The Reprised Surprise

From out in the hall and beneath his feet, he heard and felt June's son approaching. The way that she squirmed against him, trying to edge out, he knew she had sensed it as well. With every tapping footstep, she twisted harder, the look on her face edging from shock to anger, then shading over to fear as the steps stopped on the far side of the door.

Victor smiled.

With their combined weight against the door, all her son was able to do was twist the knob in his hand, but with every turn of the metal, June shook as though she were being stabbed.

"Mom, what are you doing? We gotta go."

The boy's voice was close to them, even muffled through the cheap pressed wood of the door, as though he were in the room with them. June's body squirmed again, and Victor slid his free hand up and cupped the heavy swell of her left breast. She jerked like he had slapped her.

He nodded towards the blank face of the door, cocked an eyebrow, waiting.

"Mom?" Again the rattle of door knob, the spasm from June's flesh. Victor felt his cock awaken.

"Just a minute, okay?" She turned her head to answer her son, looking away from Victor. No, that wouldn't do at all. He released her breast and grabbed her chin, pivoting her face back. She couldn't look away from him anymore, escape the truth of this situation, what was happening in the room.

Her eyes were slits, as though waiting for an open hand or fist. Did her husband beat her? Did she expect the same, and probably far worse, from him? He stroked his index finger along her cheek, eliciting a shudder.

The boy's steps retreated, probably entering his room. Certainly still within earshot, if they spoke too loud, argued too forcefully, made too much noise at all.

Victor leaned closer. "He's just in the other room, isn't he?"

June stared over his shoulder.

"Should I open the door and take a little peek?" He released her wrist and put his hand on the cool metal of the door knob.

"Yes, he's in his room," she whispered.

Victor chuckled.

"So close." He pressed against her, grinding his pelvis, the aching need of him, against the soft puddle of her belly. The door creaked. "And these doors, these walls, are just so damn thin. I bet that when you fuck your husband, you have to be little church mice."

She stiffened against him.

"Is that what you are, June? A little church mouse?" He released the door knob and slid his hand between them, wormed his fingers between her clenched thighs. "I guess that makes me a big old barn owl. Come swooping down," he grabbed the thickness of her, "to gobble you up."

She stood like a lumpy manikin as he pawed at her.

"You don't get it, do you June?"

She studied an invisible spot on the far wall, a nerve playing in her cheek.

"You go online and play at being naughty. Dirty chats and dirty pics while the husband sleeps in that bed behind you. But all the messy bits are a world away from home, aren't they? Something you can kill with a flick of the switch and become the good wife again, the good mother."

He released her, twisted the lock on the door, and stepped back. She sagged forward, arms swinging down at her sides, bereft of independent movement. She was waiting him out, enduring what was being done to her in this room.

"But ask yourself, is that all you want? To be the mom, the wife?"

He walked over to the curtain near the computer desk, knowing that she wouldn't run out the door anymore, wouldn't risk spilling whatever was happening in this room into the rest of the trailer, her life.

"Just do it," she mumbled.

"Do what, June?"

"Does it matter?"

Carefully, with a languorous gesture, he straightened the curtains, closing the narrow slit that let in a sliver of the outer world. As the heavy fabric slid beneath his fingers, dust motes brought him the distilled scent of the room, stale smoke and dried sweat, the vapor of dying dreamers.

When he turned, she stood as before, as though someone had cut the marionette's strings of her life.

"Of course it matters, June." He pulled out the folding chair. "Why don't you sit down while we have ourselves a little chat about why it matters."

She walked over to the chair, brushing dully against him as he stepped close to the window, positioning himself between her and the outer door.

"Show me how you sat when we had all those wonderful little chats of ours."

Zombie June slumped in her chair in front of the computer. He made an impatient sound, and she raised her arms, positioned her limp fingers on the keyboard.

Victor stood there and admired the tableau he was creating. With every command he issued, and with every meek, dead response from June, the dark ice that filled his veins grew colder, fell closer to absolute zero. His nitric blood could shatter rose petals.

"Alright, I'm starting to get a feel for the scene. I can almost imagine that big lump of husband snoring in the bed behind you, oblivious. Such a nice moment for you, wasn't it? Him sleeping while you play-fucked at his feet."

She shrugged.

