The Descent Ch. 01byWRJames©
"Billy, not down there!" It was too late. His son was flying down the steep brick driveway at a speed that would have intimidated Usain Bolt. Ninja cape flapping in the breeze, sneaker heels flashing bright red, he had dwindled into nothing in the blink of an eye.
"Hi Tom." It was one of his neighbours, accompanied by two fairy princesses.
"Hi Joel. Well, who have we got here?" He took a couple of candy bars out of Billy's overflow bag and handed one to each of the two little girls.
"Elissa," one of them said, pouting.
"Then you must be Marissa."
"No, I'm Elissa. She's lying."
"How's it going? Where's Billy?" Joel was staring dubiously at the Ninja sword his son had left behind.
"Down there." Tom waved towards the long dark driveway.
"You let him go down there?"
"I didn't let him go. He just went."
"Well, it looks like it's dark. Nobody home. Ever meet them?"
"Not that I know of. Strange house down there." The neighbourhood was built on the side of a hill. The best lots, the ones where Joel and Tom lived, were up on top of ridge, where it was almost level. But this street ran along the side, where it was very steep, and the houses were set well above on one side, well below on the other, on lots that sloped so much that one side of the house had at least one extra floor, sometimes two or three. But this house was built on a little plateau, two hundred feet down at least from the street, and twice that far back. It was surrounded by thick forest for a hundred yards on all sides. A long brick driveway coiled its way down the cliff to reach it. No one ever ventured down that driveway. There were rumours. CIA safe house. Drug cartel. No one knew who lived there, or even, for sure, if the house was occupied. There were never cars in the driveway -- but, of course, there was an immense garage, with doors for three vehicles. There was no reason a car should be parked out in the open.
"Can you see him?" Tom was peering down the hill, searching for his son.
"Think so. On the deck. You can just make him out." Suddenly, there was a shaft of bright white as a door opened, then closed again.
"Okay," Tom said with false bravado, "he got his candy. He'll be back up in a minute or so."
"Okay. Come on princesses. Time to climb back up to home. See ya."
Joel dwindled away to little chants of "Carry me! Carry me!" Tom tried to imagine him struggling up the hill with a princess under each arm. Combined, they probably weighed a lot less than Billy. But there was no way he was going to carry his son back up the hill.
A minute passed, no Billy. Another minute. With a sigh, Tom put his foot on the first brick and began his descent.
Billy had dashed down without a care in the world, but Tom immediately felt his knees complaining at the steepness. He felt how slick the bricks were from the evening dew, how treacherous the leaves were, slippery as banana peels, how the acorns which had somehow managed not to roll down the hill were ready to do so with his assistance, and to take him with them in the process. He was trembling by the time he reached the flat stretch at the bottom. At that moment, lights went on everywhere, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He took a deep breath and walked up onto the porch. As he approached the door, it swung open. He was staring at a very beautiful woman, medium height, hair a tangled mass of dark curls, wearing a thin bathrobe, still wet enough that it was clinging to her body. Wet enough so that is was almost transparent, so that he could see the dark outlines of her nipples as they attempted to jut through the fabric. Wet enough that it was sticking to her thighs, so that when she stepped forward, each side of the robe went its separate way, revealing a second mass of curls that matched her long dark hair.
He forced his gaze up to her face, almost elfin in its delicacy, high cheek bones, small sharp chin, full lips, straight nose, flaring a little at the base, and those eyes! Huge, dark. Ochi chernoya, ochi strashnoya. Dark eyes, strange eyes. The words of that song they'd learned in high school, about all the Russian he remembered, came to him. Kak loobloo ya vac. How I love you. He stood there, frozen, unable to even breathe. He was sure that his heart had stopped beating, that he was going to die that way, disabled by the shock of her beauty.
"Hello," she offered him a hand, and broke the spell. "I am Karina." There was something Russian, at least Slavic, about her accent.
"Tom," he offered back. He was a bit startled at how she had shared her name with him so quickly. Karina, Karina. He tried to memorize it. It was embarrassing, when someone told them their name right off the bat like that, and you talked to them for an hour, and had no idea what that name was at the end of the conversation.
