Keene made them a late dinner with some of the things Mercy had purchased at the market:  American cheese omelets with sliced potatoes and onions, Brussels sprouts with chopped bacon, maple coated turkey sausage links.  They drank cranberry grape juice in tumblers filled with ice, so cold and delicious Mercy’s teeth ached.
.        “Ooohh!” she said, sucking in her cheeks.  “That’s cold.”
.        “How do you like everything?” he asked.
.        “Delicious. Everything.  Delicious.”
.        He smiled at her impishly.  “Does it taste like chicken?”
.        She laughed nervously, shoveling another forkful of eggs into her mouth.  She knew there was no room for shyness between them now, but she still felt so inexperienced.  She wondered if she would always feel this way, naïve little Mercy, blushing with embarrassment at the mention of sex.
.        “You know what you’re supposed to say?” he asked, and she shook her head.  “It tastes like cock.”
.        She made a face and pretended to sling eggs at him from her fork.
.        “C’mon, give me a break, I’m writing a teen novel.  My brain’s a little juvenile right now.”
.        “Still?” she asked, taking a bite of potatoes.  They were so buttery and flavorful, mixed with the sweet onions, she took three more mouthfuls before continuing.  He waited expectantly, patiently, while she swallowed, took another sip of juice and wiped her mouth.  “When I first met you you were writing a teen novel.  Teens and vampires?”
.        “Same one.  It’s written.  Now it’s in the final editing process.  I had a few people read it and I’m changing some things according to their critiques.  When I submit it as final copy to my agent, I want it to be as perfect as possible.  Not that she still won’t have me make more changes,” he grumbled sheepishly.  But Mercy could tell he wouldn’t mind making a hundred more revisions if it meant finally seeing a novel of his on the bookstore shelves.
.        She felt a pang of jealousy at not having a part in the process.  She knew they really didn’t know each other very well, had only this week embarked upon a course of sexual intimacy.  She certainly wasn’t going to be one of those pathetic girls who believed just because she’d seen a guy’s dick she’d also had glimpses of his soul.  His soul was in his writing.  She’d seen it, in the literary journals she’d purchased that had published his works.  But that was the polished soul, the one everyone got to see after some editor smoothed over the raw parts, the real parts, the ones unsuitable for public consumption.  Those were the parts Mercy wanted to see.  The ones she wanted him to invite her to see.  The ones very few ever got to see.  She bet if he asked how many people had gotten to proofread his writing the number would be less than those who had seen his dick.  Guys in the gym locker room got to see his dick.  Maybe some drunken bitches he’d picked up in bars during his college years.
.        Gullible virgins in book store cafes.
.        “I could read it,” she suggested, hoping she sounded casual, and not like someone who would be devastated if denied.  She kept her eyes down on her plate, using her fork to sever in half one of the sausage links.  She lifted it to her mouth, chewed, then speared a sprout, using it to trace a figure eight on her plate.  “I read a lot.  Different things, too.  I do work at a bookstore.”
.        “You’ve got the inside track, huh?”
.        She dared a glance at him, and found him gazing back, a smile on his lips.  Was that affection in his expression, or amusement?
.        And I’m a teenager, she was tempted to remind him, but pointing out that fact would most likely do little to further her cause.  Although she was his target audience, from a literary standpoint, right now she was on his radar as a sexual partner.  As much as she wanted him to be alerted to her intellectual offerings, reading a manuscript wasn’t on her short list of activities to engage in this evening.  Even now she wiggled on the kitchen chair, trying to relieve some of the throbbing between her legs when she thought of his mouth exploring her there.  She’d been anticipating her turn for over an hour now.  Was that part of the plan?  Was this all part of the sexual dance?
.        “I think I could offer a perspective you’d appreciate,” she said.
.        He considered this as he forked some eggs into his mouth.  “Maybe you could.  It’s difficult to ask people to read your writing.  I usually gather a focus group of people who don’t really know me.  You’d be surprised how many people are willing to read something by someone who’s appeared somewhere in print.  That being said, you don’t always get the most comprehensive critiques.  Although most of my friends would gladly read something if I asked, I don’t know how much a forty-year-old law professor would relate to a YA mummy story.”  He noticed her reaction and laughed.  “Yes.  It’s about mummies.”
.        Mercy couldn’t help herself.  “Oh, come on,” she said, clasping her hands together.  “Now you’ve got to let me read it.”
.        “Let you?  Oh, Mercy.”  He reached over and brushed a lock of hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear.  “The privilege would be mine.  The only thing I need you to let me do is touch you like this–”
.        His thumb lightly caressed her cheek.
.        “–and this . . . .”
.        He moved it down to her breast, beneath her shirt, grazing the tip of her nipple with the pad, causing it to become rigid with sensitivity.
.        “–and this,” he whispered, leaning forward to flick the protruding bud with his tongue.  Her pussy contracted as he closed his mouth around her areola and suckled gently.  Her nipple suctioned in his mouth, he circled it with his tongue, the sensation causing bursts of light to appear in front of her eyes.  She ran her hands through his thick curly hair, not realizing she was pushing it down towards her lower body until he raised his head, laughing against her lips.
.        “Are you quite finished with dinner?”
.        “Mm-hmm,” she said, kissing him hungrily.
.        “Luckily for you, I’m not.”
.        He slid off his chair and onto his knees in front of her.  She sucked in her breath and her bottom lip as for the second time that evening he undid her jeans and pulled them off.  He slowly peeled down her panties, caressing her legs as he slid them over her calves, through her feet, discarding them onto the kitchen floor.  He then lifted each of her legs and draped them over his shoulders.  She watched with widening eyes as he reached up to his plate and removed a turkey sausage link.
.        “Just what do you think you’re going to do with that?”
.        “Setting the bar,” he said, and she giggled, tilting her legs in so that her sex wasn’t so exposed before him.
.        “Don’t you dare!”
.        He put it in his mouth, sucking the end, then removed it and traced it along the inside of her left leg, spreading both wider once again.
.        “Keene,” she whispered, as he ran it along her thigh, feather-light, barely making contact with her skin.
.        “It’s all right,” he said softly, his breath traveling between her legs to stir her pubic hair.  He traced it over the back of her thigh, circling around her glutes, leaving dimples of gooseflesh in its wake.  When he brought it around again to her inner thigh she drew in her stomach and her vaginal walls, anticipating where it would touch next as he got closer and closer to the area at the top.
