Penthouse (14 page)

I looked toward the back of the ticket-taker as she descended to the first floor of the bus. “No,” I answered. “Since I missed
my stop long ago, I think I’ll go on to the end of the line.”

BY
M
ARTHA
M
ILLER

D
an had been fucking the baby-sitter all winter. Cory was suspicious the first time she met the blond-haired, blue-eyed graduate
student from Kansas. Dan told Cory that Heather needed to supplement her income while she wrote her thesis, and that she loved
children. Cory noticed that their nine-year-old, Jamey, didn’t get along with Heather any better than he got along with his
father. When Dan wouldn’t offer an explanation for the time away from home and his lack of interest in their sex life, Cory
made excuses for him. She decided he was depressed about his fortieth birthday, the new head of the English department, and
Cory’s recent five-pound weight gain. Then, on a Tuesday night in April, Cory returned early from a faculty wives’ dinner.
When she entered the living room, she discovered Dan on his knees in front of her favorite chair, his face buried between
the baby-sitter’s thighs.

Cory cleared her throat, “Um—excuse me?”

Heather looked at her and smiled weakly. Dan obviously hadn’t heard. Heather tried to gently push his head
away. Dan moaned and attacked his feast more vigorously. Heather lay her head back on the chair and shrugged, as if to say,
What can I do about it?

“Dan!” Cory’s voice had a strange high pitch. He didn’t budge. Finally she sighed and asked Heather, “Where’s Jamey?”

“He went to Michael’s to play Nintendo,” Heather answered in a slightly shaky voice. “I told him to be home by nine.”

“Did you say something, sweet pea?” Dan finally raised his head and looked at Heather.

Heather pointed at Cory.

Dan’s chin and cheeks were glistening in the light from the TV. “Home early?”

“I—I had a headache,” Cory started to explain.

“Heather, maybe I should take you home,” Dan said.

“I’ll take her home,” Cory interrupted.

Only then did Heather pull her legs together and stand. She brushed her skirt into place and gathered her things. The long
drive back to the campus was tense, and thankfully silent. When they reached the sorority house, Heather turned to Cory and
said, “Listen, no charge tonight, okay?”

Cory felt a weight on her chest. Her breathing was slow, labored. “How long has this been going on?”

Heather looked at the ground. “It started last January, I guess. I’m sorry. It’s over now, honest.”

During the drive home, with the headache buzzing between her ears, Cory weighed her options. A divorce right now was out of
the question. She could go home to her mother for a few days, but then she’d have to listen to her I-told-you-so’s. There
were the payments on the bedroom furniture and the roof on the garage. She thought about Jamey. What would a separation do
to him? This wasn’t
Dan’s first infidelity. Actually, he’d been cheating on his first wife when he started dating Cory. Back then, she had been
the enthralled student.…

That night, Dan begged her forgiveness. She cried. He held her, stroked her hair, then slowly and gently made love to her.
His erection was huge. He was more excited than she’d seen him for a long time. Her headache dulled while the rest of her
body responded intensely. As she came for the third time, she closed her eyes and saw Dan, on his knees in front of her favorite
chair, eating the baby-sitter. It pushed her over the edge, then and in the months that followed, in a way none of her other
fantasies could.

Cory used all her resources to find a new sitter. She placed an ad in the newspaper, checked agencies, put notes on Laundromat
bulletin boards, and asked her friends.

Finally, Marsha Endeley said, “I know a student you might like better.”

“Another student?” Cory sighed.

Marsha nodded. “She’s nothing like Heather.”

“What’s her name?”

Lisa Monette was five foot ten, weighed close to two hundred pounds, had a Mohawk haircut and wore six earrings in each ear.
She owned a motorcycle, though it was broken-down most of the time. Her eyes were black, and her skin was dark. Dan smiled
cordially when he met her, then he looked at Cory with a frown, and she knew she’d made the right choice.

Jamey loved Lisa. She owned her own joystick. Over the course of the summer she taught Jamey to catch a pop fly, and to bat
without closing his eyes. Eventually, she started showing up at his Little League games, at Jamey’s invitation.

Cory was uncomfortable about it at first, but she pushed the feeling away. Every time Jamey was at bat, Lisa hollered and
clapped. “Get ’em, Jamey. Knock it out of the park!”

