 Slender, wearing plaid skirt and white blouse, her delicate fingers framing the rim of a steaming cup of coffee held to fresh rouged lips pursed in blowing across liquid surface, she sits. Thought-glazed eyes reflect undulating vapor-rise. She sighs, hunches her shoulders, recalls those rare instances when such quiet was as complete: Without the yammering of children. No demanding husband. Just herself and her thoughts. Her face stares back at her from the glass black oven door. Yes, she can recall those rarest of instances over the years when she had found herself alone with herself, when the thought of fruits and vegetables of a particular heft, shape and smoothness, began to woo her with hypnotic visions of ripe tumescence, pulsating with the promise of wet in-and-outness, beckoning for her to cut loose inhibiting moorings and set sail for the Great Release. Time was, once, seemingly someone else's life ago, she had embraced that voyage. Indeed, she had steered a course to the very heart of the magical whirlpool where she had abandoned herself to its transformational strength, later serving that same satisfying zucchini to her husband for his supper. Time was, once, but not now. Now, she stares at her oven door reflection staring back at her. Sailing nowhere. On no voyage. Sitting. Sitting and staring. Sitting and staring and not thinking. Thoughtless, she rises from her chair at the kitchen table, trudge-steps to zombie cadence down the hall, stops at the front door; her hand upon the knob. Without so much as a look at the watch on her wrist she twists the doorknob, holds for a few-count, now swings open the front door. Her husband's face brightens. "Honey?! My...You...You surprised me." She watches his face turn a shade of devil red, hears him say, "Couldn't wait, huh?" Molly Mele closes her eyes, turns up her cheek, waits for a peck and a squeeze. Billy Mele grabs her lewdly, up underneath her skirt. He snakes his drool-wet tongue more or less into her mouth even as she feels her sensible cotton briefs ripped from her body; her vaginal pink fully displayed; so has his disregard for her too stiff sense of propriety grown to this. For all to see he bends his wife over backwards with his kiss. She betrays herself with feminine wetting, yielding gliding entry to three fingers; her legs spreading for balance and for bliss; wondering which of the neighborhood boys or their fathers are watching, growing hard from her sexual submission. "What's the matter with you?" says Bill Mele sternly from halfway up the hallway. "Shut the door already. You're lettin' out all the G-D heat." Molly Mele blinks, fights to reorient herself back into the ho-hum humdrum of her daily routine. As she enters the kitchen she moves directly to the refrigerator. Billy finishes washing his hands at the kitchen sink and now dries them with the dish towel. Molly opens the refrigerator door, grabs a beer. She half turns with a roll towards her husband, her shoulder nudging the door closed even as she pops the beer can open. She raises the slightly foaming brew to Billy's nose even as he says, "Be an angel an' get me a beer, huh? Oh!?" He looks at her queerly, with squinty eyes. Molly cringes from the sting of his slaps. She falls to her knees to plead for him to stop. But before she can say a word he grabs a handful of her hair and gives her head a shake just to let her know he is in complete control. He makes sure she remains on her knees in order to please his craving for slipping himself in and out of her warm, wet mouth. As Molly gags from the depth of Billy's need to humiliate her at the porch doorway, she peers past tears to spot Old Man Gbber at his window, watching; his slack mole-mottled skin chickenesque; his bone-thin hand on aged phallus mimicking a slap-happy taffy pull; Molly growling as her ejaculatory juices run down her thigh. "YEAH?!" says Billy loudly, peevishly looking at her with menacing scowl. She realizes her mistake. She lowers the beer from under his nose to his waiting hand. "What is it with you today, Molly? You look like...like...I don't know what the hell you look like. Out of it? In a stupor? You feelin' all right?" Too numb to fully comprehend she nods as seems appropriate. Billy pulls out his chair at the table and sits. Molly looks up at the clock, first noticing no one at Old Man Gbber's shade-drawn window. "Yeah, I'm runnin' a little late. Won't be home for dinner. Maybe you can make plans with Helena," he refers to the pleasant senior widowed woman across the street and down three doors. "Maybe catch a movie. Do dinner and a movie. Or shop. Whatever. "Because, Baby..." Billy's eyes glint; a look she has seen many, many times before; a look that says, I'm ready for another sucker punch. Please, somebody put my lights out! "I got me a lead on a new client. Big. I mean, really big. I land this account and we've got it made. "We'll sell this dump. Buy new. Buy big. Buy out in the country. I'm tellin' ya, honey, stick with me an' you'll be fartin' through silk. Oh, yeah...This time it'll/..." Molly stops listening. She has heard this particular scenario so many times as to be able to recite it verbatim. But she does not. She loathes this speech. Just like she does all his speeches. Always so boring. Small time. Such pathetic attempts at grandiose. She does not deserve this. She had suckled the penes of some of the greatest men in history: An Egyptian Pharaoh. A Judean King. Emperors too numerous to count. Royalty galore. Yes, Molly has been a first-rate wife/whore over and over