.        Suddenly his head darted forward and she felt a lash of spongy, wet warmth stab at her clitoris and realized it was his tongue.  It was one long, languid lick and she groaned, her stomach quivering.  She stared down at the mop of curly hair obstructing her view of her lap, feeling next the tip of the sausage at the lowest point of her opening.  It traveled slowly up, flicking her clit, then back down.  Each time it made its journey up and down, it went a little deeper in her folds, flittered her bud with more frequence and pressure.  There was an aching tightness in her loins, the pit of her stomach.  She grabbed his hair and pushed his face closer to her pussy, the sausage sliding further in before bending at her body’s resistance.
.        “Put your hands underneath you,” he instructed.  “Sit on them.”
.        She didn’t want to, but she complied, her heart hammering in her chest.  Involuntarily, her hips lifted, urging him to continue.  She heard him chuckle and she wobbled her legs open and closed, letting out an impatient whine.
.        “Open them,” he said.  She did and he said, “Wider.”  She spread them wider, and he placed his hands on her inner thighs, pressing them back, her ass teetering on the chair.  She felt her vagina pop up and out, as if it was floating in space.
.        “Oh!” she exclaimed, feeling his mouth once again, this time his lips closing over her pearl, his tongue cradling it, and suckling once, twice, three times, before pulling away.  She was sopping wet so that when he tried to set the sausage inside her it kept falling out.  He began slowly pushing it in deeper and she held her breath, the walls of her vagina peeling open to accommodate it.
.        “Okay?” he asked.
.        “Mm-hmm.”  Her hands balled up beneath her buttocks as she felt the thing pressing, then stop.  She waited a few moments where nothing happened, just being aware of the thing inside her, getting used to the feeling.  Then she felt it moving slightly, felt his warm breath on her sopping gash, getting closer and hotter as he ate his way toward it.  With every bite the sausage bobbed, the sensation weird, but somehow erotic.
.        The sausage devoured, he brought his mouth up to hers in a hot, maple honey kiss.  His body was between her legs, his clothing rasping against her and she lifted up her hips to hump at him, needing so desperately to relieve the burning.  She grabbed his face in her hands, his tongue rolling into her mouth, mingling with hers.  He moved swiftly down her body again, planting his face firmly between her thighs.  She twisted her body, trying to get an angle where she could watch him eat and lick and suckle.  She felt his tongue sliding in and out, lapping up and down the length of her slot.  He closed his lips around her clitty and pulled slightly, twisting it in small circles.  She threw her head back, coming with such intensity she grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked.  He buried his face further and she rubbed against him, painting his lips, his nose with her weeping hole.  He put his hands under her ass and brought her in even closer, her legs still slung over his shoulders, his entire mouth enveloping all of her.  She writhed and undulated, trying to escape the punishment of his mouth while at the same time trying to fuse with it.  Her stomach rumbled, soared while a third or fourth orgasm ripped through her, she didn’t know if they were separate peaks or one long glorious climax that dipped and climbed in intervals.  She was gasping, moaning, groaning, sounding more like a B-movie zombie than a woman in charge of her sexuality, reaping the benefits of such ownership.
.        “Oh, God!” she called out, utterly breathless.  She felt like a boneless mass of spasming flesh, her body jerking involuntarily as he finished shredding her to pieces with his tongue.  He kept his face between her legs, taking his time, lapping her up like a kid polishing off a bowl of cake batter.  After her final orgasm there was just the softness of his lips as he kissed her pussy as tenderly as he would her mouth.  There was the warmth of his tongue, the tiny nubbed texture as he stroked her clitoris in wide, sweeping licks.  She closed her eyes, her lips pressed together as deep low murmurs and long declarations of mmmmmm seeped out.
.        He kissed his way up her abdomen, the center of her breasts to her mouth, and she twisted her tongue with his, more in love with him than she thought she ever could be.  There was something to this physical act, something she hadn’t known about, hadn’t seen coming, but completely understood.  She would live her life worshipping this feeling, and the person who brought it to her.  She was his, owned by him surely as if she were his house, his car, a box of cereal he picked up at the grocery store.  There was not a moment she wouldn’t want to feel this way, not a minute she wouldn’t think about it, nothing she wouldn’t do to make sure it happened over and over again.  She would trust him with anything, let him do anything, as long as he promised to do this one thing to every day for the rest of her life.

Had she seriously convinced herself he would show up?  Considering she had showered, shaved, lotioned, perfumed, blown out her hair, put on light make-up, dressed in a long red lycra and spandex skirt from Wet Seal that she coupled with a simple white v-necked Old Navy tee–only after trying on and discarding nine other outfits–brushed her teeth, chewed twenty Tic Tacs, lit several candles before blowing them all out after deciding they were too presumptuous and glaringly betrayed her age and lack of recent sexual activity or any knowledge of what was considered sexy versus cheesy or just plain old desperate–why not just toss a bearskin rug on the floor and draw a bath sprinkled with rose petals and prepare a tray of champagne and strawberries while she was at it–she supposed assuming he would show was exactly what she’d done.  But now, eight hours after he had gone and seven hours and fifty minutes after she’d begun preparing for his return, her love plane was beginning to crash-land on the tarmac.
.        Whooo.  She took a deep breath, anchoring herself to her kitchen–and reality–with an outstretched hand planted on the island.
.        It’s not like he confirmed he was coming back.  After all, it was she who had made the initial overture.  Then immediately rescinded it once it was out of her mouth.  Sort of.
.        “Of course, you probably have other things to do tonight.  It is a Saturday.  You must have plans with your friends.”
.        “Nothing as intriguing as what I think you’ve got planned for me,” he admitted with a devilish smile and like that their roles had reversed, she conducting the repentant backpedaling, he the one who now held full control over the journey, or if there was even to be one.
.        “I’m just a talker,” she said, laughing nervously, pulling at her fingers.  “Reading too many paperbacks with Fabio on their covers.”
.        His brows knit in confusion.  “Huh?”  Had she really needed to expose another reminder of their chronological incompatibility?
.        “Fifty Shades of Grey?” she tried, and a knowing grin spread across his face.
.        “That book.  My parents joined a group where all the members reenact scenes from it and then discuss it at meetings.  It’s supposed to inject some life back into their marriage.  Talk about TMI, you know?”