"You must be the father of Billy?" She smiled as he nodded. "He assured that me you would be down here in a few minutes. Please, come inside out of the cold." Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly. But it was quite obvious that she was shivering a bit on the porch. Her nipples were very hard, probably from the chill.
"Where's Billy?" She had ushered him into a room full of leather couches and thick, plush carpets. He had seen rooms like that, on the internet. Usually, there was a naked body or two draped over the couches. This room, though, was empty. Except for her, sprawling herself out casually, careless of the way the robe was parting even further as she sat down.
"In the family room. Dining on milk and cookies." She saw the expression on his face. "It is necessary to fatten him up some more," she added. Then, seeing his bewilderment, "like Hansel und Gretel." She gave it the German pronunciation.
"Oh. He's fattened up enough already for one night. He's been sneaking candy bars the whole way." Tom sat down, not on the couch next to her, but across from her. It was not, he insisted to himself, so that he could stare at those smooth brown thighs, almost completely liberated now from the bathrobe.
"You're the runner!" They both blurted it out at the same time, as they recognized each other.
"I see you all the time!" Then she added, out of the blue, "you have a very beautiful body."
"Thanks." He knew it was true, but it was nice to have confirmation. "You too."
"Thank you for saying so." She smiled, and pulled one knee up beneath her chin. He was trying not to stare. No, that wasn't true. He was staring as hard as he could, and she was looking him in the eye, daring him.
"You are running during the day?" She phrased it cautiously, delicately, but the implication was obvious. Why aren't you at work?
"House husband," he answered. Might as well get it out in the open. Why not? She was baring herself to him. "Mr. Mom."
"Mr. Mom?" She echoed the phrase, puzzled.
"My wife works. I stay home and raise Billy."
"Oh." She seemed puzzled still. "I see."
No you don't. "You're wondering," he said, "why we don't both work, like most couples."
"No," she said, "I did not mean to offend you."
"It does not offend me." He was starting to imitate her speech patterns. "For a while we both did work. But we were never getting to day care on time. One of us would be on the road. We were working weekends. It was a nightmare." She gave him a look that made him blush. "I got laid off," he said. "I never found another job. My wife is a consultant. She makes a lot of money."
"But?" She actually leaned forward and put her hands on his knees.
"She works late, she travels a lot. She's out in California now. Actually," he glanced at his watch, "on the way home by now." Hopefully. If all went well, she might be home before dawn.
"My husband, also, travels frequently. He, also, is travelling now." Why did that give him a thrill of excitement?
"Where is he?"
"This week? Moldavia." She saw the blank look on his face. "That's where I am from, Moldavia."
"Moldavia," he echoed.
"He prefers me not to work," she added, and somehow, something made him sure that was a lie.
"It must be lonely," he said, and she gave him a smile that made him ready to jump on top of her, then and there.
There was the sound of explosions from down the hall, then screams and sirens.
"Video," she said. "Kiddie cartoon."
"You have children?"
"No," she laughed "I have the videos for my nieces and nephews. I am their favourite aunt." She saw the look of concern on his face. "Come, see." She got up, regretfully, and led him back through the kitchen.
He peeked through a door to see his son crouched in front of a huge screen, on it, some animated superhero or other was flying through a crumbling cityscape.
"Billy," he said, without much conviction, "we've got to get going."
"Dad, this is most exciting part!"
"Billy, it's getting late."
"I don't care! I've got enough candy! Besides, it's getting cold."
That was true enough. Tom had been ready to pack it in a while ago. He had never wanted to come down as far as this street in the first place. But Billy had scampered down to it, then further down the driveway. God! An extra four hundred feet, maybe five hundred, vertical back up to the house.
"Homework?" There was always homework, usually revealed five minutes before the bus arrived in the morning.
He glanced at his watch. Pushing eight already. Bedtime in an hour and a half. At least twenty minutes of that was going to be needed to climb back up the hill. "How much longer does this movie last?"
"I don't know!" Billy groaned. "Dad? Please?"
"Okay," Tom sighed. "Half an hour. If it's okay with you." He turned belatedly to Karina.
"It is completely okay. More than okay." She gave him a smile that made him giddy with desire. "Would you like a beer?"