One afternoon, Jamey connected with a ball that was high and outside. He hit it deep into center field. Lisa jumped up from
her seat, yelling, “Go, Jamey, go!” Someone behind Cory took up the chant when he rounded first base and headed for second.
Cory stood and hollered, “Go! Go!” Cory noticed that thanks to Lisa’s lead, the entire small bunch of disinterested moms were
on their feet, yelling. Jamey ran across the dusty home plate and headed toward the crowd. Cory opened her arms with pride,
but he ran to Lisa.

“That’s my boy!” Lisa hugged him. “What a hit!”

“Good job, Jamey,” Cory said.

“Oh, Mom.” Jamey embraced Cory suddenly. “I did it, Mom.”

Cory ran her fingers through Jamey’s damp, sweaty hair. Later that afternoon at the Dairy Queen, Jamey would ask for a Mohawk
haircut. And to her own surprise, Cory seriously considered it before she said no.

It was the self-esteem seminar that finally rocked the boat. Several of the faculty wives signed up for the all-day Saturday
workshop. Most of the husbands were at a meeting in Chicago and would be away all weekend.

“All day? I have a thousand things to do.” Cory hesitated when Marsha brought it up.

“Do something for yourself for a change!”

“I don’t know, Jamey has a game.…”

“Let the baby-sitter take him. Come on.”

It did turn out to be a nice Saturday, away from everything.
After a long lecture, the women sat in a circle and talked about what they would change if they had higher self-esteem. That
was when the woman next to Cory said softly, “If I felt better about myself, I would divorce my husband. He’s been screwing
around for years.” The woman started to cry. Cory scooted closer and put her arm around her shoulders. She thought about the
night she walked in on Dan eating the baby-sitter. She blinked back her own tears.

After the session, Cory refused a dinner invitation from Marsha, and slowly drove home.

Lisa’s motorcycle was standing in the driveway. The house was quiet when Cory entered. “Anybody home?” Cory called.

“In here.”

Lisa was reading in Cory’s favorite chair. The image flashed. Heather. Her legs spread. “Where’s Jamey?” she asked.

“His grandma came and got him for a movie and dinner,” Lisa answered. “They left about five o’clock. I just hung around to
make sure you wouldn’t worry about him.”

“God, that was two hours ago. You could have left a note.”

“Aw, it’s all right. I’m as comfortable here as my place.” Lisa smiled.

Cory’s shoulders slumped.

“You look like hell, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Cory’s knees gave and she sat down hard on the couch. She could feel the tears starting.

Lisa came across the room and knelt beside her. “You don’t look
that
bad, come on. I’m sorry.

“It’s not you,” Cory stammered. Lisa slid onto the couch beside her. Cory started talking. It all came out. The
seminar. The woman beside her. Heather. Dan between her legs. Cory’s favorite chair.

“That sucks,” Lisa said softly. “Why, if I had a woman like you, I’d never look at another.”

“You mean if you were a man and had a woman like me,” Cory corrected her.

“No, I don’t.”

Cory realized that Lisa was stroking her arm. Goose bumps rose beneath her touch. “I’ve never cheated on Dan,” Cory said softly.

Lisa whispered, “Maybe you should.” Her lips were close to Cory’s ear. Cory could feel Lisa’s hot breath tickle her neck.

Cory leaned back, and Lisa was on her—unbuttoning her blouse and kissing her neck. Cory moaned, surrendering. Somewhere in
the back of her mind she wondered who would do what and how. But her cunt was tingling. Her nipples were hard. Lisa pulled
her blouse off and with one hand reached behind and unhooked her bra. Her breasts fell loose. Lisa gently clamped her mouth
over one, then the other erect nipple.

“We shouldn’t do it here,” Cory protested.

“Why not?” Lisa slid her hand under Cory’s skirt and squeezed the damp crotch of her panties.

Cory reached to help pull her panties down over her hips. She pulled one foot out and with the other kicked her underwear
across the room. They landed draped across an expensive lampshade.

Lisa’s hand worked slowly, sliding two fingers inside her. Cory rocked her hips, gently fucking. Each time she came down on
the hand, Lisa’s thumb pressed against her clit. Just as Cory thought she might come, Lisa pulled her hand away.

Cory whimpered.