.        She nodded, even though it wouldn’t be for another five minutes that she would figure out what TMI was.  To be fair, she was still ruminating on the idea that Ricky’s marriage may be in trouble.  At the very least it needed some spice.
.        “I’m more into spontaneity, you know?” Brody was saying.  “You don’t need some stupid book to tell you what to do.  Didn’t some grandma write that, anyway?  What the hell does she know about sex?”
.        Trixie really wanted him to stop talking.  To be gone from her house so she could fully absorb this mortification and hopefully reach a place where she could move on and learn from it.  She pictured herself Monday morning in front of her computer with a cup of coffee, scanning Craig’s List for a new pool boy.
.        “Yes, spontaneity,” she said, moving towards the front door, hoping he would follow.  When she turned to see if he had, she was surprised to find him so close he collided with her, his chin touching her nose.
.        “Let’s . . . let’s be spontaneous,” she said, slightly breathless at the heat radiating from his bare chest.  Where was his shirt?  She hoped he’d forget about it, planning to wrap it around a hard surface and grind herself on it until she rubbed a hole in the fabric.
.        “You decide at the last minute if you’re going to come back, and I’ll decide the moment the doorbell rings if I’m going to answer it.”
.        “That’s not spontaneous,” he said, his grin fading into slack-mouthed, slightly parted lips.  He moved closer to her so that she backed up against the door.  He rested one hand above her head, leaning into her.   “Cuz I’ll definitely come back and I won’t have to ring.  Spontaneous would be me tossing you over my shoulder right now, carrying you upstairs and screwing your brains out on the rug right outside your bedroom.”
.        He’d pulled back from her then, put his hands on her arms and gently eased her aside.  He let himself out, pulling the door closed behind him without so much as a glance back in her direction.  Was that really how they were leaving it?  She didn’t know, but she began preparations in the eventuality of his return, which, come to think of it, didn’t seem all that ridiculous.  What nineteen-year-old guy didn’t want to fuck at every opportunity?  So what if she was well into her forties?  Jennifer Aniston was forty-five, as was Jennifer Lopez.  Courteney Cox was in her fifties, likewise Demi Moore.  All of them totally fuckable, even for a nineteen-year-old.  Trixie may be forty-three, but she didn’t look a day over thirty.  Oftentimes, with her shiny blonde hair pulled into pigtails and wearing cut-off shorts and a bikini top while on the Wildwood boardwalk or some other beachside resort town with her daughter Mercy, they were mistaken as sisters.  “Good enough to make Dad cry,” was the  best response Mercy could give whenever Trixie posed the question, “How do I look?”  Although Tony was attractive in his own right, he had a maturity about him that gave him the appearance of being her older brother rather than her husband, merely two years her senior.
.        Now, in the kitchen, Trixie wondered if there was more to prepare than just herself.  Should she make some kind of food?  She looked in the fridge, relieved to find two bottles of wine and three beers.  She would definitely need alcohol to get through this night, whether he showed up or not.  Food she could worry about later.  Either they’d go to a diner together, or she’d be in the twenty-four hour Giant picking up some Breyer’s coffee ice cream.  In her head she was both Margaret and Carrie White, telling herself, “He’s not coming,” while at the same time shushing such counterproductive thoughts.
.        She found his shirt on the patio, tossed over a chair.  She thought of washing it for him, then settled on just folding it.  When even that seemed too motherly, she put it back where he left it.  Then, when at around midnight, just when she was well past giving up and on her third glass of chardonnay, the doorbell rang, Trixie stripped herself bare and pulled the shirt over her head.  She tousled her hair and padded barefoot–and assed– to the front door.
.        Is this spontaneous enough for you? she thought to herself, her stomach tumbling like a Maytag dryer as she turned the knob and yanked the door open.  His presence on her front patio jumbled various senses at once.  The smell of him, a mixture of crisp wind, liquor and Irish Spring body wash, combined with the sight of broad shoulders stretching across a beige lightweight criss-cross drawstring cotton hoodie, opened just enough to reveal a peek of his hard, tanned pecs, filtered through her nose and eyes, into her brain, making her dizzy with anticipation.  He smiled, perfect teeth glistening in the moonlight, and was about to say something when the words caught in his throat.  His eyes lingering on the area just below where her pussy began and the shirt stopped, he sucked in his bottom lip, slightly shaking his head.
.        “That is so fucking hot,” she thought she heard him say, but the words dissolved into her mouth as he practically leapt over the threshold, seizing her with one arm as the other reached back and slammed the door, propelling her against the opposite wall and mashing his lips against hers in a stinging kiss.  His hands grabbed her naked buttocks and squeezed roughly, hoisting her up so that she wrapped her legs around his waist, her thighs dangling off his hips.  She felt his erection through his jeans, the rough denim scratching at her plumping clitoris.  She moaned, her fingers fumbling on his fly, eager to free the throbbing, corded flesh trapped within.  It was in her hands mere seconds before he pierced her with it, shoving himself in with such completeness that she gasped, momentarily seeing prickles of light in her periphery.
.        She had no time to gasp for breath as he continued to pound into her, fast and hard, using his hands on her backside to push her forward with every thrust, intensifying the impact.  She felt him deep in her core, tasted the night he’d spent earlier at the bar as his tongue rolled into her mouth, mingling with hers.  He came quickly, loudly, grunting as he slammed into her, his cock punishing and relentless.  When he pulled out he took his prick in his hand, rubbing the tip on her.  When he slid the entire shaft back and forth across her clit, she began panting, humping it to orgasm.
.        They stayed pressed together, against the wall while their breathing regulated, their pounding hearts calmed.  She felt sticky warmth trickling down her inner thighs, her vagina as slick and dripping as a saucepan full of melting sticks of butter.  She closed her eyes, a satisfied smile snaking across her lips, reveling in what she had just done, and with whom she’d done it.
.        “Perfect,” she heard him whisper, his lips so close to her ear.  “Stay just like that.  Sleep like that.  Don’t wash it off.  Don’t take it off.”
.        She felt cool air on her as he lifted himself away, the wet parts of her chilling without the warmth of his body.  She heard the zipper of his pants, the closing of the door as he let himself back out into the night.  In all he’d been there for less than ten minutes.
.        She reached a finger down to her clitoris, her pelvis jerking as she made contact, still sensitive and wanting.