"Come on, June, own yourself. I think you loved it. I think that was precisely the appeal for you. You had this safe little life wrapped around you, all warm and cozy, but somehow, it had slipped over your head, smothering you. The real you. Not the person that cooked their meals and cleaned their dishes and washed their clothes."

He stepped behind her and and put his hands on her shoulders, leaned down, whispering in her ear.

"Let's talk about the real June. The one that wanted to fuck and to be fucked. The one that only came out when the lights were off and your fingers got busy down below and there was some stranger on the other end of the line, keyboard and cock in hand."

From this angle, a tall mirror on the wall beside the desk reflected them, her looming in the foreground, him pasted in the background, and, behind all, the bed stretching out like a wrinkled wasteland.

"Admit it, June. Just for once in your life, come out into the daylight. Fuck the facade. We're over -- we both know that. All we have left is this instant, this moment together to show our true faces. This life is wrapped around you like a quilted shroud, all soft and warm and fitted for a corpse." He slid his hands from her shoulders, cupping his palms on her face, felt the cold down of her cheeks swell and fall with her shallow breaths. "You are in there. Not the wife or the mother or the cyber-queen, but the real you.

"The you that lives in darkness."

And it clicked.

June cocked her head at the mirror, as though her mind were racing after a thought, a juxtaposition of images. Slowly, as consciousness overtook intuition, June's face awakened, her eyes lifted from her own reflection to his mirrored gaze.

If ice could burn, his blood blazed.

"The June I've never seen," he leaned over and brushed his lips against her forehead, like a man kissing his dead, "just came out to play."

And in the mirror, June smiled.

#

A hundred trailers squatted over a farmer's re-zoned and partialed field. Metal tubes parked permanently and stuffed with humanity, specks of flesh encased in aluminum and carpeting, pickled in television light and radio waves. Long ranks of them, each bottling their tale of drudgery and fever -- the old dying slowly, the young burning quickly. And in one trailer, in one little casing where a mother had sat and typed messages to strangers in the night, something began to happen.

The wind that chilled the aluminum skin of the trailer knew nothing of this change, the eruption of thought and desire blossoming like the petals of a night orchid. The cold November sun that glinted off the edges of the shuttered windows revealed nothing more than it had when the BMW had crunched to a stop.

And the son. Did he know what was going on inside his parent's bedroom? Did he hear noises, rustlings, exhalations that his adolescent mind, lulled by internet images and pop lyrics, reduced to safe, knowable acts? Did the father, driving his oil-burning Taurus down the highway 30 miles away, casually feeding his lungs their first after-work cigarette, feel his mind tug away from the anticipated night of televised sport -- could the Colts cinch the playoffs? -- towards some dark presentiment, some augury of flesh and betrayal and lust?

At the pivot point of this unseen revolution sat the bedroom. Victor still stood beside the chair, but June has transformed, leaning forward, mouth open, laboring over his resuscitated cock, brownish blond hair bobbing as she worked up and down the length of him.

Victor had been sole witness to the metamorphosis, watching as her lips had wrapped around him, felt her tongue worry the underside of his glans. His cock had been coated with residual cum as she had pulled him from his jeans, and as she had taken him into her mouth, she had squirmed on the chair and furrowed her brow as his salt infused her palate.

Now, he let her work him, felt warm saliva coat the base of his cock and slowly spread down over his densely haired testicles like a warm bath.

When he felt the first stirring of orgasm, he pulled himself from her, his thumb sliding along the swell of her lower lip. Her moist breath swirled over his hand as her tongue lashed him.

Leisurely, he unfastened his jeans and slid them down his legs, stepping out of them and his shoes with one deft movement. As he crawled into June's side of the bed, he pulled off his shirt, the skin of his chest prickling in the sudden chill. June watched him from her chair, head hanging forward, eyes shadowed.

His naked body sprawled on her sheets, the scent of her oozing over his flesh as his hand slid down his stomach, fastened around his cock, began to pump slowly, steadily.

She stood, walked over to him, and stood beside the edge of the bed, arm resting on the top of the dresser. Her cool eyes followed the easy motion of his hand, slowly trailed up his body. He knew how he must look to her, a rude obscenity sprawled in the bed where she lay at night, internet-spawned wetness drying between her thighs as her husband slept ignorant beside her. He clenched his ass at the surge of electricity that shot through him, the voyeur unmasked and spitted on his quarry's gaze.