"I've really got to pee first." Tom was startled at how bluntly he put it.
"Surely." He started for a door next to the family room.
She gave him a long, appraising look. "Please, use the one down the hall." She gestured back towards the living room. "This one is not working properly."
Across the living room, down the hall -- there was a door with a wooden sign above it -- hot baths, fifty cents. Cute. He stepped in, turned on the light, and nearly peed in his pants.
The walls were covered with wallpaper -- the wallpaper was covered with four huge black and white blowup photos. Of Karina. Of Karina naked. Of Karina kneeling, licking huge testicles that hung beneath an enormous erect penis. Karina, with that same huge penis her mouth, so deep that her chin was pressed against those testicles, so deep that her throat was bulging where it had been filled. Of Karina bent over, with the penis jammed into her vagina, her cheeks spread above it to show how her anus was gaping open. Of Karina in about the same position, except now her vagina was gaping open, and the penis was buried in her rectum. The owner of the penis was only visible from the waist down, in all four of the photos. What there was to see was intimidatingly muscular and -- large. A couple of inches larger than he was, he thought, staring at his own erection as he tried to relax enough to let his bladder empty.
A few strokes to shake off the last drops of urine. A few more, and then he was pressing his balls into the edge of the vanity, straining, climaxing, shooting gobs of thick white cream into the sink bowl. God! He hadn't come like that since he'd been in high school. He rinsed the evidence down the drain, washed his hands, and tried to compose himself.
God, she was beautiful! Now that the shock had worn off a little, his eyes could move away from where she had been penetrated, to see how magnificent her breasts were, how surprisingly full and round, and her belly, tiny and taught, stippled with muscle, her thighs swelling out, not as skinny as he might have thought, with all the running that she did. His wife worked out obsessively, and all it had done was to make her thin and stringy, almost titless, hips just skin and bones. But Karina was voluptuous. He felt himself stiffening again, and he fled -- from the image, back to the real woman, waiting for him back in the kitchen.
She had poured the beer already, and he took it, guzzled it down, and she poured him another. It occurred to him that he was going to have to pee again, and that made him start to giggle. When he tried to stop it, it turned into a hiccup instead.
"What is the matter?" she asked. "Are you feeling indisposed?"
"I am dying," he said. "I require mouth to mouth resuscitation." What had made him say that? She was going to throw him out of the house, then and there. She was going to grab one of those big knives out of the rack and brandish it at him. But instead, she smiled, she was moving towards him, ready to grant his request.
Billy burst into the room, his presence announced by a blast of noise as the family room door opened.
"Excuse me," he said, "could I use your bathroom?"
"May I," Tom corrected, absentmindedly.
"May I use your bathroom?"
"Such a polite child," Karina said. "Not at all like his father." She paused, and Tom's heart really did stop beating. She actually took a look in the direction of the living room. She gave a little sigh, breasts heaving under that flimsy robe. "Right over there," she said, pointing at the door next to the family room.
"I thought," Tom said, trying to control his breathing, "that bathroom was out of order."
"A small deception. Only for your benefit, do you not agree?" She gave him a smile that made him shiver with anticipation. "Not everyone is permitted to use that other bathroom."
"It is, as you say, an ice crusher?"
"Ice breaker," she repeated. "Crush, break, what is the distinction? It is an ..."
"Invitation?" He blushed at his boldness.
"Yes," she thought it over, "an invitation. Perhaps." She sat down on a stool, and let the robe slip completely off her lap again. She gathered it up hastily as the bathroom door opened, and Billy rushed back into the family room. He had left the door open behind him. She got up to close it, and then, very quietly, very gently, she locked it.
"That's unusual," Tom said.
"To have the door lock that direction."
"There are many things about this house that are unusual."
"Like the bathroom."
"Yes." She sat down again. "Do you like it?"
"You are very beautiful."
"I was younger then. I was in better physical condition."
"You said it was an icebreaker?"
There was an uncomfortable silence. She was not going to volunteer anything more, it seemed. He hardly dared to probe any further. "You are swingers?" he asked at last.