Mercy was housesitting for her Aunt Maggy, who was honeymooning in Bermuda.  While her main responsibilities were to bring in the mail, water the plants, eat up the food that had expiration dates, and basically establish a presence to ward off unsavories looking to loot an empty house, what Mercy considered top priority was finally snatching some alone time with Keene.  Would he even show up at the café today and afford her the chance to ask him?   What if he decided girls who sucked guys off in public restrooms weren’t the kind he sought extra helpings from?  What if she sucked at sucking?
.        Around twelve-thirty she began looking for him, watching the clock as much as her surroundings.  There were two ways to enter the café, one from a door that led in from the outside, and the other from the bookstore, which involved little more than crossing the threshold from carpet to linoleum.  She kept her eyes on both possibilities, thinking that he should be walking in any second now.  If he wasn’t here by one, he wasn’t coming.
.        More oblivious to any task at hand rather than distracted, Mercy forgot to add the espresso to a latte, burnt a pizza and dropped a piece of cheesecake while transporting it from serving dish to plate.  Finally her shift manager sent her onto the floor to restock the books that lay abandoned on random café tables.
.        “And try not to file any true crime titles in the self-help section,” he admonished gently, yet still with a hint of frustration.  She nodded, staring guiltily at the floor as she moved out from behind the counter.
.        She tried to focus on the work, keep her mind off Keene and at some point autonomy did indeed take over.  There were less than five books left on her cart when she was fitting a Chelsea Handler bio into its place and felt a pair of arms slip around her waist.  A quick kiss on her neck followed and before she had a chance to turn around and reciprocate, or even acknowledge the affection, Keene was backing down the aisle away from her with a wide grin and a wave.  So what they’d done hadn’t been a one-time thing.  Her body crackled at the possibilities to come.
.        She kept away from him until her break, when she sat at his table with a turkey wrap and sweet green tea.  He was busy typing, but when he came to a stop he lifted his eyes off the screen and rested them on her.
.        “Hey there.”
.        “Hi.”
.        They let their greetings linger, both soaking up the vibrations that were still rumbling from their last encounter.   She picked up her wrap, took a bite that she hoped reminded him of the pleasures of her mouth, and started a conversation that included his latest writing assignment, her classes at the community college and plans for Mother’s Day.  She was taking her mom Trixie shopping in King of Prussia and then treating to dinner at The Capital Grille.  Keene said he’d be calling his mother; his parents lived in Arizona and he got to see them once a year, usually Christmas or someone’s birthday.
.        “Oh, well, you could come with us,” she invited, feeling instantly stupid after she had.  They’d never socialized outside the café; now that his dick was in her mouth it was time to meet her mother?  God, she was so pathetic.
.        To her surprise, and ultimate gratitude, Keene covered her hand with his and rubbed it.  “Thank you.  That’s sweet.  Maybe some other time.”
.        At the end of her break she rose from the table, gathering up her trash.  She couldn’t help but to feel she’d wasted her one shot to see him outside the café on a ridiculous invitation.  Why had she done that?  Was she really going to ask him to come to Maggy’s house, some forty miles away in Malvern and risk another rejection?
.        He noticed her hesitation.  “What?”
.        The worst he could say was no, right?  At least then she’d know where she stood.  Why travel close to an hour for a blow job when he could get one right here in a bookstore bathroom?
.        She took a deep breath.
.        “I don’t know what plans you have tonight, or later in the week, but my Aunt Maggy has a beautiful house in Malvern.  I’m housesitting for her and maybe you could stop by some time, hang out.  Just a suggestion.”
.        She quickly walked away without waiting for a response, and resumed working behind the counter.  Her concentration back, she was called upon to finish out her shift assisting customers in the café.  Once every so often she would glance over at Keene, busily typing on his HP laptop or scrolling through his iPhone.  Around five he began packing up his things.  She hoped he’d say good-bye before leaving and wasn’t disappointed.
.        He waited off to the side until she’d finished with a customer.  He leaned into her, smelling of peppermint and fresh linen.  His mop of soft brown curls didn’t quite reach his shoulders, but were enticing enough that she wanted to run her hands through the thick waves, gather clumps of it in her fists and pull him in for a deep kiss.
.        “Will you be there tonight?”
.        She nodded, unable to speak past the many lumps clogging her throat.
.        “Text me the address.”

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *         *

Maggy’s three story townhouse was immaculate.  Set back on a sunken lot from the quiet street on which it was constructed, it afforded just the right amount of seclusion for someone looking for a taste of the country right outside of the hustle that was taking place on Route 30, less than a mile south of the peaceful neighborhood.  Nestled at the foot of a sloping lawn of lush greenery and colorful Southern Camelia bushes, the 3400 square foot stone and brick structure boasted five bedrooms, seven bathrooms, three parlors, and three dining areas.  Off the rear parlor on the middle floor was a deck, complete with gazebo and grilling area overlooking a 720′ long liberty pool.  Mercy didn’t know what a single woman like Aunt Maggy needed with such a house, especially now that she was recently married and moving into Carlson’s Upperco, MD residence, but she hoped the woman held on to it long enough to leave it to her niece.  It was Mercy’s dream house, the kind of house where everything wonderful in life could be created and fostered.  The kind of house she would fill with hers and Keene’s children.
.        The entryway had always provided her with a pleasurable tinge of possibility.  Upon stepping foot inside the house one found herself with three distinct options.  Directly ahead ran the hallway that led to the rear parlor, a mini kitchen and dining area.  Beside the hall, on the left, were steps that led down to another parlor, the main kitchen and dining room, and two bedrooms, each with their own full bath.  Another bathroom was on this floor, as well as the laundry room, which led outside to the area underneath the deck.  Situated there was a variety of patio furniture; halfway across the lawn to the pool were a smattering of trees, three hammocks stretched out between several of their trunks.  The third option afforded by the main hall was a second stairwell off to the right which preceded another hallway, with two bedrooms across from each other and a common bath.  Further down and to the left was the master bedroom and bath.  In this bedroom were French doors that led out to a balcony that also looked over the pool.  On occasion Mercy had sat out there with her aunt enjoying a late Sunday breakfast of muffins smeared with butter and peanut butter, scones with clotted cream, hot peach tea and caramel coffee.  At the end of the hall was another parlor, crowded yet not cluttered with comfy chairs and couches, colorful pillows and tapestries.  There was a large circular oversized chair by a window where Mercy loved to curl up and read books or do crossword puzzles.  Two 60″ flat screen televisions were attached to perpendicular walls, the furniture arranged in such a way that every seat held an unobstructed view.
