed to be hundreds of small children looked at him expectantly, though when he counted, there didn't seem to be more than six or seven. Several adults looked on, with cans of soda or beer in their hands.

"WHO'S THE BIRTHDAY BOY?" Owen said loudly, in his best TV-announcer voice.

"I am! I am!" said a little boy with a paper crown on his head, jumping up and down. He had blond hair and bright blue eyes and was grinning from ear to ear.

"AND DOES THE BIRTHDAY BOY LIKE PIZZA?" Owen continued.

"Yes yes yes!" said the boy. Owen knelt down beside him and looked him in the eye.

"What's your name, buddy?"

"I'm Tommy!"

"Well, Tommy, I have a special present for birthday boys. But you have to answer a question before you can have it." Tommy's brows drew down in a frown, looking worried. "The question is...How old are you today?"

Tommy held up his hand, pudgy thumb and one finger turned inwards. "I'm three years old!"

"AWESOME!" Owen said loudly. He held out his hand. "High five!" Tommy smacked his hand with a laugh. He opened up his warming bag and pulled out a toy racecar.

"Happy Birthday, Tommy," he said to the boy, handing him the car. Tommy took it, eyes wide. "How about you sit down and I'll get you and your friends some pizza?"

He set the boxes down on the table and little hands reached eagerly to load up their plates. Smiling, he turned around, eyebrows raised, looking for the person who would be paying...

"Hello, Owen," said a soft voice at his side.

He blinked as he looked at the woman next to him. Slim, pretty, with blonde hair that was the match of Tommy's and dark blue eyes. Her face was tired, but her lips were turned up in a sweet smile that he remembered.

"Sandy," he breathed. "Sandy Jorgensen. How are you doing these days?"

He and Sandy had dated for nearly three months at the end of their sophomore year and the following summer. Their relationship had been poisoned, then killed, by the death of Owen's father, and Owen's realization that he would have to work and bring in money if his family was going to keep their house. She had been decent about it, he remembered, and had not hurt him any more than necessary when they broke up.

She had married Jim Turlbot not long after graduation, he recalled, and there had been some snide remarks that she had to if she didn't want a baby out of wedlock. Doing the math in his head, it looked like those rumors were wrong, since Tommy would have been born a year after they left high school.

Sandy shrugged as she walked him to the door. "Not great, not bad. Jim and I split up a year ago. He pays the alimony on time," she said, only a little bitterly, "but he doesn't want to be involved in his son's life. He takes him out for lunch once a month and drops him back here as soon as he can."

"I'm sorry," Owen said. "He seems like a sweet little boy."

"He's a handful," Sandy said with a tired laugh. She handed him a check as they walked down the stairs towards his car. He stuck it in his pocket absently.

"I'm sorry, too, Owen. When your Dad died, I didn't treat you very well."

"Sandy, you don't have to apologize..."

"Yes, I do, Owen. I was young and stupid, and I wanted a boy who would pay attention to me and take me out. And you lost your father and you were trying to hold your family together by sheer willpower. And I acted like a selfish little idiot.

"I was wrong. And I'm sorry. I got what I thought I wanted, and this is what I have. A beautiful boy and a divorce and a job sorting mail at the post office. Not what we talked about when we were kids, is it?"

Owen looked at his feet, embarrassed. His face flushed and his cock itched inside his slacks. Damn it. I thought that was going away. "I haven't done much, either, Sandy. Four years out of high school and I don't even have my associate's yet."

"But you still have a chance, Owen," she moved closer, and for a terrified second he thought he was going to have to comfort a crying woman who he hadn't spoken to in nearly four years. "So many chances we didn't have. Didn't even get to go to bed together, did we? Just a little fooling around in the back of your dad's truck." Her lips curled in a grin, eyes bright as an idea struck her.

She took his hand. "Come on."

"What?"

She led him around the back of the house. The tiny back yard was mostly occupied by an inflated bouncy house, but it was empty, all the children inside scarfing down pizza and sipping on juice boxes.

"If I had a choice, I'd drag you into my bedroom," she said, tired face transformed with a wicked smile he remembered from the old days. "But I'm not crazy enough to try that with a house full of kids and parents. So we'll do it the old-fashioned way. The girlfriend will give her boyfriend a blow-job. Too bad we're not under the bleachers at a football game to give it that real authentic touch." She pulled him behind the bouncy house, then took him in a hug, hands reaching down to stroke the curves of his butt.

"Sandy..."

"Hush now," she said. Her hand dropped to his groin, stroking, eyebrows rising as she found the evidence of his own arousal. "Good," she said softly. "Saves time." She fell to her knees, hands twisting her hair into a knot at the back of her neck as the scent of crushed grass rose up around them. She unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down.

"Jesus, Owen, why didn't you tell me you were hung like this?"

"I wasn't, then," he said, which made her giggle.

"Late bloomer, huh? Well, better late than never."

"Sandy," he said, a bit desperately, as she leaned toward his erect cock, licking her lips lustfully. "You shouldn't be doing this. What if the kids come out, or one of the parents?"

"The kids won't know what they're seeing," she said dismissively. "And the women would cheer me on. They've been trying to get me a boyfriend for months. And the men would just be jealous of you." Her tongue darted out and touched the tip of his glans, then took a long, lingering lick.

