Trixie stood in the kitchen pretending to wash the dishes.  The window above the sink afforded her a view of most of the backyard, including the pool, where Brody was using the skimmer to extract leaves and dead bugs from the water.  His full name was Broderick, as was his father’s.  Dad got Ricky, junior got Brody.  Trixie thought of him as Brick.  As hard and solid as a brick.  Males still in their teens shouldn’t have the capacity to look like that.
.        She watched the muscles of his tanned back stretch and contract as he reached into the middle of the pool, piercing the water with the net end of the pole, surfacing, dragging it back slowly and lifting it completely out.  He shook the debris from it, then repeated the process.  She licked the sweat beading above her lip.  Whew, she needed a fucking cigarette.  And she didn’t even smoke.
.        Cougars.  That’s what they called women like her.  Well, not like her; she didn’t know if a woman could still be categorized as a cougar if all she did was ogle a younger man.  Those people were referred to as peeping Toms.  Creepers, her daughter called them.  Anyway, it had been so long since she had sex she didn’t think she’d know what to do with him.
.        You just lay there, her ex-husband had complained.  Paraplegics move their hips more than you do.  Tony always had been crass with his criticisms.
.        Paraplegics have more sensation below the waist than I do with your dick in my ass, she wanted to snipe back, but she just wasn’t willing to get into the gutter with him.  Maybe if she had, they’d still be married.
.        She shivered at the thought.  Ugh.  Imagining sex with Brody was ten times more satisfying than any sex she’d ever actually had with Tony.  And Tony was the only man she’d ever been with.
.        Maybe it’s just broken, she thought, recalling the times Tony had gone down on her with is mouth, flicked her bean with his fingers.  Nothing.  The closest thing she’d ever had to an orgasm was the tingly sensation she got while grinding on Santa’s knee at the mall when she was six.  He’d practically thrown her off his lap.
.        “Repulsive little girl,” he hissed.  Since then, an orgasm remained the one gift she never got for Christmas.  Or her birthday.  Or her anniversary.  Or Valentine’s Day.
.        “Oh, Christ, buy yourself a bullet and get over it,” her sister Maggy said when Trixie confided in her, then deftly turned the conversation back to her own marriage woes.  That piece of advice had come back when her first husband Wyatt was having an affair with some hot pants at the office.  Now she was on spouse number two, a tall, athletically built handsome chunk of cock she was currently honeymooning with in Bermuda.  Orgasms weren’t going to be a problem for Maggy this week.
.        Maybe Brody was too young to understand a woman’s body, anyway.  What could a nineteen-year-old possibly know about the female orgasm?  He was probably poking one empty-headed chick after another, too drunk or stupid to realize she wasn’t having any fun.   Then again, she’d fucked Tony from ages twenty-two to forty-three and he knew zilch about the female orgasm.  She was female and she knew nothing about it.
.        Maybe she could just straddle one of his thighs and rub rub rub.
.        She wondered what dad Ricky knew about pleasing a woman.  An equally attractive, older version of his son, he also kept himself in excellent shape, going for daily morning runs and playing for two amateur sports teams, one basketball and one ice hockey.  He swam a lot, too.  She knew this because on practically every sunny summer day he came down to his mailbox in swimming trunks, dripping wet.
.        “The perks of working from home,” he’d told her once with a dazzling smile.  He was a happy guy, that was for sure.
.        Yet another reason why she wouldn’t classify herself as a cougar:  cougars didn’t go after men their own age.  So what was a woman called who liked all men, regardless of age?
.        A slut.  And one who fantasized about both father and son?  A deviant.
.        But what she was was just a suppressed, sexually frustrated  woman who needed a good stiff dick.  Or two.
.        She often thought of inviting the two men over for dinner, Ricky for her, Brody for Mercy, a little get-to-know-you-better double date for her and her daughter with the two cuties across the street.  But these days all Mercy talked about was some out of work writer she’d fallen in love with at the book cafe and thus had been rendered blind when it came to any other man.  And then there was that little problem of Ricky’s wife.
.        Would she like it any better if I went after her son?
.        Trixie cleaned the two glasses that were in the sink, a plate, a coffee mug and two spoons, and set them in the drain board.  She was folding the dish towel after wiping up the excess water that had splashed onto the countertop when she heard the sliding glass doors open.  Brody poked his upper body through the opening.
.        “Just wanted to let you know I’m finished.”
.        Trixie nodded, staring at him.  There was no need for him to announce his departure; usually he just let himself into the yard, and slipped out when the work was completed.  That work was mowing, shoveling, weeding, leaf raking, pool maintenance.  For the past two years, at least once a month depending on the season, Brody was in Trixie’s yard, and Trixie hid her excitement at finding him there.
.        Today he’d dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved white cotton pullover.  The pullover now lay across the back of one of the patio chairs.  The jeans hung low on his hips, revealing a rippled torso that tapered into a muscled arrow of flesh that trailed down to what she thought had to be an equally beautiful spear of thick, hard meat.
