In the pitiless grip of her need, Mewsy’s ridden her bull, and been plumbed. Bits of her intimates cling to her still as she sits up to fumble for the makings of a jazz cigarette. Tybalt roars in his sleep.
How could I ’ve forgotten the noise, she thinks. After all, it’s those earsplitting howls that he makes in his pleasure that’re ‘t least half the reason we moved to the country. Any hope I’d’ve had, when I first saw him tonight, to foil the Front-of-House gossips…
She fishes out papers, and two velvet sachets of Herb, both alas all but empty. She scrapes out the crumbs with great care — just enough for one needle-thin Mademoiselle.
Christ, but he’s better than decent, she smiles. Her fuck-addled eyes suck him up now at leisure. Hercules, gone just a little to seed. The knots of male flesh bulge obscenely, lit by the cherry of her grass dart. She holds the last puff in as long as she can, til its tendrils leak out her nose.
“He’s a damnable cad,” she reminds herself, coughing it out.
But in her tolerant haze the words waft to the ceiling without any rancour — meaningless.
Tybalt rolls over. His dominant haunches make Mewsy’s whole womanhood shiver. A certain old image from Triolay, from the days before anything seemed the matter, springs up full-colour before her. In the hall after church he had tossed her like laundry up onto the wall. As if it were happening now she can see what she saw then — his pulsating rump rounds reflected in the vestibule looking-glass, pumping, and pumping, and pumping her full of him. Mewsy lasciviously grinds her teeth.
She snakes her hand down, down between the great thighs, past his crevice & starfruit, and handles the overripe kiwis beyond. He stirs.
“Can I help you?” he rasps. Who could help but be charmed by that soft sleepy rumble? She palpates him thoroughly, her mouth pressing up to his ear.
“I wanna see my monster work.”
“You’re insatiable. How many times did I drill you? A dozen?”
“Seven,” she says, “And a half.”
“Don’t be cruel.”
“If my memory serves,” she says crisply, “the Great Michaelmas Massacre topped out at six.”
“Did it now.”
“If I can be trusted.”
“And yet, even despite tonight’s masterful, record-breaking coup…”
“It’s because of your… mastery,” Mewsy says evenly, “That I find my appetite whet.”
She lets go and he turns on his side, revealing himself as Gawd made him. Making no attempt to conceal her delight, she leaps out of bed.
“I want to feel the master work,” she gasps, “You mustn’t make me beg.” She’s writhing with fucky desires.
Tybalt sits up on his elbows and smiles at her coolly. “I won’t make you do anything.”
His Splendour is kingly. He swings up to sitting and pats his broad lap, an invitation to mount a familiar steed.
She staggers to meet him, and slickly, unstoppably, two become one.
With the smug little set of his jaw that makes all Mewsy’s greases drain down to the puss, Tybalt stands, with his woman impaled.
“You wanted to see your master at work, is that right?” And he casually starts to stroll.
“Oh Tybby, bébé, dear sweet Gawd, oh my Princely,” she babbles, beside herself, jolted to heaven with each knowing footfall.
“You love being taken for walks by the Boss on a thick leash the length of your forearm.”
“Oh, oh, oh, ohhh…”
“You want me to walk you down into that louche little hall of mirrors you all have so that you and your whore friends can drink it in from all angles?”
“Oh, oh Gawd Tybalt, yes — oh yes! Oh — Christ in Heaven, Tyb — No!”
“You love you a show, little Mewsy. You love when they stand – up – straight – and take notice.” He jostles her, smiling kindly.
“Fuck your mother,” she hisses, and milks him more fiercely from white-hot rage.
“And you’ve still got a premium cunt, still my favourite, A+.”
“You’re a faggot.”
“You’re loose and it’s nice. It feels friendly.”
“You’re such a weak poofter cuck you don’t even know you’ve been left.”
“You’re a very sweet girl, you know, terribly sweet, and I might have to just keep fucking you til you remember that.”
“You disgust me.”
“I love you.”
“Go sit on a spike!”
Tybalt hollers so loud Mewsy’s ears ring, and squindles her. Mewsy surrenders in turn to the waves of her Feminine Crisis. For a moment or two she’s insensate, and utterly free.
They forget themselves. They forget each other.
When the pulsing subsides, Tybalt gently unhooks her and sets her back down in the Best Leatherette.
She reaches out automatically, scrounging the cig-butt he left there before. He walks to the bar cart to fetch her her matches. The spouses regard one another, a lick out of breath still, but matter-of-fact.
“I‘ve moved in —” Tybalt says, “into the studio barn in the back. The foreman, Joe Georgia, has said he could use a good hand on this venture.”
“You’ve…” Mewsy’s eyes bulge unsteadily, swimming with spooge and confusion and reefer.
“I know you’ve got plans that are bigger than Triolay. So I’m trying to meet you halfway.”
“I’ve come for you. Come out and see me whenever you like, Mewsalorca. And don’t bother knocking.”
“You’ve… Tybalt, you’ve — what?”
Tybalt turns and goes out, all bare to the waist, and equally bare from there down.