by Sommer Marsden
(10/25/06)

Midnight. Every night. Like clockwork. I put the leash on the dog to take him out to pee.

But tonight when I open the door...there it lies. On the doormat. Red, dirty, tacky, I'm sure. A dirty little lollipop.

I pick it up, step outside into the suburban darkness, and walk the whole long way around the yard so the dog can do his thing, which he always does, like clockwork.

I glance up the hill, into the unkempt, unsuburban tangle of foliage. A fence sits up there, nearly invisible in that tangle. It's old and rusted and crooked. Beyond it is a Civil War-era cemetery full of eroded headstones and toppled, desecrated angels. No one in our neighborhood ever ventures in, preferring a better-lit, more orderly world, but for me the cemetery is a garden of perverse delights. An Eden full of good memories and memories yet to happen.

I run my fingers over the sticky head of the lollipop and smile. I can't see him but I imagine I can. I feel his eyes on me from somewhere up there in the darkness and the tangle and my heart quakes a little. A wetness spreads between my legs.

I take the dog back in. Check the house. Everyone is tucked in for the night. The garage door is primly shut. The garbage cans all lined up in a neat row for the morning collection. All three bedrooms are occupied. I hear a soft snoring issuing from the master bedroom. The two smaller rooms are lit softly with nightlights. Peaceful. All is well.

I recall the exact moment I gave in to him. The exact way our little signal had been born.

Why are you staring at me? He asks me this as his semen dries on my thighs and my cunt still aches from the sweet punishment he's just delivered.

Trying to figure out what it is, I say.

What what is?

Why I gave in. Why I'm here with you. I make no move to clean up our mess; I'm perfectly content to sit here and let it soak into my skin the way he has soaked into me. The way some essence of him has gotten under my skin.

Have you figured out what it is? He says this with a grin that makes my pulse beat harder -- and my heart break a little.

Your duality, I guess. You're sweet, and dirty. Bad. In lots of ways. Somehow I don't feel ridiculous saying this out loud. I thought I would.

I'm a lollipop that's been dropped in the dirt. A laugh accompanies his grin this time. My insides go all loose and liquid again, ready for another go with him. Ready for a bigger mess and even stickier thighs.

My dirty little lollipop. I sigh -- and do exactly what I have had my mind set on: More of him under my skin. More of him on my skin.

Now, in the quiet of my sleeping house, I set the lollipop on the granite counter (the crowning glory of our recent kitchen remodel) and go out into the chilly, starless night. As I climb the hill my heartbeat doubles. It triples, and the hammering has nothing to do with physical exertion. With each step upward I feel his eyes burning my skin. I can feel the heat of his presence. In the dark. Waiting for me. A welcomed predator. My own personal demon, intentionally invoked. I've been waiting, day after day, to open the door and find my forbidden candy there on the stoop.

The fence has a hole in it, cut, most likely, years ago by kids looking for a good scare or a good place to drink beer and smoke. I found it by accident, walking the dog one night not long after we'd moved in. The night my first lollipop arrived, I tugged him up the hill in darkness to show him the secret entrance to what would become our secret garden. A garden full of the dead, and of our history.

Tonight, I manage to get under the fence without snagging my hair or ripping my pajamas. It doesn't matter: I'd risk a Tetanus shot for this. I'd risk almost anything for this. For him. I have risked it all -- many times over. I hear the dry shotgun-crack of a stick being stepped on and I turn. The sound came from there, from near the half-seen granite angel who cries black tears into the inky darkness, the stone of her face oxidized and dirty after years of watching over this place.

I know just how the angel feels -- divine and filthy, all at the same time. It's a heady mixture of emotions.

I still can't see him, but the closer I grope my way toward the angel, the more I feel him. The hair on the back of my neck rises in anticipation. He's very close now, but I can't pinpoint his location. It's as if he surrounds me. He's everywhere at once. His closeness. His promises, out there in the blackness.

His hands find me. He presses me up against the angel, pins me in her stone-cold embrace, My breath staggers in my throat. I can't exhale, I can't draw air in.