.        “So when do you think it will be ready for use?” she asked, finding her voice.  The pool, she wanted to clarify, before reminding herself he couldn’t read her thoughts.
.        He shrugged, stepping inside.  His light brown hair was turning almost dirty blonde from all the exposure to the sunlight.  He had a friend who attended college in Miami and Brody made frequent trips down south to see him.  He’d returned from one such jaunt three days ago and his golden skin attested to his time spent on the beach.
.        “Turn the heater on and you can use it now,” he said.  She knew that.  She just wanted to hear him talk, keep him there a little while longer.
.        “Yeah, Mercy’s been asking me about it, she likes to swim, she’d be in there in December and January if she could, she takes like a dolphin to water.”
.        She was rambling, sounding so stupid, this kid didn’t want to hear her going on about her daughter.  He wanted to let her know he was finished and heading out.  Still she couldn’t stop herself from adding, “And she looks so hot in a bathing suit, if I looked like her I’d want to be in a bikini twelve months a year, too.”
.        She was contemplating reaching into the knife drawer and removing the biggest one and using it to cut out her tongue when he said, “I’ve seen you both in bathing suits, Trixie, and as far as I’m concerned you look much hotter in yours.”
.        Her cheeks flamed pink and her nipples began to tighten.  Embarrassed, she looked away from him, not quite knowing how to respond.  Should she thank him?  Or even believe what he just said?
.        Old fool.  He’s mocking you.  He knows you’re creaming your granny panties right now over such an insincere, stock compliment.
.        Sure, she was a decent-looking woman.  She knew that, and she worked hard at it.  She was active.  She had a gym membership that she used five days a week, taking a variety of classes, utilizing both cardio and strength training machines.  Her body looked better than most women her age, but in comparison to the taut curves of her nineteen-year-old daughter?  There wasn’t a contest.
.        “So much so that I’ve often wondered what you would look like out of it.”
.        Holy shit, did he really just say that?  She swore she felt her clitoris jump.
.        He chuckled, looking away from her.  “Wow.  That was waaay inappropriate.  I’m sorry.”
.        “No, um, it’s okay.”
.        “I should have never said that.  Wow.  God.  I’m just . . .”  He shuffled backwards toward the sliding glass doors.  “I’m gonna go.  See you next week, Trixie.  Unless, you know, you don’t want me to.  I’d completely understand.”
.        For a moment they stood, staring at each other.  She realized he was waiting for her to speak, to either tell him to never come back again or that indeed, he could resume his work next week, what he said hadn’t changed things between them.
.        But it had.  And she couldn’t pretend otherwise.
.        “Of course you can come back next week,” she said, looking directly into his beautiful hazel eyes.  “Or later tonight, if that suits you.”

Madeleine tucked the sparkly pink Maybelline lip gloss into the front pocket of her black skirt.  This afternoon they’d be receiving their weekly book drop off and Madeleine hurried from her room down to the library.  She was wearing mascara, which would be easily detectable on her blonde lashes, so she kept her head down lest she draw attention from someone passing her on the stairs or in the main hallway.  But she made it down to the library without detection and after drawing the blinds and cracking the windows, she set about readying things–and herself–for Adam’s arrival.
.        She thought it somewhat ironic, yet comfortingly serendipitous, that he would share a name with the man who had participated in the downfall of Eden.  If one were to belive the story of creation, and secretly Madeleine was quite sure she didn’t, Adam’s trust in Eve had brought pain and shame into the world.  Would Adam Drechsler bring the same to hers?
.        And would I even care if he did?
.        She couldn’t remember or even recognize the precise moment when things had gotten away from her.  She’d always found Adam attractive in a forbidden, nasty kind of way.  Nasty because his appeal wasn’t something a woman noticed with her eyes.  Forbidden for all the obvious reasons.  Still she remained under the impression that her looking forward to Thursdays was strictly about the books.  She’d always had a passion for them, even as a girl.  While her sisters tore open Christmas and birthday presents in hopes of finding designer handbags or glittery hair accessories, pajamas with matching fuzzy slippers, Madeleine wished for books.  Classics, biographies, historical accounts, recent best-sellers.  The reason her heartbeat accelerated when the van pulled into the parking lot, she continuously reminded herself, had nothing to do with the man driving it.  The shortness of breath, the mirth that seemed to spread throughout her entire body, the flush in her cheeks:  all reactions to her love of books.  As to her recent practice of applying mascara and lip gloss; well, some things were easier to explain away than others.
.        She chose not to dwell on it as she went into the kitchen and mixed a pitcher of Tang, filling it with ice cubes.  She opened up a package of Philadelphia cream cheese and used it to make a variety of hors d’oeuvres.  She smeared it into the wells of celery stalks, rolled it up in slices of Lebanon bologna, smoothed it in between slices of sourdough toast and cut it into fours.  She arranged all the food on a large square serving dish and carried it into the library, setting it in the center of the table.  Next came the pitcher of Tang, along with two glasses, plates and napkins.
