Introduction When the powers-that-be first suggested that we center the sixth Herotica collection around a theme, I went wild with ideas: Sex in Uniforms. Chicks with Dicks. Hairy Heroines. Orgies. Said powers considered all my suggestions and then came back with their own: Committed Relationships. Huh? It was a theme, they said, that would appeal to the large number of women seeking erotic fiction to share with their lovers. Women were looking for stories that would serve to enhance their sexual relationships with long-term partners -- stories that might give hints on how to keep the home fires burning beyond The Seven Year Itch, Lesbian Bed Death, kids, careers and hectic schedules. The Herotica(r) series is known for being eclectic: in fact, Kirkus Reviews noted that the stories in Herotica 5 "have little in common with one another beyond their use of explicit erotic material." The comment was neither unkind nor inaccurate: The Herotica(r) books have always contained a mix of raunchy and romantic, hard-core and soft. I worried -- unnecessarily, as it turned out -- that the seeming confinement of Committed Relationships might lead to a homogenous collection that would be anything but eclectic. Although in my personal experience sex has always been better within the safety of a committed relationship -- as trust builds so does my willingness to expose my quirks, fantasies and desires -- my professional experience has been quite the opposite. Having edited two previous Herotica books, screened fiction for On Our Backs , and taught sex writing, I thought I'd pretty much seen how erotic writers handled this subject: They'd invariably set up a hot scenario in a hotel or bar or dark alley, and in the end would deliver the "surprise": "It was actually my husband/lover/girlfriend giving me the best birthday present of my life!" Hell, I'd even written those kinds of stories myself. I also worried that I'd be deluged by flowery paeans to heterosexual monogamy, and that the sex would read like a romance novel. I fully expected it to take years to accumulate enough hot quality stories to constitute an anthology. I was in for an awakening when, months later, I sat down with a box of 200-something manuscripts, reached inside, and pulled out "Neighborhood Round Robyn," the first story in this collection. I laughed out loud reading this clever tale of a suburban housewife innocently causing a chain reaction that arouses and transforms the whole neighborhood; I was amazed that a story revolving around an ordinary heterosexual couple managed to convey an almost pansexual sensibility. I reached into the box again -- and came up with "The Album," a story of genderbending and fantasy play between two long-term partners. Talk about pansexual sensibility! "We've acted out a lot of our fantasies," says the narrator. "We've been girlfriends and boyfriends. We've traded genders. We've done bondage and S/M in exotic scenarios. But it's always been just the two of us. When we're brutally honest with each other, we need and want the security of monogamy." By this time I was thoroughly jazzed; I picked up a third manuscript and sat transfixed by the heartbreaking -- and taboo-breaking -- "Mourning the Peasant." I'd read just three stories and they were all in the "Yes" pile, an unprecedented occurrence. I went for a walk and ruminated on this unexpected development. I am prone to a psychological process that shrinks refer to as "globalization:" I tend to draw vast philosophical conclusions from a small sampling of information. On the basis of these three wildly different and unique pieces of fiction, my overactive mind began spinning an entire philosophy about the role that love, commitment and longevity play in peoples' sex lives. I realized I should not have been surprised to find creativity and hot sex permeating stories about committed relationships: Such partnerships do, after all, provide the stability that enables people -- particularly women -- to explore their sexuality within the context of safety and security. As the narrator says in "June's High Holy Day," "This trust was a big deal. I'm really not inclined to put myself in vulnerable positions; in fact I've only done so with June, and only in our most intimate moments." That committed relationships can provide deep and satisfying sexual experiences should not have come as a revelation. As I said, this has certainly been my own personal experience -- I'm more likely to share my most elaborate, secret fantasies with long-term lovers rather than with one-night stands. And the stories in this collection aren't only about couples sharing fantasies, but about acting them out. Now, this is fiction, and we don't