again for millennia for only the most famous men in history. In every past life, at some point in time, be it early on or near death, when she had had this same awareness afflict her as it now has, Molly always considered the repetition was because she would have to repeat the wheel-go-round process until she successfully completed her karmic duty. Only then would she ascend to next higher level. It is understandable that she should now be so distraught and disoriented seeing as she is married to a complete nobody/loser. What happened? What had gone wrong? How had she slipped from previous cosmic cycle of servicing elite males to this more crass caste of man? And what does this fact portend? Molly Mele can think of nothing she had done, could possibly have done, to warrant such demotion. Of course, her past lives are not very clearly remembered; only trace essence of who and how she had been; usually cold, always calculating; the lure of her body a lever to move the course of history this way or that. A vague near-thought swirls into almost configuration; the reason for her fall from karmic station; just a fizz of breathless anticipation replaced with dismal disappointment. "I'M WAITING!" Billy bellows. Molly looks at him with blank expression. "WELL?" She is afraid to ask what it is he is waiting for. To do so is to confess her sin of having stopped listening to him. "Molly? What in Hell is wrong with you lately? Why you wearing that skirt? You look like a school girl, for cryin' out loud." The ring of the phone saves her from further haranguing as Billy moves to answer the bell. "Helena, how are you? Oh, grocery shopping, huh? Okay... I'll tell her. Bye-bye." Billy Mele hangs up the phone, turns to Molly. "Helena said she won't be ready on time. Give her another half hour." Molly nods. He gazes at her, unable to pinpoint just why she seems so strange. True, he has been busy lately. Also true is the fact that their sex life has slowed tremendously since their first year of marriage when getting enough sexual fulfillment had been their only concern. Now, things are not that way. But that is more her fault than his. They have not engaged in any sexual act for almost six weeks; as has become per usual; too many items on Molly's ever present lists of things to do. As for Billy, her repeated rejections in favor of her lists of demands had finally turned the switch of Billy's libido off. He no longer sees her as a sexual being. She has become a robot stuck in busy-work mode, her sexual circuitry burned out. Actually, Billy now sees his wife simply as a robot. More a servant than partner. A pet-like companion. Sexual relations have been relegated to the status of bodily function, that is, done only because of the physical necessity and only then if it cannot be held off any longer; marked on the wall calendar to remind her. Something suddenly stirs inside her husband's mind. The combination of Molly's school girl appearance, her lately pronounced numbness of being, and this new unsettled look of vulnerability blend together to emit a potent aural influence over him. He drops, naked, to his hands and knees and prostrates himself before her. Molly smiles lustily at the sight of this well-muscled Adonis, her mind-eye Billy buffed up and two- thirds his three hundred pounds. She turns her back on him, offers upturned sole of her high-heeled shoe. She cranes her head back and around to watch him suckle her long thin heel until it is dripping wet; just right. He grovel-turns half circle. She pirouettes on the toe of one shoe; the sole of her other shoe delicately comes to rest upon his coccyx with spike heel precisely placed. She wiggles it to test wetness, waits for a sigh, now presses ahead. His howl of pain sounds as a wail of pleasure; both given and received. "Hey?!" shouts Billy from the hallway. "I'm talking to you, Molly! C'mon! Get with it, huh?" Molly Mele's fantasy vision dissolves along with her dominant persona. She pads after her husband with her ego between her legs; a complete stranger to the she she has been through numerous past lives. At the front door, Billy, already half outside, waits for her. She feels his balloonish fingers squeezing both her upper arms, lifting her petite form nearly off the floor as he pulls her close. His cheap imposter cologne makes her queasy. So much so, that when his fat enfolds her body, she nearly wretches. "Now, you try to snap out of it, okay?" says Billy as he sets her down; not a plea at all, but an order. She nods obediently as she wipes away her gag reflex tears with the fleshy palms of both hands and swallows back the half-mouthful of bile that had threatened to spew. She begins to float away, sees herself waving good-bye to Billy as she glides deeper into consideration. He means absolutely nothing to her. She cannot remember why she had ever married him. Or why she liked him, once. Or where they had met. Molly shivers from icy realization: She cannot remember such details because they probably do not exist. Unlike all her other past lives in which she had found herself with ample history (enough to sufficiently position her in one pivotal role after another), this time there is not a single past fact for her to parlay into wealth, power, esteem, devotion. She is owner/sales clerk/stock girl, at her 'Pretty Lady' lingerie boutique at the local mall. Billy sells insurance and invests in dreams. Both smile well and often enough to pay their bills...in order to buy a happy life together...that they have not had in quite some time because they