"Swingers." She repeated the word as if she had never heard it, and he began to blush with embarrassment. There was no way he wanted to explain to her what swingers were. He wasn't even sure he knew. "Swingers." She seemed to think about it. "Yes, perhaps that describes what we are. We prefer to share ourselves with other people."
"When we lived in the city," Tom said, cautiously, "we had a couple move in across the hall who were swingers. They invited us over one evening -- they were only wearing underwear." He stopped, realizing how he must be offending her. But she did not look offended in the least. "My wife," he added, "was not at all interested."
"They were only interested in a couple."
"Ah." It was her turn to be hesitant. He could sense the nervousness as she spoke. "We will consider a single person." She stopped.
It seemed as if the kitchen was getting very warm now. If he had ever been cold, that was a long time ago. He was sweating how, little beads of perspiration running down his back. And she also -- her robe was starting to cling, all over again.
"Under what conditions?" he dared to ask, at last.
"Ah," she sighed, "it is somewhat like buying a yacht."
"Buying a yacht?"
"If you need to ask the price, you cannot afford it." He gave a look of bewilderment, concern, and sheer, unfocused desire. "The person," she said at last, "must be pleasing to both of us."
"Pleasing?" He thought he knew what she was saying, but he needed confirmation.
"Able," she paused, searching for the words, "to give us pleasure."
"To both of you."
"To both of us."
He thought back to those photographic wall murals, and tried to imagine himself in Karina's role.
"Do you understand, what may be required of you?"
"I think so," he nodded.
"And are you willing," she paused, "to provide pleasure?"
He nodded again. She opened the robe completely, pulling it away to bare her breasts. They were hidden again as she drew her knees up to her shoulders.
He walked over to the stool and knelt down before her, not daring yet to touch her, but so close that he could almost taste her desire. Whatever game she had been playing with him had aroused her, that was obvious. Sweet, spicy, intoxicating, the scent of her was overwhelming. His wife never got that excited, at least, she hadn't for a long time. Long enough that he had almost forgotten. Of course, he knew very well what a cunt looked like. He did this for his wife all the time; it was almost routine. So why was he gaping at her as if he had never peered between a woman's legs before? He was dumbfounded, unable to move on.
She patted the back of his head, as if he were a big dog, a good dog, pulling him closer in to her, close enough that his lips were brushing hers. He gave her a big wet kiss, lips on lips, as if her were kissing her mouth. His wife always liked that. So did she. Not too fast, he reminded himself, don't just tear her clit off. He began to caress her with his tongue, running it delicately around the circuit of her lower lips, spiralling inward, unfolding her secrets as he went. She was like a flower opening its petals, everything swelling, pulsing, soaked with his saliva and her anticipation. Her hands were in his hair now, pulling it with some impatience. Within the fissure then, he probed to find her clitoris, engorged, quivering to his touch. Ready, she was more than ready, but that was not what he wanted. Perhaps she was in a hurry, but he was not going to make it that easy for her. He began to lick further back, down to the source of her muskiness, then further still, beyond the base of the first opening. She squirmed, not to avoid his tongue, but to present herself to it, spreading her cheeks to expose her anus. Now he was in unknown territory. Once or twice, kissing his wife's butt, he had dared to kiss into the center. But she had squeezed her buttocks tightly together. Even when she had relented a little, he had barely been able to work his tongue down far enough to touch the little puckered mound of flesh. And then, she had complained it tickled. He had never even seen, really what he was doing. But Karina had her legs drawn away, she had her butt thrust out, everything exposed. Now that he could see it, smell it, taste it, he wasn't sure he had the nerve to finish what he had started. She said something sharply in a language that was not English, and dug her nails into his scalp. Did that mean stop, or don't stop now? He licked tentatively, just pressing his tongue against the opening, feeling how soft it was, how ready to yield to his intrusion. Taste -- how did it taste? Not much different than her cunt -- salty, meaty. He took another lick, and the flesh was parting for him, all on its own. She was opening herself to him.
"Damn it! Stick your tongue in!" No mistaking that. She grabbed the back of his head to urge his face into her. His nose slid in between her labia, its tip penetrating her. The puckered flesh was parting even more, on its own, inviting him within. He sighed, and put the tip of his tongue within the ring of muscle.