know what, if anything, is based on real experience -- nor does it matter: The point is that these writers are able to imagine and portray sexual relationships in which committed partners have as much or more fun than bed-hoppers. They don't make the assumption that diminished passion is the inevitable price we pay for comfort and companionship. They don't think that sustaining a life-enhancing partnership and fucking like slut bunnies are mutually exclusive. Of course, not every story in my pile of manuscripts was wonderful -- there were those that didn't fire my imagination and/or libido; there always are. But by the time I'd finished reading through the stack, I had a respectable "Yes" pile. Admittedly, some of these stories employ the old "Surprise, I knew him all along!" ending, but that was inevitable. And, yes, many of the stories are romantic -- another inevitability -- but let's face it, a healthy dose of romance is a turn-on to most women. There are more birthdays and anniversaries celebrated within these pages than in previous Herotica(r) collections, an interesting commentary on commitment. And a couple of the stories deal with the death of loved ones. I think what surprised me most, though, was an expanded idea of commitment. In "Three Note Harmony," the bonds of friendship are tested and strengthened. "Blue Moon Over Paradise" gives new meaning to what we think of as loyalty. In "Always," the practice of "managed faithfulness," as the narrator calls it, leads to a loving extended family. "Mourning The Peasant" pushes the boundaries of "committed relationships" beyond couplehood, beyond marriage, beyond the traditional nuclear family. These stories remind us that committed relationships aren't always about couplehood, even when we're talking about sex. Keeping Sex Alive So how do women keep sex alive in committed relationships? Various self-help books give advice such as playing gimmicky board games to open avenues of communication; exchanging elaborate candlelit massages; spicing things up now and then with an X-rated video; greeting hubby at the door wrapped in cellophane, as the Kathy Bates character did in Fried Green Tomatoes . Not one story in this collection relies on those clichés. Rather, they delve into real life experiences, where sex is an expression of abiding love, loyalty or acceptance; they show sex as a tool of discovery, comfort and renewal; they employ sex as a vehicle for working through "negative" feelings like anger and grief. Even those that are strictly about reviving a failing sex life or keeping a good one going are rooted in the dynamics of the relationship. The characters in all these stories test, stretch and deepen their connection to one another through sex. Put that cellophane back where it belongs, honey -- on leftovers! Genderbenders, Pansexuals, and Switch-Hitters One of the things I like about editing the Herotica(r) books is that when it comes to sexual orientation or preference, we're an equal opportunity series. Every collection has contained a mix of heterosexual, lesbian, bisexual and transsexual stories. As the narrator says in "Three Note Harmony": "Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. Cherry Garcia. Macadamia Nut Brittle. Which to choose? Isn't it ironic that we're allowed 31 flavors of ice cream, yet only one flavor of sexuality?" It's notable that this collection boasts five stories I'd call "pansexual," that is, they don't fall neatly into any of the above categories. In "Neighborhood Round Robyn," people with diverse erotic proclivities are aroused by everyone else. "Three Note Harmony" involves a woman and two men, while in "Always" it's two women and a man. "Being Met" and "The Album" are about couples who do "genderfuck," that is, switch gender identity through the use of props or merely attitude. Even two of the ostensibly heterosexual stories, "Snooping" and "Simple Gifts," involve reversal of stereotypical sex roles. Could it be that, as a society, we're becoming more flexible with regard to gender identity and sexual orientation, that we can slip in and out of roles with the flick of a leather whip? If we choose to look at cultural trends through the prism of women's erotica -- as good a prism as any -- we find that the species is becoming more fluid in this area. True, women who write erotica are a special breed, and those who write cutting edge sex comprise an even smaller group; but while it's always a minority who explore the far reaches of consciousness and behavior, the rest of the culture does crawl along behind. Witness the popularization of S/M, now openly promoted on billboards where a cheery dominatrix pushes Altoid mints as delivering a