Nonchalantly, as though she were about to crawl into bed for the evening, June shed her clothing onto the pile of laundry on the floor. Her breasts were large and swayed over her ribs while a pale bulge of belly quivered as her feet shook free of shoes. A thatch of brownish-blond hair covered her pussy -- the unshaven sight quickening his hand along his shaft.

She spoke then, the first words since transformation.

"Stop playing with yourself, Victor. You aren't allowed to cum yet." Her face was hard, eyes cold as the outside wind. "I want you hard."

His hand fell onto his hip, cock pawing the air.

She rummaged in the nightstand beside the bed. Knowing but not believing what she was about to do, he held his breath. All the adolescent perversions and warpings of sex had driven him towards this special need, this inexplicable craving. He couldn't explain it, merely squirm beneath it, luxuriate in his need.

With a crinkle of cellophane, she shook a Marlboro from a pack that she tossed casually back onto the nightstand. With practiced ease, she lit the cigarette. The fresh bite of tobacco drifted over him as she drew heavily, tapered fingers holding the cigarette between her lips. As white smoke tendrilled from her nostrils, he eased onto his elbows in the bed, needing to see clearer now, to feast on the proffered fetish.

Slipping the yellow-filtered cigarette from her lips, she plumed smoke into his face.

As he squinted into the exhalation, his fist found his cock, pumping savagely. June's hand shot out and knocked his hand aside. She sat on the edge of the bed, cool hip touching the outside of his thigh. Dangling the cigarette between her lips, she stretched her left hand over his abdomen, blocking access to his aching member. Her right hand slipped between her legs. As she drew again, cigarette pursed between her lips, she rubbed her wet fingers over his lips.

He sucked her digits into his mouth, tasting alkaline moisture, fellating her fingers as she drew and exhaled, cigarette rising and falling with every cycle of breath.

From the door, after a chain of footsteps that neither of them noticed, "We gotta go, Mom. The doctor's office is going to close."

June stiffened, cigarette clamped between her ivory teeth. Victor reached his arm out and speared his fingers inside of her, found her dripping with arousal, his wedged fingers slipping easily into her, knuckles burrowing into the furry mound between her thighs. With a sharp intake of breath, she pivoted her head, swept her gaze onto him, found his eyes. A slow, wicked smile curled around the Marlboro.

She reached up her right hand and plucked the cigarette from her lips as her left settled around his cock, squeezing the shaft until his head turned a delirious purple.

"I have to take a shower, honey." She licked her lips, arched her back as Victor curled her fingers inside of her, massaged the wrinkles of flesh along the canal of her cunt. "I'll be done soon, and then we'll go. Okay?"

Confused silence from the other side of the door.

"But it's already 4:30. It's going to be too late."

June swiveled her hips, her vaginal muscles clenching over his fingers. Victor lay in the bed, sinking into the mattress as he watched her deal with her son, cigarette and cock in hand.

"I've got to take a shower, Kevin. Just wait until I get out." Her voice held the whipcrack of their earlier conversation, and Victor felt the mother mask slipping back onto her face. He rubbed his thumb up the juncture of her lips, tapping her swollen clit. June tipped her head back, reached her right hand down and clasped his wrist in hers, pushing him deeper.

The sight of the lit cigarette between her fingers, the filter pressing into the skin of his wrist, smoke spiraling upward, sent Victor's cock throbbing, hips spasming against her fist in the need to fuck her hand, pursue this ecstatic moment into orgasm. June loosened her fingers, permitted his cock to slip up and down to the frenzy of his motion.

The bed creaked and groaned.

"I'll just have Dad take me when he gets home." The boy's voice was sullen. "Never mind."

His footsteps faded from the door, back towards the front room and the unglimpsed laptop, towards the front door that would, according to the son, admit the father in time to make the doctor's office.

The first trickle of real fear pooled in Victor's abdomen, stilling his upward thrusts.

If June felt fear, it didn't show. As his thrusts stopped, she let his cock slip free, then stood. She walked calmly around the bed, side-shuffling between mattress and desk, then disappeared into the attached bathroom. Victor lay on the bed, consciousness splitting as one ear listened to the door to the hallway, the other to the hidden bathroom.