I tiptoe along the edge of suffocation until he buries his head against my neck and bites me. Hard. Everything loosens all at once and I suck in a gulp of cold October air. Pajamas are easy, as we've learned. Pajamas give up the ghost quite readily, with a slight stretching of elastic. They melt down my legs with a whisper and a sigh to puddle at my feet. Next in the darkness is the purr of metal: his zipper descends. I lose my patience and tug at his belt, trying to get to him, to touch flesh. Strong hands grab me and pin my wrists.

His laugh snakes out into the night like vapor. "Behave." One word. That's it. And my skin pebbles from the sound of his voice. Not just my nipples or the fragile skin along my neck, but all of it. Head to toe goose bumps from one quiet word whispered in the dark.

Now the sinister rasp of denim echoes in my ears. His particular, unmistakable scent fills my head and arousal blossoms somewhere deep in my chest. I inhale deeply: night air, grass, leaf-rot, and him. The best scent I've ever smelled.

Then his hands are on my hips, digging into my skin as the angel's stony fingers push roughly against my lower back. I open. Just like that. For him.

"Wider." Another single word. I obey.

He's in me. Like a dream -- or a nightmare. Sometimes I simply cannot tell. Either way, it makes me feel alive. To have his cock inside of me, moving with me, plundering the delicate parts of me that are secreted from the world.

He pushes further in and the angel bruises my back in punishment. I take the punishment willingly and push back against her, giving him further access, taking him deeper into my body. I hear two sounds: a dog barking somewhere blocks away, and the moist secretive slapping of his skin against mine.

He shoves my T-shirt up, nuzzles me, and bites a little too hard. I feel the first stirrings of orgasm. I press back against my angel, tilt my breasts up, welcome him to do it again, to give me whatever he will give me. He slides one wrist under the back of my knee and lifts my leg, drapes it across his naked back. I pull with that leg, draw him deeper. All the way, into me.

I'll get him as deep as I can because it'll be too long -- it's always too long -- before we'll be like this again.

I feel my cunt work around him, as greedy and demanding as what I'm feeling in my soul. I focus: cock and cunt, chest to breast, breath mingled and mouths touching. That's all it is now. The physical.

I let my head fall back against a stone bosom, pull harder with my leg, concentrate my attention on the friction of each entry and departure. Each thrust fills me, each withdrawal leaves me hungry. So I push, using my stony guardian for leverage.

I feel light spread under my skin as that first sacred spasm begins. Harder, higher, he pushes and I open further than I thought possible. I clutch his shoulders and bury my head against his neck. I commit to memory the way he smells in that particular spot -- earth and warm skin and cinnamon. I will never forget the way he smells right there, at that moment.

His muscles bunch under his skin. He grips my hips and pushes into me with near brutality. He's right there, at the edge, and I'm right there with him, wanting to give in but hesitant to let go. If I let go it ends, and then I'm forced to wait. Again. As a punctuation to this thought, he bites me again. Right behind my ear where the skin is thin as tissue paper.

Gone. I'm gone. All I can do is ride the wave and drag him along with me. Nothing now but sighs and grunts and panting breath. Heaven and hell. All that's right in the world and all that's wrong.

And then it's done.

I go much more slowly down the hill than I did going up. Already I can feel him sliding out of me, a sticky trail that cannot defy gravity. As always, I'm sad to know I'm losing that part of him.

Off somewhere on the other side of the hill, I hear the engine fire. Headlights burn like twin matches struck in the dark. And he's gone.

In the kitchen, I open that cabinet above the fridge, the one that no one uses. I take out a little painted container and open it. Inside is a jumble of red, dirty lollipops, bound together in a sticky mess. I take tonight's and drop it in with the others. Another dirty little lollipop. I don't count them. I'm not sure I want to know how many I've accumulated.

The dog settles on his pillow. I climb into my familiar bed. The sheets are already warm from body heat. An arm drapes across my waist and I tense for just a second. A flood of guilt washes over me but I push it aside. What I have done, I have done for myself. Just me. It is the one thing that is mine and mine alone. And in my heart of hearts, I know for certain that I will do it again. Before I fall asleep, I allow myself, for just this second, to wonder how long it will be until I find the next small, dirty thing waiting on the steps.

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