pleasurable kind of pain. Would such an ad have come into being without the work of Pat Califia and other S/M pioneers, people most mint-chewers have never even heard of? Similarly, the dialogue around gender fluidity has been pushed forward by the emergence of a transgender movement. Transsexualism is fast becoming the movie flavor of the month. Intersexed people are beginning to make noise: Trust me, you'll be hearing a lot more about this group in the near future. I foresee a time when people will be able to be female for a day, a year, a decade, and then be male, whether it involves surgery and hormones or merely a change of clothing. I don't expect it to happen in my lifetime, but I do expect it to happen. Gender Identity and Fiction One of the writers' conferences in an online service I subscribe to is called "Writing the Opposite Sex," a topic in which fiction writers discuss the ways that women write men and vice versa. In all my years of editing erotica, I've always been able to tell when a story came from a man using a female pseudonym. Not so this time: I actually had to ask one contributor who'd used initials for her full name to indicate her gender, despite the fact that her characters were lesbian. Similarly, one of the stories in this collection is written from a male point of view. In this case I know the author personally and can vouch for her gender -- but I'm not so sure it would be obvious on a cold reading. This question of writing as the opposite sex is one that's plagued fiction writers since time immemorial, probably since Lady Murasaki penned the first known novel. Male writers seemingly had no qualms about drawing female characters or even writing as women: Sometimes they hit the mark, but more often they failed dismally. Before the Third Wave of feminism, women frequently wrote under male pseudonyms simply to get published. At the height of the women's movement, there was a burst of energetic fiction from women, often portraying men rather badly as they released a minefield of anger; at the same time, men were criticized for daring to presume they knew how to write from a female perspective. Here in the so-called post-feminist era, we're all calming down a bit, and recognizing that, just as a skilled writer must be able to write about characters who inhabit other times, places and cultures, so too must we learn to write about those who inhabit bodies different from our own. Erotic writers seem to be moving in that direction -- we're all getting better at this. We're getting better at imagining ourselves in one another's shoes, or rather, bodies and minds. Through reading and writing about sex and sexual relationships, we're learning more about how the opposite gender feels and thinks. I'll go even further and say that writing sex, because it's so charged with intensity, has the potential to teach us a great deal about characterization in fiction. College writing classes and workshops might benefit from the experience and skills of erotic writers. They might even use erotic writing exercises as a way of teaching their students the potential of imaginative experience. Eclecticism Rules! So here we are, having chosen a theme, and Herotica 6 ends up being an eclectic mix after all. Some stories are good old-fashioned jackoff material, while others are complex pieces of literary fiction. By offering a variety of stories, we represent the wide range of women's sexual desires and imaginations. Readers of erotica tend to skip around anthologies, to dip and choose and return to old favorites. By remaining diverse, we offer something for almost everyone -- and, not so coincidentally, spark new ideas and notions of what is possible and permissible in bed. And to think that all this came from that humdrum theme of committed relationships. Marcy Sheiner Emeryville, California October 1998 Chapter One Mel Harris * * * Neighborhood Round Robyn Robyn Pearson could not think of his mouth on her body without emitting a little pleasure-filled gasp. It could come at any moment -- at the supermarket, driving to work, or getting her hair done. Once it had even happened at the dentist's while she was having her teeth cleaned. The dentist kept asking her if anything was wrong, but all she could do was blush and shake her head. The lingering kiss she'd given her husband Cliff as he'd left for work that day had promised more to come. Ten years of marriage, and she still fantasized about him every day. Today was her day off and she just wanted to lounge by the pool. The pool had been the selling point for her and Cliff when they'd bought this house six months earlier. They loved swimming, especially skinny-dipping, but they'd had to put it