He heard a shower sputter and stream, filling the air with a damp white noise. He closed his eyes, listening to the gurgle of the drain, the spitting of misaligned water nozzles. Slipping into a voyeuristic dream, he imagined June's morning body plunged beneath it, skin still lined from the night's twisted sheets. He wriggled his toes in the sheets pooled at the foot of the bed, turned his head to inhale the scent of the bunched pillow.

But then June was standing beside him, pubis glistening near his head. Somewhere between bathroom and bedside, she had returned the cigarette between her lips. She dragged deeply, cheeks hollowing, then set the half-burned butt into an ashtray. Leaning over quickly, hungrily, she curled her fingers into his short hair and tilted his head back, sealed her lips over his.

He groaned into her as smoke flooded into his mouth, slipped down his throat. The unfamiliar rush of nicotine shot along his veins, sparked into his consciousness. His throat burned as his lust blazed.

The flame of fetish evaporated the fear from his guts.

June straightened, fingers still twined in his hair, then fisted his face against her. Thick, wiry hair scratched over his face. The smell of her, thick and earthy, filled his nostrils. He opened his mouth to take her clit between his lips, and transferred smoke slipped up past his eyes, gauzing her in an ecstatic gray film.

Her clit was between his lips, her pubis spread over his face. He ate at her like an animal, tongue and fingers and lips slipping over and into her. Awareness of his own erection faded, became a dull ache as his consciousness was swallowed by the cunt against his face.

Time dilated against her, and he pressed his face forward hard enough that his neck burned, his tongue numbed. Humidity spilled from the shower and into the room, lending a sodden weight to the odor of their frenzy. He smelled the bitter waft of ashes as her cigarette burned untended in the ashtray, but still maintained his labor, wanting to feel her orgasm sweep out from beneath his lips, feel her hips slip loose as she shook apart.

The bulk of her body moved against him, spilling him back onto the bed. June's right leg pushed his head deep into the mattress as she swung on top of him, her pussy hovering over his face as she faced his feet. Heavy breasts spilled over his thighs, mounded there.

"You don't get to fuck me," she whispered. "I'm sick to death of getting fucked in this bed. You want to play this game, you play by my rules.

"Eat me."

He shivered and raised his head, lapped at her by way of reply.

And her mouth closed over him.

He thrust upward, felt her accept his length. She worked into a rhythm, elbows planted against the bed, one arm snaked beneath his thigh. Her hand tugged at his scrotum, rolling testicles between finger and thumb. His hips sagged back against the mattress, prone beneath her expertise.

His mouth brushed her vulva. At this reversed angle, her cunt gaped above him, inviting his tongue. He plunged deep, stabbing into her. A part of his mind tripped over the image of her husband's cum dried inside of her, liquefied now by lust and saliva. He shook his head clear of the phantom, though a barely acknowledged part of his mind tucked the image into the backwater of his frenzy, a homoerotic spicing.

How long they labored, gulping and licking, he didn't know. It seemed only a moment, but also seemed without beginning, that she had always sucked, that he had always lapped.

Heavy footsteps.

Victor's tongue slipped from her cunt and his head fell to the pillow, turned to look at the door, stare at the knob the instant before it rattled in a furious semi-circle.

"June!" A father's voice. A husband's voice. "What the hell are you doing in there."

June still had Victor's cock between her lips. Her hips heaved downward, ground her bush into the side of his face, dampening his hair, muffling his ear.

The door rattled again.

"Goddammit. Get out of the fucking shower." The door shook as though kicked. Victor held his breath, frozen into a rictus of celibacy. June's hips squirmed insistently, pressed him deeper into the mattress, her teeth scoring the base of his shaft. Thrusting upward in pain, he reached up and clawed his fingers into the cheeks of her ass. As he shot upward, he heard her gag as the head of his cock pressed beyond her epiglottis.

"What?" insanely, from the other side of the door.

Something swept over Victor then. The fear didn't diminish, rather heightened, but the terror of discovery -- his play act rendered real, his dalliance with danger pinned now beneath June's cuckolding passion -- began to fuel his lust, spiraled it upward on a bonfire of destruction.

He hammered upward. Her elbows locked against the underside of his thighs, sealing her face against him as he fucked her mouth, as she rode him like a bucking bull. Her cunt, smeared with saliva and oily arousal, basted his mouth. As his fingers spread her labia wide, she ground her pelvis against him, the dense hair of her mound catching between his teeth.