Lisa replaced her fingers with her mouth.

Cory could feel the hot moist tongue wash her swollen vulva. She raised her knees, reached down, and pulled her wet lips open
as far as she could.

Lisa slid two fingers back inside and fucked and sucked her slowly.

“I’m going to come!”

“Don’t.”

“I’ve got to!” Cory tried to distract herself. She thought about the housework. She thought about Jamey. She thought about
the home run, the crowd cheering. A white-hot flash, like a jolt of electricity, went through her. Tingling spread through
her body to the tips of her fingers and toes. Her pussy started to convulse. “Oh—oh!” she cried, pulling Lisa’s head to her.
She ran her fingers through the stiff Mohawk and rubbed her cunt in the woman’s face as she experienced the most intense orgasm
of her life. At last, gently and reluctantly, she pushed Lisa away,

“Well.” Lisa smiled broadly up at Cory from between her legs. “If you’ve got to, you’ve got to.”

Cory laughed. She was breathing hard. Her body felt weak, like she couldn’t move. Lisa was laughing softly, too. Then they
were both quiet.

It seemed like hours had passed when Lisa said, “Right there in that chair, huh?”

“Yes,” Cory said softly.

“He was on his knees?”

Cory looked at her. She hadn’t sat in her favorite chair for months. She’d considered throwing it away. The whole family seemed
to avoid it. From somewhere far away she heard her own voice saying, “Take off your pants and get over there in that chair.”

BY
B
LAKE
C. A
ARENS

I
t is a wet and sloppy San Francisco day. The rain comes in gushing downpours, followed by stillness and silence as the clouds
part like the legs of a ready lover, and the hot ball of the sun blazes through. I sit in an aisle seat, on the bus, my dripping
umbrella next to me. I wear dark shades; I want to be left alone.

That is, until
he
gets on.

Tall enough that the top of his head grazes the ceiling of the bus. The weight of the pack on his back pulls at his shoulders.
He balances a stack of books against the front of his body. His big hands cup the bottom volume; his elbows lock to keep them
in line. His glasses slip down his nose.

In my haste to make room for him, I forget the wet and slide into the inner seat. Instantly I am soaked through— jacket, skirt,
panties even.

He lowers himself into the vacated seat, lowers the books to the tops of his pressed-together feet. His knees gape open to
straddle the stacks of books. With one hand
to balance the stack, he shrugs out of the backpack, with apologetic glances at me for all the accidental bumps against my
breasts. Finally, he wrestles himself free. Setting the pack on top of the books, he sighs and sits back. Even relaxed, the
muscles of his arms and chest strain the fabric of his rain-streaked button-down shirt. Brawn and book-ishness—just my type.

“Student?” I ask as I notice a line of pale skin on the third finger of his left hand.

A quicksilver grin flashes across his face. He shakes his head no. “I got kinda carried away with my library card.”

I smile. “No TV?”

He answers a quick “She took it,” a little whine in his voice like that of an angry boy.

I place my hand on his leg. The tremble in his body tells me how hungry he is. I decide to feed this man.

“What are you reading?” I ask. I pull his left leg toward me, widening the gap between his knees. He lets me. I check out
the stack of books. Robert Heinlein, D. H. Lawrence, Anaïs Nin, Anne Rice.

“You like to read out loud.” It isn’t a question.

He gulps. Nods.

“Wanna read to me?” My voice is little more than a whisper, and he ducks his head down and leans in to catch my words. In
that posture he reaches for the first book on top of the stack, slides it out from under the backpack.
The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress.
He opens to the first page, and I place my hand over the words.

“Not here.”

“Oh. Okay.” He speaks like a man in a dream.

The ride to his apartment is bumpy and quick, a minor detail to be disposed of in order to get on to the more important business
at hand. He unlocks the door and then
steps aside to usher me in. It is a studio apartment with hardwood floors, ten-foot ceilings, and an entire wall of windows.
One of them is thrown wide open to the rain; I can smell how wet it is outside. The clouds are still dumping. It takes effort
to turn away from the fury of the storm, from the scent of it. A sturdy ladder leads up to a sleeping nook. The bed looks
like a huge nest.

“Uh—what should I read?” He is standing behind me. I don’t turn around, just feel him there, his irregular breath warm on
my neck.