off until they could get a privacy fence erected. It was too easy for their water play to get out of hand; they'd barely made it into the cabana the last time they'd had a late night swim. Robyn changed into her "tanning" suit -- an old, faded two-piece that was stretchy and comfortable -- picked up a novel and a mug of iced tea, and headed for the pool. As she positioned the chaise lounge for the best sun, she noticed construction noises coming from the Harolds' house across the street. Shading her eyes for a moment, she watched the handsome construction worker putting the finishing touches on the new sunroom. Marge and Harvey Harold had a beautiful two-story home and were quite well-to-do, but Robyn wasn't envious. She'd seen Marge Harold wandering around, drink in hand, looking lost and lonely. And she rarely saw Harvey home until late at night. Robyn turned her attention to smoothing suntan lotion over her exposed skin. Satisfied, she lay back on the lounge and picked up her novel. Derek Collins lifted the piece of redwood siding onto the outer wall of the Harolds' sun room and nailed it in place. He'd be glad to finish this job. Oh, the Harolds were polite and all, and the job certainly paid well. But the hungry look Marge Harold gave him when she thought he wasn't looking made him uneasy. Right now, he was enjoying the relative peace and quiet of the morning. He never saw Mrs. Harold until after lunch; she was probably sleeping off her hangover. Derek picked up another piece of redwood and laid it out on the sawhorses. Glancing up he saw Robyn Pearson, across the street, getting ready to lie by her pool. He sighed. It had been some time since he'd been with a woman who really enjoyed herself. Trying not to be too obvious, he continued to watch the sunbather as she stretched out on the lounge and settled back to enjoy her book. Robyn Pearson was the only interesting person in this neighborhood, what with lonely Mrs. Harold and her strange neighbor Perry who lived next door. Perry Traynor's house was situated just to the right of the Harolds' new sunroom, and he often came out to chat with Derek. Perry was friendly enough -- a little too friendly for Derek. He seemed to have that same hungry look in his eye as Mrs. Harold. Derek shook his head. "I guess everybody's got to be some place," he thought. Mostly he just wanted to finish this job and get paid. He returned to measuring the board on his sawhorse. Perry Traynor sat at his desk in his short silk robe, his head in his hands. He'd been sitting there for nearly an hour trying to come up with an idea for a story he was supposed to write for a gay men's erotic magazine. It was due tomorrow. He wasn't particularly thrilled to be writing those kinds of stories, but it paid the bills and allowed him to stay home to work on his novel. He was going to be a great published author someday, but right now he needed a story, and every idea he'd come up with so far was so ... routine . Perry stared listlessly out the window in front of him and saw Derek Collins lifting a board into place on the Harolds' sunroom wall. Perry had engaged Derek in several conversations over the adjoining fence, but he could tell that Derek was strictly hetero and only making polite talk with him. Oh well, it didn't hurt a guy to try. He watched as Derek stood at his sawhorse -- but Derek seemed thoroughly engrossed in something across the way. Perry followed Derek's gaze until he saw Robyn Pearson settling in by her pool. "No wonder you can't concentrate on your work, Tool Man," he muttered. Robyn would certainly keep Derek's attention better than that lonely Mrs. Harold. In fact, it seemed to Perry that Robyn Pearson was the only person in this neighborhood who was really happy. Not like that poor Tracy Parks across the street -- she came out of her house just long enough to retrieve her mail, and she never looked up or said hello. And no wonder with that husband of hers, Dick. Dick-less was more like it, Perry thought. He could tell from the bruises and occasional swollen lip on Tracy that her husband knew nothing of a tender touch. Perry sighed again. Well, Derek was a pleasant distraction for him. "If I can't work, I might as well enjoy the scenery," he thought to himself as he sat back in his chair and watched Derek work. Tracy Parks stood in front of the open refrigerator. She was supposed to be fixing the lunch Dick had ordered her to make before he'd left for work. She leaned over and rummaged around in the vegetable bin -- enough for a salad with a sandwich. She took out a head of lettuce and tossed it in the sink. She didn't want to feed Dick Parks lunch, she wanted to feed him poison. A cucumber, two