.        Although she had designated herself a bedroom on this floor where she kept some things–a few outfits, underwear and pajamas along with a few personal effects–Mercy slept in the parlor.  There was something comforting about being on the uppermost floor in the farthest room down the hall, a sense of isolation that made her feel removed from the world and its distractions.  In preparation for sleep she dropped the temperature in the room to somewhere between 60-65 degrees, pulled four to five comforters from the walk-in linen closet and arranged them on the twelve-piece sectional on a raised area along the wall that faced the pool.  There was a large picture window above the sofa and when Mercy awoke in the morning, she would open the slatted wooden blinds and look at the sun shimmering on the water.  Or the snow or rain, depending on the weather.  It didn’t matter; whatever was going on, it was the most spectacular view in the entire house.  Oh, how she wanted to wake up there with Keene, share that view with him.
.        She was certain he would love this room, the entire house.  What writer wouldn’t be able to find inspiration here?  One visit and he’d be hooked.  Of that she was certain.
.         And that he had a beautiful cock.  She was sure of that, too. One she wanted to swallow again, and caress and pump with her hands, and squeeze between her breasts, and straddle and buck up and down on, rock back and forth, use as a paintbrush on her throbbing clit.
.        If he ever shows up tonight.
.        She did some grocery shopping before arriving at the house, and made herself a Stouffer’s French bread deluxe pizza and watched The Borgias on Showtime OnDemand on the couch in the second story parlor.  She found the show very hot and racy, especially the actor who portrayed Cesare Borgia, and was feeling quite aroused by the end of two episodes.  It was after nine o’clock and she was beginning to think the night would be ending with her own well-placed hand and purposeful fingers down her pants when her iPhone chimed an incoming text.
.        It was from Keene, informing her he was outside, standing under the front awning.
.        Her stomach dropped, her crotch tightening and tingling as she felt a slick of juices lubricating her gash.
.        She leapt from the couch and raced to the entryway.
.        “Mercy,” he greeted with a smile and a hug when she opened the door.  She deliberately pressed against him, not wanting to seem so forward so soon, but she couldn’t help it.  Her body was crackling with a sexual energy that could only be expended with friction.
.        “I’m glad you’re here,” she breathed into his neck.  He closed the door behind him, she locked it and they fell against it, her lips immediately finding his.  He laughed against her mouth as they kissed, tongues mingling, hands caressing faces, fingers entwining through hair.  When they pulled apart, panting, he smoothed her hair from her face.
.        “Hi.”
.        “Hi,” she said.  She could feel an erection growing in his pants and she dropped a hand down to cup it and squeeze.  He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away.
.        “How about a tour?”
.        It started and ended on the sofa in the second story parlor, the closest comfortable surface.  They collapsed onto it with slightly more grace than a Maury show guest who just found out her man was not the father, kissing and pawing and stroking.  Pushing Mercy down onto her back, Keene straddled her legs, undoing her jeans.  She ran her fingers along his forearms as he slid the denim off her hipbones, peeling them down her thighs, her shins until they were completely removed.  She could see his erection straining the material of his tan Dockers, at full attention.  Their eyes latched onto each other as she unbuttoned, then unzipped his pants, yanking them down his hips.  His penis jutted straight out from his Calvin Klein boxer briefs and she grabbed it with both hands, feeling its warmth through his underwear.  He reached inside and pulled it out, leaving it to bob just above the elastic waistband.
.        Aside from their tryst in the bathroom, Mercy had never seen a penis in the flesh.  And even then she hadn’t studied it so much.  It was there, she saw it, she slid it into her mouth.  But now she took some time to look at it, the textures, the different sized veins, the thick protruding blue one that ran a jagged line along the underside.
.        He reached down and began stroking it.  She watched, mesmerized as he caressed up and down the length of himself.  When she looked up into his face she noticed his eyes were trained on her mouth.  She parted her lips, running her tongue slowly along the bottom one.  She saw his breath catch, his arm start to move a little faster.
.        “I love your mouth,” he said.  “I want to fuck it.”
.        She nodded her consent and he grabbed one of the couch pillows and tucked it under her neck, her head hanging back over the top of it, her chin jutted in the air.  He moved up her body so that his knees were on either side of her cheeks.  He placed the tip of his penis on her lips, gripping it with his hand to trace the outline of her mouth.  She stuck her tongue out to flick at the slit in the center and a satisfied grin spread across his mouth.
.        “You’re up for anything, aren’t you?”
.        “For you I am.”
.        She covered her teeth with her upper lip, moving her tongue over her bottom teeth like he had shown her and he slid his dick inside her mouth.  As he moved slowly in and out, she sucked her cheeks in for extra suction, undulating her tongue to massage his organ.  She tilted her head back further, allowing her throat to open and receive all of him.   She breathed slowly and completely through her nose to stifle her gag reflex as she felt him deep in her throat, her nose mashed against his torso.  He bobbed there for a while, groaning with the sensation, then pulled completely out, repeating the process several times.  She put her hands on his hips, drawing him in and pushing him back, sucking and slurping.  He placed his hands on the arm of the couch just beyond her head, using it to support his weight as he pumped his hips faster, his slick cock sliding quickly in and out of her mouth.  She reached around his ass, between his legs to knead his balls and he came, squirting into her mouth.  She swallowed it all, licking the last from his slit as his penis dangled above her face, becoming flaccid.
.        He lay on his side facing her, his back against the back of the couch.  She felt his soft cock against her bare thigh, wishing it was hard again so she could feel it rubbing against the plump bud in the middle of her drenched pussy.
.        “I’m really hungry,” he said.
.        She was about to start rattling off the groceries she’d purchased earlier when he cupped her mound through her panties and gave it a squeeze.
.        “And I know exactly what I want to eat.”

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.

