IT’S NOT THE SIZE THAT COUNTS
Tang, tang, ting, tang… The metallic notes poured dreamlike into the warmness of her bed like a voice singing erotic songs to her while she slept.
Again, Melanie woke with the feeling that she had been watched through the night. Not just watched, but adored. Maybe even lusted after. It had been occurring more frequently, this queer, exciting, clandestine feeling, but on this particular morning the feeling was accompanied by phenomenon that could not be blamed merely on wishful dreaming — this morning she woke with her t-shirt pulled up over her breasts, and her right nipple was moist with saliva.
She sat erect, protectively cupping her breasts in her hands, and peered pensively around the room. The windows were locked as always, the bedroom door closed. There was no way for anyone to get into the room without her knowing it, anyone who wasn’t there already — meaning her lethargic husband Keeth. He lay beside her, snoring through his nostrils like a whistling antique kettle.
She was puzzled and a little frightened.
Before putting coffee water on to boil, Melanie double-checked the doors and windows throughout the house. There were no telltale signs of forced entry. No chipped paint or scrape marks around the hinges. Not a clue. No, this fellow was crafty. Ingenious, perhaps. She knew that she had been molested during the night.
And she liked it.
She laughed quietly at herself. Yeah, she thought, I liked it. She liked it in the same way that she had liked smoking cigarettes under the bleachers during football games in high school, and French-kissing Tony Glassman in the barn when his girlfriend Charlene was just three stalls down, bitching about the smell of the manure. And shoplifting candy from Carpy’s Corner when she was12. Back in her wild days, when there was still a cauldron of adventure seething inside of her. Back when things didn’t need to be so damned black and white.
Was it the chance of getting caught that made those things so exciting? The fear, the unknown, the mystery? The thrill of being naughty and getting away with it?
In another time, she might have wished that it were Keeth seducing her in her sleep. Another time, long ago, but certainly not anymore. Years had come and gone since their passions had consumed them. Their lovemaking had all but dwindled, from prolonged, sweaty bouts in the arena of their bed to an occasional word of pretended affection across the table at breakfast and a few kind words before bed at night. Sex was the furthest thing from Keeth’s mind, or hers.
This was something different entirely. This was something irresistibly wrong.
Thoughts materialized. She could almost envision a face… A dark haired intruder with mysterious green eyes, as handsome and debonair as Errol Flynn, as devilish as Jack Nicholson. An ethereal, nocturnal visitor comprised from the essence and substance of night itself, exercising his own bizarre sexual rituals at her expense. It was both eerie and perverse. But, god, how she enjoyed this macabre seduction after the years of inactivity in the bedroom. It was in all ways forbidden. The thought of someone in her bedroom at night sucking on her nipples while she slept should have been cause for alarm, for her or for any woman. But, strangely, she was not scared or angry, and did not feel violated — not really. Not after experiencing multiple orgasms for the first time in her life.
Melanie took the Italian sausage from the refrigerator and began to slice, smiling to herself. “What is wrong with me?” she asked herself, absentmindedly.
Through the next week, from the moment she rose from bed each morning, Melanie yearned for nightfall to hurry with unbridled anticipation…for the stillness of the night…for sleep — she stopped and stared blankly out the window — for the sound of little feet running in the rain gutter around the perimeter edge of their rooftop.
Melanie shivered. She had forgotten about that — the pang, tang, tang, so soft, so metallic, like leather soles against aluminum — but the sound was much smaller than that — so quiet that no one could hear it but her. Keeth had never heard it, even when she shook him and begged him to listen. He just rebuffed her and went back to his soggy-toast dreams. He never heard it because he didn’t want to.
It happened again and again, along with the odd feeling of being watched, (seduced?) until it became the norm and all fear had melted into the shadows of the night.
Melanie found herself humming and smiling a lot during those days.
“What’s got you so perky lately?” Keeth asked her over a plate of bacon, cottage cheese and sliced tomatoes. “You’re awfully chipper again this morning, Mel.”
Oh, an intruder has been walking through our walls and sucking on my breasts at night while you’re snoring, dear.
for the rest of the story, purchase Decimos – We Say #15