never see each other...because they must spend so much time on their work...so that they can feel good enough about themselves to smile well and often enough to earn their money...to pay out on bills. Nightmarish ennui. Horrific mundanity. The end of the line, when human life is no different than a stone's. Such a state, for some, satori. For others, complete insanity. And, for still others, Hell on Earth, defined. But, for Molly, her life is what it is and she does what she does without question. She pulls her minivan into Helena Arno's driveway. The incredibly good looking widow waves to her from the side doorway. Molly obeys, exits her vehicle and hurries with her cute little-steps prance, immediately identifiable as school girlish in every detail. Upon waiting for Helena to get ready, sitting where she had been offered a seat, Molly looks idly about the impeccably appointed sitting room. As she happens to gaze at the near window she notices something. She squints her eyes. As Molly had thought, between obscuring bushes and trees on three interceding lots, just beyond the outer corner of Delaney's detached garage, there stands her garden trellis. Where Molly so often spends time during the season on her hands and knees working her homemade mulch into her garden soil; in fact, the exact circumstances of Molly and Helena's first meeting. Molly only remotely considers wispy recognition of her usual garden attire: Short shorts. Halter or tube-top. Red vinyl garden clogs. Straw hat and work gloves. Molly does not consciously think to think how such a petite, finely formed woman as her, wearing such minimal clothing while on her hands and knees wiggling this as she is shaking that, as she works her dirt to fecund perfection, might suggest to casual on-looker something other than merely dirty, sweaty work. Molly does not consciously think to think how Helena's explanation for having found her passed out from too much sun exposure never made sense as the view of Molly's garden from the side walk is completely shielded by a twelve foot high hedgerow. Molly likewise does not consciously think to rethink her thoughts regarding the peculiar fact that later she had found an inordinate amount of dirt clinging to her body, her breasts and buttocks in particular, and especially within her labial folds. As her gaze flits off and away, (a visual analogue to mindglide) she cannot help but sense Helena headed straight towards her. Molly turns, sees a nude Helena standing an arm-length away. The widow's body is extraordinary for a woman her age. Molly turns deep red as she just now notices Helena's very real looking rubber phallus held in place with leather harness where she had expected to see plump brown lips midst graying pubic thicket. "Open wide, Dearie," implores a twinkly-eyed Helena as she reaches out and delicately raises Molly's chin. Molly closes her eyes, opens her mouth and relaxes her throat. The woman behind the 'man', so to speak, understands instinctively just how to pace the thrusts, just how to gage the depth of the stroke: At first just slipping the cock head past her lips, then deeper, then deep enough to accommodate full-girth and length, yet so delicately accomplished as to arouse new sensuous awareness of Molly's entire being as wet vaginal barrel. "Ready, Dearie?" Molly is suddenly thrilled to think Helena's very real seeming male organ is so equipped as to provide a virtual reality experience replete with thick, hot, faux semen spurting against the back of her throat. She gazes up, past her tears, just able to make out Helena's shape across the room. "So sorry to keep you waiting, Dearie. What a difficult night I had. Couldn't sleep a wink. Put me off my schedule a bit." All the way to the grocery store, all the time during shopping, all the way home again, and even while all items are stocked away, the pleasant widow has talked non-stop about nothing at all. As Molly waves good-bye and little-steps her way back into the minivan, she feels relief flood through her. Her good deed done, she luxuriates in the reality that she will not have to bear it again for a full week. Unless, of course, she cannot think of a good excuse to get her out of having to accompany Mrs. Arno to Sunday services. But Molly, at this particular point in time, would rather slit her own throat and die dead away. She starts the engine and drives towards home. But her casual thought of suicide is not idly tossed aside. She entertains it for sufficient duration to fully consider the plusses and minuses of such an action. Of course, for Molly, the two obvious advantages are more than enough for her to decide in favor. If she killed herself she would be free of this poor excuse for a life and (and this is the most important reason of all) she could give the wheel of karma another spin. Molly is sure her current condition is an oversight on some god or other's part and surely will be rectified as soon as her soul shows up for re-issuing. After all, while it may be a crap-shoot as regards what form one will possess upon re- issuance of soul, there should be no question as to whether or not that soul ascends due to past deeds. What is done is done. And she is a great soul, has always been. She has inspired great men to accomplish the kinds of amazing feats that fill this world's History books. Her sexual allure had so captivated one pharaoh that he had been compelled to build a monument to the power of her hold over him. Only she knows that contrary to the consensus of learned opinion, the first Egyptian pyramid