.        She sat in one of the chairs, went through the ritual of practicing her poise, smiling with warmth and charm without an invitation, making mental notes of where she would steer the conversation when it inevitably drifted from books to more personal matters.  It wasn’t long before she heard the motor of the van, the squealing of brakes and the cease of the hum of the engine.  Her hand flew to her chest, trying in vain to calm her fluttering heart.  She quickly ran into the powder room adjacent to the library and applied the lip gloss.  She heard the doorbell in the main hall, then Adam’s cheerful voice echoing off the walls in the grand, empty space as someone let him in.  Back in the library, she held her back to the door, using the feather duster on the shelves, sweeping away imaginary dirt.  She heard his footsteps coming closer, and her pounding heart matched every one of them, beat for beat.  She closed her eyes, knowing he was crossing the threshold.
.        “Sister Madeleine,” he greeted, and she turned to face him, her hand moving involuntarily to touch her shoulder-length blonde hair.  She’d stopped donning her habit in his presence right around the time she’d made mascara and lip gloss components of her appearance.  She could be wearing a bikini and it wouldn’t change her vows.  Still, it sent a jab of regret through her when he addressed her properly.
.        He placed a stack of three corrugated boxes on the second of the room’s two tables.  It was a modest library, large enough to accommodate about twenty students, with the four walls lined with heavy oak bookshelves.  While they didn’t reach the ceiling, they were considerably taller than Madeleine; she had to use a stepladder to reach the top shelf.  Along with the bathroom, another room was attached, where students could play various board games or construct art projects.  There was a supply closet stocked with papers and paints and easels, and other various items to encourage the process of creativity.
.        “Good afternoon, Adam,” she returned, loving the way his name slipped off her tongue.  “What have you got for us today?”
.        Today’s Classics Book Distributors conducted a donation circuit that included St. Agnes Catholic Elementary School and every Thursday Adam came to the convent library to present the parish with that week’s selections.  They were allowed to pick ten books, and sometimes Adam held aside newer or in-demand titles to ensure Madeleine got top choice.
.        She took a seat at the table where she’d placed the food and encouraged him to help himself.  He looked over the plate like a child permitted to select a favorite cookie, and plucked off a celery stalk.
.        “It’s like having social tea when I come here,” he said with a smile.  “No need to take lunch breaks on Thursdays.”
.        But he did take a lunch break, and it was spent with Madeleine, discussing latest novels they’d read or were currently reading, examining the books he’d brought just for her, ones he’d personally selected as stories he thought she may enjoy.  She always took those books.  In their Thursdays together he had come to know her well, in her literary taste as well as specific requests she made.  This week he’d included a copy of George Orwell’s 1984, a book they’d discussed last month, one she’d described as one of her many all-time favorites.
.        “I just love the tortured love between Winston and Julia.  The burning need to be with someone who, for whatever reason, has been forbidden to you.”
.        She wasn’t sure if he’d picked up on the hidden meaning in her words, but then he said, “But the constraints of their love were beyond their control.  That’s the worse situation to be in.  When you have no say in who you love, or even love at all.”
.        “I don’t know about that,” she said softly.  “Sometimes when the prison is of your own making it can be maddening.  That if not for your own foolish choices, choices you made long ago when your opinions were still forming, you could be living out your life with total happiness instead of bitterness.  Yearning.  Regret.”
.        After he had gone, she followed another ritual, the ritual of clearing away their time spent together.  With the same methodology she used preparing for his visit, she disassembled the table spread, wrapping the food in containers, washing the dishes.  She alphabetized the recently acquired books, attaching call numbers to their spines and filing them accordingly, leaving out the title Adam had selected exclusively for her.  She dusted the table, then wiped it with disinfectant, the measured control she exerted over her task taking her mind from Adam and their time together.  The most dangerous time for her was right after he left, cloaking her in a vulnerability that was crippling.  If she lingered too long on it, she would end up crying, moping about for the rest of the night and well into morning.
.        She found that taking a bath relieved some of the agony, the tightness at her core.  She brought in candles, oils, the selected book.  She climbed into the empty tub, lay on her back and slid down until her bottom was atop the drain.  She spread her legs and turned on the water, finding a warm, soothing temperature.  She used her fingers to spread apart her lower lips, letting the downpour pound a sweet, then torturous, then blissful rhythm against her clitoris.  She kept her eyes closed, thinking of Adam, thinking of every drop of water as a precise, purposeful flick of his tongue.  She came, panting, breathless, squeezing her legs closed as it subsided.
.        The tears soon followed, as they always did each time she indulged this fantasy, this fantasy that was the only way she could have him, the only way it could ever be.