Mary Grace was tired of this shit.  As Gwen Stefani would say, it was bananas.  With her platinum blonde Jean Harlow pin curl ‘do and alabaster skin that rarely saw the sun unless covered with sunscreen fifty, Mary Grace was often told how much she resembled the pop singer.  She heightened the comparisons by getting regular teeth whitening treatments and never leaving the house without what she considered her trademarked red-stained lips; today’s shade was Red Hot, courtesy of Colorevolution.  Of course Mary Grace considered her appearance far superior to that of Ms. Stefani, and at thirty-seven had quite a few more years of beauty ahead of her.  She didn’t even envy her marriage to hottie Gavin Rossdale.  Mary Grace had invested in that ball and chain thing to reap less than lucrative results.  The most valuable things she got from the deal were a Hilton Head townhouse, her cherished cardinal red metallic Mercedes-Benz CLS550, five hundred grand in cash and the irrefutable knowledge that gorgeous philandering husbands came a dollar a gross.  Two years later and she had managed to retain only fifty percent of those assets.  Yet here she was again, rolling the dice, pulling the handle, spinning the wheel, wearing a hypocritical white dress with Brennan Hammond’s arm linked through hers as they promenaded down a rose petal strewn path cutting through the center of ten rows of folding chairs containing some two hundred guests.  And at the end of it was Carlson, turning away from her and striding across the grass.
.        She felt her future father-in-law’s arm tighten, but she remained undaunted, holding her smile as she made her way towards the minister, the ten bridesmaids and groomsmen who were now all looking back at her with poorly concealed panicked expressions.  Her eyes locked with best man Tyler’s and she tried to read in them any evidence that he had prior knowledge of what appeared to be the groom’s cold feet.  She was somewhat relieved to discover he looked just as surprised as she felt.  She even detected a slight shrug, a tilt of the head.
.        This shit is bananas.
.        Brennan deposited her safely before the minister, between Tyler and maid of honor Beatrice, her older sister, who leaned in and whispered, “What’s going on?”
.        Without cracking her smile and barely moving her lips, Mary Grace–Maggy to her sister’s Trixie–answered, “Not sure,” although she had more than a mere inkling of what may be afoot.
.        “Excuse me for a moment,” she said to Father O’Neil.  He nodded back at her, his lip turned down in the beginnings of a pout.
.        She hurried across the lawn after her fiance, chased by the not-so-murmuring murmurs of her guests, their tongues already clucking out the tunes of “poor girl” and “such a shame.”
.        She found him by the small lake that bordered the rear of his family’s estate, looking out over it as if he imagined there an ocean, a country on the other side of it to which he could escape rather than the backyard of the neighboring manor.  He heard her approach and turned his head slightly to speak over his shoulder.
.        “I’m so sorry.”
.        She said nothing, her heart hammering, waiting for him to continue.  She’d always known this was a possibility.  Honestly, an outcome more realistic than the ceremony and the actual marriage to follow, ’til death did they part.
.        Finally, he spoke the words that turned the release valve on the building pressure in her chest.
.        “There will be a wedding today.”
.        Again he paused, and for a moment she held her breath, expecting to hear, just not yours and mine.
.        “And I anticipate it will be everything we expect from it.  I suppose I just needed a moment to . . .”
.        “Reflect?”
.        He turned to her and smiled.  Oh, what a crushing smile he had.  Under different circumstances it would be the kind to uplift and fill with hope and the warmth of knowing that when directed at her no harm would come to her, no sadness could break her soul.  But things being as they were, tears sprang to her eyes, the kind that if she didn’t catch them now, they would threaten to pour to overflowing, drowning the very life she was joining with him to cultivate.
.        He reached out to her.  “Reflect with me,” he invited, and she accepted, placing her small hand in his large one, feeling it wrap around hers with comforting security.  She stood beside him, lightly resting her head against his broad shoulder, barely touching so as not to ruin the hairdo that had taken two women and three hours to perfect.
.        “What are we looking at?” she asked softly.
.        “The future.  I had to see it before I could do it.”
.        “And did you?  See it?”
.        “I did.”
.        “And can you?  Do it?”
.        He turned and looked down at her, and she closed her eyes, unable to read in his the unbearable truth.  Either way, she thought, I am not going to win.

*        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *

Nicklas Tarminsson had always tried to instill in his girls a certain work ethic, a sense of understanding that the amount received worked in tandem with the effort invested.  Of his three daughters, none of them applied this concept to their lives with more dedication and tenacity than Mary Grace.  As early as five she figured out that merely asking for a cookie may get her one or two; crawling into daddy’s lap and batting her eyelashes and pouting her rosebud lips granted her access to the cookie jar as well as a chilled glass of milk.  Such shenanigans were deemed inappropriate once a girl reached a certain age, however, and at nine years old the reward system that was in place for older sister Trixie was implemented for both Mary Grace and her identical twin, Madeleine.
.        “Identical” was the technical term and while strangers may have a hard time telling the sisters apart, Mary Grace’s face was more heart-shaped, Maddy’s oval.  And where Madeleine was more reserved and bookish, a quiet loner who could more times than not be found playing hymns on the piano, it was Mary Grace who convinced her to learn some show tunes, which she would sing along to her sister’s playing with unrestrained glee.  It didn’t matter that she couldn’t stay, or even get, on tune.  What she lacked in skill she more than made up for in volume and execution.  She knew every word, danced with flair, and even her reserved twin came alive when playing piano for Mary Grace.  For that was how Mary Grace saw it: she was the star, her sister an employee to do her bidding.
.        This training would come in handy later, when she needed to convince a boss how happy she was at her job, how brilliantly he maintained his employees.  Or when she was called upon to entertain clients, or garner the most tips from delivering plates of food along with cheeky smiles and snappy one-liners to drunken club-goers during the late night shift at Denny’s during her college years.  But at nine she and her sisters were designated certain household chores.  The list was written on a dry erase board secured to the back of the door of the dry goods closet in the kitchen.  Beside each task was a designated dollar amount and two blank lines, provided for the doer of the chore to fill in her name and date upon completion.  There were fifteen tasks; on a lazy week of Mary Grace’s her name would appear a mere eleven times.  The girls were also rewarded monetarily for school performance and for her entire academic career Mary Grace was in the top five percentile of her class.
.        Upon entering her teens Mary Grace began to see a problem with her father’s reward system as it pertained to men as opposed to women.  She was a fast learner who soon discovered her male co-workers were rewarded with raises and preferential scheduling for even temperance and diligence while the girls with the most lipstick and tightest clothing were awarded the same.  The awakening came during her year-long stint as a fast food worker, her first paying job outside the home.  There was a definite pecking order, with fat, pimply, unattractive girls in charge of such unsavory jobs as cleaning up the dining area, scrubbing the bathrooms, re-stocking straws and cups and condiment packets.  The okay-looking girls and lazy boys were next, working the drive thru and the counter.  Hard-working boys came next in the hierarchy, getting to work the back line, frying up the burgers and preparing the food, joking with each other and never having to put up with some customer’s attitude.  And the sexy girls had it best of all, getting paid to sit in the back room with the boss while he did paperwork or hanging outside the back door, smoking cigarettes and gossiping.  She made an occasional appearance on the floor, to eat a French fry or assist at any station of her choice during peak times.