was constructed not with phallic intention whatsoever. But rather, as cuneatic symbol of male worship of femaliatalia. For with a woman standing over the supine male, the inverted V of the pyramid identifies the negative space of the angle of welcome entry into heaven's realm, into ecstasy; sublimity between a woman's spread legs. Her sexual allure had likewise captured the heart, soul, and mind, of one Chinese Emperor who so adored and revered her that she soon came to personify Mother China herself. Thus did he demand a great wall be constructed as protection of the 'womb' of the Chinese people from impure foreign invasion thrusts. She had been the one whore with Jesus' ear, having, over the course of their many coarse couplings, successfully convinced Him to rebel against the occupation, disrupt the existing order, overthrow the ruling elite. And, upon His cross-hanging execution, she did elicit from Him one final smile with her fingering performance; having shuddered and shook, losing herself to orgasmic quake before His dying eyes, so turned on was she by His bondage and aura of heroticism. If he truly had been the son of God, would not her existence have been eternally assured? Would she not have ascended to highest level; samadhi? For Jesus never could get enough of her oral talents. And, once, had paid by promising her the throne in His Father's kingdom. Or, was Jesus just a man after-all? Promising anything for everything he wanted from her, then reneging on the deal? WWJD, indeed. Because, all she got for her efforts was this lousy life after an unprecedented recycling delay of over two millennia. Sure she has many fond memories of lavishing slow, languid, sucking attention upon Jesus' circumcised penis; such a smooth, lovely, unique presence in her mouth or lolling against her lips; not at all like any of the wrinkle-foreskinned many she had sampled through her various incarnations. So, too is she ever so thankful for Jesus' having mesmerized her into submitting to the authoritative tongue and fingers of Mary Magdalene. For that experience has been the single most sensually exquisite encounter in her many lives; her gushing outcome, newly defining a higher standard for that state of splendid satiation known as orgasm. No wonder she had never climaxed with this husband. Molly does not understand why she had thought what she had just thought. She does not remember the reason that had led her to conclude it was no wonder why she has not had an orgasm with Billy. Although her complete loathing of his body, his career, him, seems to explain very clearly why she has not attained the summit of her sexual peak; not been thrilled to over the brink of breath-catching plummet downslope gliding on ecstasy to that coveted plateau of post-release afterglow. As Molly cruises along in her minivan, absent-mindedly above the speed limit, she decides this life has got to go back. She must exchange this cycle for another one. Besides, her desire for a glide downslope now moves from obsessive to morbific. Molly freezes, feels the unmistakable sensation of a large, hard-bodied insect crawling up her inner thigh. Molly Mele absent-mindedly eases down on the gas pedal of her minivan. Yes, she is absolutely positive that this current cycle must be exchanged for another, more fitting life. For she has great males to influence yet. She just knows she does. It is in her karma. Something went wrong last time. Molly feels very good. Better than she has in this whole life. She is sure. Serene. She is travelling much too fast for this road. But she is only aware of the adrenaline rush released by the speed, of its effect between her legs. It now strikes Molly Mele just how unfair this foul-up has been. For ever since she came in the mouth of Mary Magdalene she has gone without a good, interpersonal climax. The speed-high sensitizes her genitalia, quickens her pulse to erotic throbbing. She squeezes her thighs together attempting to squeeze herself off. But Molly needs a tongue, cock, squash or dildo, inside her. She will settle for fingers. She craves fingers. She is already reaching up under her school girl skirt and inside her wet panties. She thrills to fingers entering so smoothly, her wetted thumb caressing the spot. Her head rolls back. Her eyes close. She begins to sing her song of release, a building squeal of delight. Molly freaks to feeling the unmistakable sensation of a large hard-bodied insect quick-crawl across her thumb, down along her fingers just as she growls with a forceful spraying ejaculation, missing the stop sign, never seeing the fully loaded dump truck that mangles the minivan and kills Molly instantly. Used-to-be Molly Mele savors sweet vindication as she is restored to the proper rung of her karmic climb to Nirvana and her spiritual reunion with the Brahma. She knows this to be true by the many unmistakable signs displayed by every alpha male in the vicinity. She is powerful, has her pick of the very best among the very best. Her sleek body elicits lust even as her narcotic pheromones drive them into frenzy. They will do anything to have her. She sees the one best suited to her purpose and allows him to choose her. Side by side roaches scurry off to mate. Her chosen alpha male grows hard, mounts Molly-no-more, communicates to her his dreams. She listens, knows he can do better. Excerpted from, Vulgarian Goulash By Steven Lance available at www.Amazon.com or www.BarnesandNoble.com; contact the author at: slfornal@hvi.net.
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