Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

“Oh, Nana.” Rose smiled. She leaned right down to adjust her pumps, and as she did so, she put her hand against her bosom, so that only the upper swell of her breasts was visible. She tossed her claret hair. “My,” said Rose, “what big eyes you’ve got, Nana.”

“Research shows,” said Nana, idly, standing up and bringing the champagne, “that the larger your eyes are, the better you can see.”

“Really?” Rose took the glass, and extracted a few sips. “And does research tell me why you’re wearing my grandmother’s French perfume?”

“It tells me she’s not your grandmother. Way too young.”

“True. It’s our joke, hers and mine. When we met, you see, she said, Now, Rose, stop that—I’m old enough to be your grandmother. Now you understand. So, tell me why the perfume?”

“Because she left it for me, in the guest bathroom. Along with the nail polish.”

Rose observed the nails of Nana. “‘Savage Sunset,’” deduced Rose. “Like the lips. Blood red. Mmm. Have you been biting and clawing? Have you been eating someone?”

“I admit, I like to eat women.”

“Poor, helpless, older women, all alone in their humble homes.”

“And little girls in short red dresses.”

“Oh, Nana, what big teeth you have.”

“Forget about the teeth. Look at the tongue.”

Rose lowered her eyes.

Nana, in her high black heels, now towered over her. Rose swayed toward Nana, pliant, almost confiding.

“Do you know, Nana, there’s this bulge—just there. Yes, just where I have my hand. Are you pleased to see me?”

“Extremely pleased.”

“Yes, you do seem pleased.”

Rose slipped her hands around Nana’s buttocks and massaged them and pulled them inward. She rubbed against the mysterious bulge in Nana’s satin groin, back and forth, back and forth.

Nana tilted back her head and closed her eyes.

Nana was feeling very near the edge again.

It had started as she shaved herself and creamed herself, and it got more and more as she dressed in the cool shivery silk and it slithered and shivered all over her, and kept on slithering and shivering and slithering, teasing at her, and then the warm, tactile silicone padding, of the brassiere rubbed on her nipples, her male nipples, which were the nipples of none other—what a shock!—than Wolf. And by the time the stockings were hooked to the garter belt, it was with enormous—enormous being the absolutely right word—difficulty that Wolf packed his rampant and colossally aroused penis into the satin and lace modesty pouch.

“If you keep on at that, Rose, I’m not going to be able to hold on to myself—”

Rose shook her head with surprise, and ran her arms all up him, all up Nana, and lifting herself up his body, by some magical acrobatic feat, somehow lifted up Nana’s skirt as she came, and wriggled down the pouch, so out popped the gigantic rearing waving almost howling snake, red-hot to bursting. And supporting herself on his shoulders, while Wolf-Nana held her up by his hands cupping the smooth round little curves of her bottom, Rose sank on to the snake, absorbed it deep within her divine recesses, and so began to dance.

“Oh, Nana—how big—how big—”

Wolf pushed hard against and into her. He must think of other things. Not silk, not being danced upon. Not her wonderful enfolding vagina, that had him now as if it would never let him out. And not—decidedly not—about the white breasts rising up now from the neck of the dress, blinking their two adorable shy pink eyes at him, going in again, creeping up again, appearing, vanishing, and creeping up—

Think about the wood.

Think about the city.

Think about the stars.

But the wood is all thick and twinkling with white, half-naked young women, their breasts playing hide-and-seek, their naked bottoms filling the hands, and their legs wrapped tight around the waist where the corset is, and the silk, and the brassiere above, tweaking him innocently so two ravenous little stars ignite there, and Rose is throwing back her head, her neck is arched, her breasts rise like two moons, first with a faint flush, and then with her nipples all bare and upright, and he is going to, again—going to—

Think of the moon.

The moon is a breast.

Think of—think—of—the subway—

A tunnel, lined with wet eager velvet—clinging, surging—the train is—coming—

Think—

“Oh, Wolf—faster—”

He is on the couch—did they fall?—and she is on top of him, and he is thrusting and thrusting her home upon him, with his hands on her bottom, and her dress is just a red rope around her middle, and her breasts tickle his lips, and he is nuzzling them, and now she is gasping, and now giving a little sound nearly like the start of the first word of a sentence—Oh, come, Rose, come, oh, come into the garden, Maud—oh, Rose, Rose, come before it’s too late—

And then she comes.