.        Figuring this out gave her a definite leg up on women still armed with the false sense that intelligence and hard work would earn them a higher paycheck or status.  There was intelligence, and then there was smarts.  Mary Grace was equipped with both, and in the workplace she annihilated any woman who was misfortunate enough to have only one.  What smart women knew was that salaries were not only reflected in a bi-weekly check.  They were in quarterly and Christmas bonuses.  They were in jewelry boxes and company cars.  They were in expense reports and vacation time.  They were evident in the seminars held in Jamaica, Miami and Hawaii instead of those that took place in Des Moines, Little Rock and Toledo.  What intelligent women knew was that you didn’t have to screw a succession of bosses to gain entrance through the back door of the boys’ club.   You simply had to become the mistress of the most powerful one.
.        Then, at twenty-six, Mary Grace met Wyatt Proust.  Tall and chiseled with dirty blonde hair and a smile to match, Wyatt was the newest hot-shot lawyer to join the firm where she was employed as personal assistant to one of the partners, Kyle Sloane.  Sloane had even hired him, grooming him to become his protégée and eventual replacement come retirement.  Unfortunately for Kyle, within six months Wyatt Proust had replaced him in Mary Grace Tarminsson’s bed.
.        Mary Grace had never seen herself as the marrying type, or even the kind of woman who built up her man to the detriment of her own aspirations.  But soon her aspirations became being a wife to Wyatt, and seeing to it that he was the kind of husband who could furnish her with the type of lifestyle she was accustomed to having without him.  And within five years, she achieved just that.
.        At thirty-two, Mary Grace was living her ultimate life.  She was rich, beautiful, and in love.  Her husband had opened his own firm with a fellow ship-jumper from Sloane, Harris and Schvitza, Bernard Krantz.  There was a million-dollar home in Essex Fells, four cars, a condo at MGM Signature in Las Vegas, a townhouse in an exclusive Hilton Head community, annual vacations to exotic locales as well as weeks spent abroad.  Mary Grace’s daily activities consisted of planning and attending social events, booking hotels and travel, going to the gym, Pilates and yoga classes.  She got involved with the community, volunteering at women’s shelters and donating time and money to local elementary schools, providing books and computers to students, organizing and overseeing activities on school-sponsored career days.  She even attended church at her sister Madeleine’s parish once a month, loaning her voice to her twin’s piano playing as they lead the congregation in that service’s selection of hymns.  Yes, Mary Grace’s life was as perfect a life as one got in this world.  But Mary Grace hadn’t just gotten it; she’d earned it.  And that made it all the more valuable.  She assumed Wyatt was just as happy.  Until the day he came home from work and told her the one thing that was missing.  Children.
.        The subject of children had come up before they were married and Mary Grace had floated along since that conversation  under the impression that they were on the same page, one in a story that didn’t include children.  Bearing a child would mean surrendering her body for nine months and her life for the rest of it.  That was something Mary Grace was not willing to do.  Surrogates, Wyatt suggested.  Adoption.  Mary Grace refused all of it.  Children would mean division.  Division of time, money, energy.  Children would mean staying home to shape them into responsible, productive people while the ghost of her strolled a Fijian beach, mourning a long-dead life.  No.  Absolutely not.  No children.
.        Two years later Wyatt came home from the office and told her his personal assistant was carrying his baby and he was leaving Mary Grace to be with her.

While the woman with the oversized Prada bag inspected the pre-made sandwich selections, Mercy took a moment to pop another Altoid.  The penis was long gone, but all she kept thinking was dick breath.
.        “How fresh are these?” the woman asked.
.        Mercy cleared her throat.  She hadn’t swallowed, but still it felt slick with cock snot.
.        “They’re delivered daily,” she answered.  She swiped invisible man- dribble from the corner of her mouth.  She’d never done anything like that before.  She was sure now that she had, everybody could tell.  Like coming in from the rain.  Even the best of umbrellas couldn’t keep all the drops off you.
.        “How about these?”  A manicured to a Witchiepoo point red acrylic nail poked the refrigerated case right in front of the cheesecake slices.
.        “Same,” Mercy said.  The Altoid–her fifth since returning from the ladies’ room–was strong, but she still tasted him.  In reality there had been barely any taste at all, a little salty, the smell of soap and  freshly laundered underwear overriding any sense of taste.  But to her he tasted of dark roast coffee, licorice biscotti, the thumb that used to soothe her as a baby.
.        “What do you do with them if you don’t sell them all?”
.        “We throw them out.”
.        The woman tsked, shaking her head.  “Such waste when people are starving in the world.”
.        Mercy stared pointedly at the Prada bag, big enough to fit the ten remaining sandwiches and the starving people who would never get to eat them.
.        “Would you like to have one?” Mercy asked pleasantly.  “One less sandwich in the trash can.  Your good deed for the day, and all you’ll have to do is eat lunch.”
.        Her sarcasm was lost on the woman.  “It’s well past lunch, and I can’t afford the calories.  I’ll have a skinny latte with caramel drizzle, no whipped cream.”
.        Mercy went about making the latte, and the five other orders that followed, finally receiving help from Pete on the last one.
.        “What can I do?” he asked, coming behind the counter, still tying his apron.
.        “I need a harvest pretzel in the oven,” she answered, making change for the last customer in line, smiling and wishing him a nice day.  Was it really four o’clock already?
.        “Do you mind staying back here for a while?  The tea and cookie display is a mess.”
.        Pete smiled.  He knew how neurotic she was about the displays, always filling them up, alphabetizing, making sure no berry blends were mixed in with English breakfast.  What he didn’t know–unless he could see or smell it on her–was her anxiety concerning what had happened little over half an hour ago in the handicapped ladies’ bathroom stall.  That was what she needed to get organized, settled in her head.  She’d be of little use to him or anyone else at The Novel Cafe until that occurrence was fully processed.
.        “Go ahead,” he said, aware that this time of day saw a decline in business until about seven.  “Otherwise we’ll both be back here, wiping off the counters and equipment.”