"Nice," she said, "Very nice." She turned her head and ran her lips up and down the side of his shaft, tongue sweeping the sensitive skin, making his cock jump. "Just enough sweat to be nice and tasty."

She cradled his balls in one hand, gently stoking his sack with her fingertips. She hovered over the head of his phallus, then opened her mouth wide, taking his cock deep within her. He threw back his head in response to the exquisite sensation of his cock sliding into her, stopping only when his tip hit the back of her mouth.

He looked down on her, eyes soft with remembered happiness, as she bobbed on his throbbing member. He rested his hands in the soft cloud of her hair, stroking her, slowing her. With one hand she grasped the base of his cock, pumping in rhythm to the motions of her mouth, moaning softly.

She pulled her face away for a moment, though her hand, now slick with saliva and his juice, continued caressing the skin of his shaft. "I got pretty good at this. By the time Jim left for good, that's all he wanted out of me. Didn't want me when I was pregnant with Tommy. Didn't want me after I had the baby and my boobs were full of milk and I had stretch marks from the baby, his baby. Didn't want me, period."

She dashed angry tears away from her eyes and Owen gritted his teeth in anger at the stupid, selfish man who had made this woman doubt herself.

He raised her to her feet and cupped his hands on her cheeks and kissed her like a benediction.

"You are still beautiful to me. You always were. And if it wasn't broad daylight I would rip off your clothes and we would screw right here in the yard like a couple of dogs in heat."

"Oh," she said, eyes widening happily at the idea. She looked down between their bodies, where Owen's cock was jutting up obscenely. She fell back down to her knees and stroked him.

"What else would we do, Owen?" she asked, face flushed with passion, then bent her head to his tool again. Working one-handed, she popped the button on her shorts and slipped a hand below the band of her silk panties, light blue against her tan skin.

Owen swallowed thickly. "We would roll around on the ground, kissing and biting and clawing because we were so horny for each other. I would suck on your beautiful tits and make you scream. I would eat you until you came in my face, and then I would get on top of you and hold your hands down and shove your sweet legs apart and I would fuck you, Sandy, I would fuck you senseless, driving my thick cock into your dripping pussy until you couldn't stand it and you came again."

He was growing harder now, muscles twitching as his come barreled up his shaft.

"And then," he said, only dimly aware of Sandy's bobbing head and slurping mouth and pumping fist as his words spoke to some primal need within her, the hand in her pants frantically sliding her fingers in and out of her wet sheath. "Then I would come inside you, Sandy, come so hard that my seed would spill out from your pussy onto the ground. And the earth would be blessed by the proof of our love, and flowers would grow there.

"And in years to come there would be a shrine built, where worshipers would gather, and say, 'This is where a woman mated with a god.' and you would be blessed above all others."

The sun leapt out from behind a cloud and a dazzling ray struck the bracelet, splintering it into fragments of glory around them. Moaning with lust, Sandy's efforts on Owen's cock redoubled. He could feel it, the tidal surge of passion surging up the length of his groin.

"Sandy, I'm...I'm going to...oh god!" he groaned, spurting his essence into her eager mouth. Blast after blast shot into her, until she couldn't contain it and dribbles ran over her lips and chin. His knees sagged, his strength spent by the force of his orgasm. At the same time, Sandy's thighs clenched shut on her thrusting hand, and she softly keened as her climax swept over her.

After a few moments she looked up, her eyes wide. "Wow," she said. She wiped her mouth off with her hand and helped Owen pull up his pants. "That...that was something else." She gave a worried look at the house, but no crowd of horrified onlookers stood there, eager to pass judgment on their sin. But they had tempted fate for too long.

She walked him back to the car. "Owen, I'm not sure what happened there, but it was pretty hot. Thank you."

"No, thank you," he said, catching her in a quick hug. He frowned and spoke, words coming from he knew not where.

"Find someone, Sandy. You deserve to be happy. There is a young man who has a daughter in Tommy's preschool class. His name is Tim Weaver. I think you two will get along well."

He opened the door and got into the car. Waving, he drove off, leaving Sandy bemused beside the driveway. Slowly she turned around and walked inside, smiling at the loud shouts and the smell of pizza. She caught Tommy up in a hug, cleaning his sauce-smeared cheeks with a napkin, wiping her hands and face clean of the evidence of her activities at the same time.

"Carol," she said to the woman in the flower-print dress. "What do you know about a guy with a little girl in Tommy and Mason's class? His name is Tim Weaver?"

Carol raised her eyebrows. Well, it's about freaking time, she thought.

"Tim?" she said. "Great guy. Pharmacist. Has a little girl named Angela. His wife left him only a few months after she was born. Ran off with a plumber." She shook her head. "He never should have married her. But they got careless and he wanted to do the right thing. But he's a really good guy. Good looking, too, if you like them skinny."

"I like Angela!" put in Tommy. "She's my friend."

She hugged her son again. "Well maybe we should invite Angela and her Daddy over for a visit sometime soon, huh?

"Now who's ready to open presents and have some ice cream and cake?"

%%%

What was that all about, Owen thought as he drove back to the store. The holy-roller language about blessings and shrines?

Don't worry about it, a voice in his head softly commanded.

So he didn't.

%%%

By two o'clock, Isabel had the house looking as good as it was ever going to be. The floors had been swept and mopped, the counters wiped down and the windows cleaned. The thin carpets had all been vacuumed, and the last load of laundry was tumbling in the dryer.