small carrots and a zucchini followed the lettuce into the sink. Just that morning, she'd decided she was going to leave Dick tomorrow, right after he left for work. She'd had enough of his coarse, disgusting behavior. He treated his truck better than he treated her. He never let her out of the house, even with her girlfriends, always suspicious she'd hook up with some guy. She turned on the faucet, picked up the head of lettuce and slammed it on the counter. Grabbing the core, she yanked it out and threw the lettuce back in the sink to drain. She knew she wasn't Einstein, but she was decent and hardworking, and she knew she could do better than Dick Parks. She started peeling the cucumber. Maybe she wouldn't even hook up with a guy; she'd had enough of men. Maybe she could find a guy who wouldn't want anything from her except companionship. A guy like that Perry who lived across the street. She knew he was gay, but she saw the sweet way he served coffee to his friends who occasionally slept over. He'd even waved and said hello to her once, but she'd looked away and quickly retreated to her house. Tracy picked up a carrot and started peeling it furiously as she thought about her escape from Dick. Maybe some day, after enough time, she would find a man like the one Robyn Pearson had. Now there was a husband. She saw the way Cliff Pearson looked at his wife and the way he held her before going off to work. She saw the flowers he brought home, too. She threw the carrots into the drainer and picked up the zucchini to scrub. Some day ... Robyn put down her book and reached for the mug of iced tea. The sun was definitely doing its job. She took a long drink of tea. Condensation from the mug dripped onto her breasts and ran down her cleavage. God, that felt good. Reaching into the mug, she fished out an ice cube and rubbed it along the length of her cleavage. When that cube melted, she retrieved a couple more and popped them in her mouth briefly before removing them and slipping one in each cup of her swimsuit top. She then got another and slid it into her bottoms. As the ice melted, the cold water trickled down around her nipples and through her pubic hair, finding its way to what Cliff referred to as her "Secret Ridge." Robyn made a mental note to have Cliff do this to her next time. Still smiling, she lay back and closed her eyes. The reading and the sun had made her sleepy. Derek was carefully measuring the last piece of redwood for the sunroom when a movement in Robyn's direction caught his eye. Looking up he saw her take a long drink from a mug, beads of water falling on her breasts. His mouth watered from his own thirst and he stepped behind the Harolds' fence. He knew he shouldn't be watching, but his eyes were riveted to Robyn as she smoothed an ice cube over her skin. His tool belt tightened uncomfortably, and he realized he was swelling. He adjusted the belt, but the swelling continued as he watched Robyn slip more ice cubes into her top and then into her bottoms. He groaned as she patted that last cube just where she wanted it. What he wouldn't give to be that ice cube! Her lazy smile told him she was thinking some very pleasant thoughts. Derek shifted his jeans, his zipper biting into him, but the more he adjusted, the harder he got. He lifted his tool belt, rested it on his hip bones, then carefully unzipped his jeans. His penis, eager for air, strained at his boxers, and he quickly freed himself from them as well. He looked down at his one-eyed buddy, now waving wildly in the air. "Jeez, has it been that long?" he wondered aloud. "Pretty soon you're going to jump out and find it on your own!" He reached down and quieted himself with his hand, focusing on Robyn again. By now she had drifted off to sleep, the wet spots dark on her suit where the ice had melted, her nipples pulled taut from the cold. Robyn shifted and rolled onto her side. Derek's penis jumped in his hand as she revealed the curve where the back of her thigh met her buttock, that tender, dark highway to heaven where her bottoms nearly disappeared. It was the tastiest morsel on the buffet, as far as he was concerned. His buddy was doing its dance in his hot hand, and he knew it wouldn't be long now. He was just trying to hang on ... In her upstairs bedroom, Marge Harold stirred. Her head felt like it weighed fifty pounds and her throat felt stuffed with cotton. She went into her bathroom, washed her face and brushed her teeth, avoiding the mirror. Finished, she returned to the bedroom. At least she could swallow now. Sitting at the vanity, she picked up a brush and ran it through her hair. She saw that she still had on the green silk nightie and sighed. She'd intended