.        She would have asked him if he minded covering for a break, but she’d already taken it at three when Vivvi watched the cafe while she gave head to Keene.  She shivered thinking about it now, kneeling in front of him, bringing down his zipper, eager to finally get her hands, and her mouth, on him.  She’d swallowed him the minute she saw skin, tilting her head and opening up her throat to take him all in.  She kept going until she felt his torso on her lips; he groaned and she gagged, embarrassed at her freshman over-enthusiasm.
.        “Just go slow,” he whispered, stroking her hair.  “It’s not going anywhere.”
.        She never got him very deep again, but he didn’t seem to mind.  He held her head, moving it gently, guiding her back and forth, up and down, telling her what he liked, how to use her hands and her tongue.  At a certain point he eased her away, turning toward the toilet and manipulating himself.  She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, her hands reaching for his penis.
.        “Let me help,” she cooed, and he put his hands over hers and together they pumped fast and hard until he reached full release.   He leaned back against her and she rested her head on his right shoulder-blade, her hands still enveloping him as he wilted, loving the feeling of him in her palms, his juices on her fingers.  She felt a pulsing between her legs, the area hot and vacuous, weeping to be gored.  She felt it now, while she moved the packages of shortbread biscuits into the slot next to the boxes of vanilla tea bags, and she mashed her thighs together, willing her tingling clitoris to behave.
.        After her shift she sat silently in her car, the windows rolled down, thinking of Keene and his penis.  It was funny how the mind did that.  First there was just Keene, the frequent customer with the brown curly hair and adorable smile, and now there was Keene and his penis.  They were separate to her, just as they separated her into two parts:  the woman who was obsessed with Keene, and the woman who was obsessed with Keene’s penis.
.        She supposed she could consider herself a woman now, even though she was technically still a virgin.  At nineteen, she was  considered by most to be a girl:  specifically her work supervisors, college professors, and anyone else in the g-pop over forty; and especially her mom and dad.  Christ, if either one in that latter group could have seen her at three-fifteen today.  She smiled, and not just from the hypothetical looks on their faces.  She smiled now, as she always did whenever her thoughts traveled anywhere in the vicinity of Keene Forbes.
.        Often after her shift she would come out to her car and sit there for a good half hour, thinking about her most recent interaction with him, mentally reliving some of her other favorite moments if there was nothing new to dream about.  She fantasized about what their life could be like together, the kind of house they would live in, the children they would have, the colleagues they would entertain, the friends they would travel with.  She imagined lounging on the deck of a yacht on some exotic, turquoise waters.   Almost always she drifted back to the day she’d first seen him eight months ago, when she’d been sitting in the cafe, filling out her job application.
.        Located in a shopping plaza less than a mile from where she was enrolled in classes at the community college, The Novel Cafe seemed a perfect place to work for a girl who spent more time in Starbucks and Barnes and Noble than a classroom.  One of a small but growing chain of bookstores in central and western Pennsylvania, this particular location was the most recent to open its doors.  Considering she patronized them on a virtual daily basis, securing a job there was more than just logical; for Mercy it was a no-brainer.
.        She’d been occupying a table by the window, sipping an iced mango tea limeade and transferring onto the application the names and numbers of personal references from her iPhone address book when a man approached, excusing himself for interrupting and asking if he could use the plug behind her chair.  She placed him in his late twenties, with chestnut curly hair and brown eyes.  The smooth directness with which he spoke, the way he enunciated his words, was executed with such subtle confidence she instantly pegged him for some kind of English teacher.  Later she would discover she wasn’t far off the mark; Keene was actually a writer, and had been published in several literary journals as well as a number of Internet magazines.  After a month of interacting with him, and garnering his full name from his credit card, she looked him up and ordered several back issues of the magazines that contained his work.  From his articles and stories she would cobble together the man for whom she would develop and all-consuming love.
Her first day of work had her on the floor, re-stocking books and becoming acclimated with the many categories of literature.  She ran into Keene in the teen section, his arms full of vampire sagas.
.        “Don’t judge,” he said with an embarrassed smile.  “It’s research for my work.”
.        Between then and now, not an entry in her journal went by without her recording a snappy comeback she could have made.  What she came up with that day was by far the most forgettable.
.        “Campaigning to become president of the Ian Somerhalder fan club?”
.       Lame as it was, it earned her a smile and a chuckle.  She was still appreciating the magic of both when he left the aisle.  Before he did, however, he said to her, “Congratulations on getting the job.”
.        The rest of her shift was spent with the goofiest of smiles on her face, she was so tickled with the idea that he remembered her from two weeks ago, from the smallest of encounters.  It was true she remembered him, but only because she had been instantly attracted.  Obviously he was too, and that fact caused her to not only grin like a simpleton, but bust into a giggle here and there throughout the night, causing one of her grumpier co-workers–an overweight thirty-year-old woman named Sheree with Chucky doll hair and a nose ring that made her resemble Elsie the Borden cow–to mumble miserably, “Weird-o.”
.        But why wouldn’t he find her memorable?  She was young and bubbly, blonde and wholesome, resembling Cheryl Ladd the first time she’d bounced onto the screen as Charlie’s newest angel.  Mercy had her banging body, too, with plump perky breasts, flat stomach and lady shaver advertisement-perfect legs.  Legs she wanted to fling over his shoulders, thighs she wanted to squeeze and lock around his neck, drawing his face into her wetness.
.        She’d never had these kinds of dirty thoughts before.  Keene awakened them in her, and once they’d been animated, there was no silencing them.
.        He came to the counter the first day she’d worked the cafe.  She was learning the register and he spoke to her in his silky voice.
.        “Hello, Mercy.  How’s the job going?”
.         Her heart leapt that he had addressed her by name; then she realized she was wearing a name tag.  Still, it felt great to watch his mouth form her name, to hear it roll off his tongue.  She tingled in her private place.
.        “I love it,” she said with an enthusiastic smile.  “It’s a great place to work.  And seeing people like you make it better.”
.        He’d blushed slightly.  “Thank you.  You’re a day-brightener yourself.”
.        “Thank you,” she responded.  “What can I get for you today?”
.        He got a large coffee and peach danish, and she asked how his research was going.
.        “On to the next project,” he answered.  “Thanks for asking.”
.        Oh, hadn’t they been so polite back then.  Who could have seen that many months down the line they’d be in the rest room, his dick in her mouth?
.        Mercy.  That’s who.