to seduce Harvey last night, but it had gotten later and later and she'd had too much to drink while waiting for him. She sighed again, and wondered if Harvey stayed at work so late to avoid her. It wasn't that he didn't love her, or so he said. But he was always working. There was that time, years ago, when she'd made dinner and taken it down to Harvey's office. He'd been surprised, and she'd made him part of the meal. She rubbed her belly remembering the mango and fresh peach she'd eaten off him, finishing with that incredible chocolate mousse that she'd served to his delicate waiting tongue. Marge sighed again. That had been so long ago. She stood up and went to the window that directly overlooked the new sunroom. She'd hoped the work would have taken a little longer, but she knew from Derek's attitude that he wasn't anxious to linger. Noticing that the hammering and sawing were strangely absent, she wondered if he was through. He'd ring the bell when he was, she concluded, and went back to brushing her hair. Perry ripped another sheet out of his typewriter and crumpled it in frustration. Three sentences and it was already dreck . He threw the crumpled sheet on the floor. He had to get this finished. He picked up another sheet and fed it into the typewriter. As he was adjusting the paper, he happened to notice Derek. Perry's eyes widened. Leaning forward, he rubbed them and looked again. At first he thought Derek was relieving himself in the bushes, but he quickly realized that Derek Collins was holding an erection in his hand. And what a beauty it was, glistening in the sun like the muscles on his delicious back. And that waving thing it was doing. My god, it had a mind of its own! Perry soon felt himself pulse and, as he looked down, his cock poked out of his robe. He stared at it and it waved back at him. "Oooh, Junior," he cooed, "I'm gonna put you to good use. Just like Hammer Boy and his tool." Perry giggled and slowly ran his hands down his thighs and then back up again, stopping at his erection. He watched Derek's hand moving along his flushed shaft, sliding it slowly up and down, all the while keeping his eye on Robyn. Perry looked over at Robyn, but all he could see was the gentle mound of the back side of her hips. He returned his gaze to Derek, who appeared to be having a hard time keeping a grip on himself. Perry's erection pulsated. "You must be looking at something very special, Derek," he crooned. Tracy had just finished peeling the carrots and was reaching for the zucchini when she looked up and saw Perry Traynor through the open window of the den, sitting at his desk. Something strange was going on; she squinted to get a clearer view. Suddenly her mouth dropped open. In Perry's lap stood a sturdy erection. Perry leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands up and down his thighs, coming to rest on his penis. Tracy shut off the faucet, realizing she'd practically scrubbed a hole through the zucchini. Quickly glancing around the kitchen, she spied a barstool and dragged it over in front of the sink. She unfastened her shorts and slid them to the floor along with her panties. Climbing onto the stool, she perched herself, looking out the window. This was one show she wasn't going to miss. Perry was still in the same position, his hand moving more quickly now. Tracy propped her legs up on the sink, hooking her heels over the edge. Keeping a clear view of Perry, she reached over and picked up the freshly peeled cucumber. It felt cool and delicious sliding in. She tensed her thighs and waves of pleasure ran up her legs and into her belly. By now, Perry was leaning back in his chair, his robe open. His intense concentration and the rippled flexing of his abdomen excited her even more. She slid out the cucumber and reached for the zucchini, which was longer and slightly swollen at one end. Derek knew that it would only be a matter of seconds before he would be adorning the Harolds' shrubbery. With his free hand, he braced himself against the fence, still staring at Robyn. She shifted slightly, but it was just enough to cause her right nipple to pop out of her top -- as if he'd reached over and freed it with his own fingers. It was all he could take. Derek's abdomen tightened in spasms and he shuddered violently as he spattered the shrubbery and fence, spraying the Harolds' azaleas. Perry gasped as Derek leaned forward against the fence, giving him an even better view of his full staff. Perry's own erection strained in his hand. That prickly hot rush in his thighs told him he was close on Derek's heels. He pushed apart his robe -- no sense in staining good silk -- and emitted a long, low moan as he watched Derek lean forward, legs braced, buttocks tight, and erupt all over the Harolds' fence. Perry reached down with his free hand to cup and massage his velvet pouch, now rippled and tight. "AARRRagghhhh," he cried, falling back in the chair as he shot come all over his thighs. In his intense pleasure, he didn't notice he had leaned back so far that the chair was falling. He landed on the ottoman behind him, which fortunately softened his fall as he continued to orgasm. The zucchini had been the right choice. Tracy moved it inside her, bringing herself to the edge, Perry's action furiously spurring her on. She spied the peeled carrots and braced her heels firmly on the sides of the sink. Taking the small carrots in her free hand, she slipped one on either side of her tumescent reed, the fresh coolness and the friction causing it to swell. Slow firm strokes with the carrots brought her dangerously close to the edge of that wonderful chasm of pleasure. Suddenly she laughed out loud. She'd take a vegetable over Dick any day! Just then she saw Perry lean back, reach down, and squeeze himself as he shot into the air. Tracy slid the zucchini part way out and then, in one last stroke, the carrots gripping her clit, she gave the final push over the edge, the zucchini bucking wildly. Oh, how she loved her greens. Upstairs, Marge Harold had finished brushing her hair. Curious as to why she still hadn't heard anything from Derek, she went over to the window and pushed back the drapes. Where was he? She was about to turn and go into the shower when she gave one last look directly below her window. "My god," she whispered as her hand flew to her mouth. Derek Collins, gleaming erection in hand, was coming all over her redwood fence. She watched as Derek waited for his erection to go down enough to fit back into his jeans. Straightening himself, he picked up the last board from the sawhorses and nailed it to the sunroom wall. Marge inhaled sharply; she hadn't been breathing. Without thinking, she picked up the phone and dialed Harvey's office. She tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for his secretary to connect her. "Hello -- Marge?" Harvey sounded surprised. Marge rarely called him at the office. "Yeah, Harv, it's me," she said breathlessly. "Listen, I've been thinking about bringing you dinner at the office. Something delicious." "Marge, is everything okay?" "Oh yeah, Harv. It's more than okay. I was just thinking about you and the last time we had dinner at your office ... remember?" "Mmmm," Harvey moaned softly. "Do I remember? I didn't know you could do so much with chocolate mousse." Marge giggled. "Well, wait 'til you see the menu tonight." "I'm looking forward to it. Can you be here by seven?" "No problem. And Harv?" "Yeah?" "I've missed you, and I want to make up for it tonight." "I can't wait," Harvey breathed softly into the phone. Perry giggled at himself; feet in the air, erection spent. What a trip! He rolled over, stood up and picked up his chair. Straightening his robe, he sat down and began typing furiously. Tracy sat there, her heels still hooked over the sink, her legs trembling. As soon as she was able, she got up and put on her panties and shorts. She was slicing the last of the cucumber into the salad when Dick walked through the door and growled, "Where's my lunch?" Setting the bowl down on the table in front of him she said sweetly, "I've made you a sandwich and here's a nice salad to go with it. The dressing's already on it." "Salad? Goddamn rabbit food," he grumbled, but he picked up a fork and began to eat it anyway. Tracy quickly turned her back and began washing the dishes. It was a moment before Robyn realized that something was blocking her sun. Sleepily she opened her eyes and smiled. Cliff was standing there. He reached down and stroked her exposed nipple with his finger. "Looks like one of your girlfriends is winking at me," he said. She rubbed her eyes and laughed. "The other one wants you to visit her, too," she replied, holding it up for him. Cliff looked around. "I wish we had that privacy fence up," he said. "I'd slide the lounge over and let you slip right out of that suit and into the pool." "Mmmm ... then what, Mr. Pearson?" "Well, Mrs. Pearson," he said, sitting on the edge of the lounge and wiggling his finger into the leg of her bottoms, "you'd just have to let me surprise you." Cliff looked around again. "Hey, what about that guy over at the Harolds'? I hear he's pretty good with a tool. Maybe I can go over and talk to him about building the fence." "I don't know," Robyn replied. "I think he might be done. I haven't heard a sound in quite awhile." Copyright © 1999 Marcy Sheiner. All rights reserved.
