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Digging Deep |
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By Margo Perry
There’s something naughty and delicious about drinking champagne when it’s barely afternoon. I sip and put the glass down. I’ve been working so hard finishing my paintings that I haven’t relaxed, or seen Deep for a month. It feels like a year and I’m ready to celebrate. I’m ready to show Deep just how much I’ve missed him.
First, I have a meeting with my agent who’s coming to take my canvasses to the gallery and then I’ll give myself to Deep and to sex.
It’s funny how some relationships stay in the friends’ zone and others blossom. I’m so glad ours became the torrid thing it is. We’re equally invested. We’re both crazy about each other. Love and sex have become inextricably combined and we’re lost in it.
Deep’s been around for most of my nineteen years, but I hardly noticed him. As the story goes, his teenaged parents just up and left him one day, a fourteen year old alone in a small cottage, with a comfortable bank account.
Social services didn’t catch up to him until he was eighteen and, by that time, he was well integrated into the community and an adult. But that was before my time. I’d see him mowing people’s lawns or sweeping the road and he was everybody’s handy man. They called him Deep because he was mute, but always looked like he had something on his mind. I just didn’t know him.
About two years ago, I heard him playing the piano at the community center. He was mute, but not deaf, and he could play some music. I couldn’t help singing along:
When a man loves a woman
That day, we became friends. I’d talk and he’d listen. We’d walk and laugh together, but never touch.
We didn’t touch until the day Deep spoke for the first time, the day the ocean roared over the shore and beyond.
Early that morning, Deep banged on our door. My parents were dressing for work and I was already in my studio painting. He begged them not to go. The waters are rising. Low tide is too high. The bird formations are jagged and their squawks are too loud. The air is too still. Something’s coming.
I can still see him pacing the kitchen, agitated, pleading to be believed.
“Who are we going to listen to? You, Deep, or the weatherman?”
I believed him, and I live to tell the tale.
My mother, and the rest of the islanders, mocked him, and went off to work.
Later that day, the waters came roaring in and deposited my dad, battered and torn, on the terrace of Barney’s, his favourite pub. My mom couldn’t swim and was found floating face down, about a mile from where she worked.
I hated their funeral, theirs and so many others. I haven’t been outdoors since. I haven’t talked since, except to Deep or myself. Deep taught me that. You don’t have to talk unless you have something to say.
I’ve painted it all. I have nothing to say.
I’m waiting for my agent, but I’m wanting Deep. My pussy is throbbing and my nipples are on fire. I’m wet and crazed with horniness. I won’t need foreplay or conversation. I’m just so ready, just like that first time.
Our house stands atop one of the highest hills in the area and used to be a military instillation. A circular tower affords a panoramic view of the island and once served as a lookout for ships. I grabbed it as my living quarters and gallery the day we moved in. I love its space, its circularity, and the light shining through the wall to ceiling windows. Deep called it the safe place. He wanted to bring folks here, but nobody would come. We were left, just us two, waiting for the waters to come.
He’d brought supplies: water, food, flashlights and candles, more canvasses and paints. Stuff.
“It’s going to be bad,” Deep said, as we packed things away. “Maybe we should warn your parents again.”
I didn’t want to think about them. They’d only ridicule him. Deep had warned everybody. All week long, he’d been putting up signs, warning people that the waters were coming soon and they’d have to get to high ground.
Nobody on the island paid him any mind. He was mute, even after he talked. What could he know?
A talking Deep seemed different. I noticed how gently he carried his six feet four inch frame. I noticed how big his hands were. I noticed his big brown eyes and full lips. He was really, really attractive and I suddenly wondered what he thought about me. Everybody said I was pretty and my bod was in shape, but I worried about my tits. They were so big, they hung past my waist and I had to buy specialty bras. My mother wanted me to get a breast reduction, but I didn’t want to. They were the center of my sexuality and they made me feel good. I’m so glad I resisted her.
“If this was your last day on earth, what would you want to say or do or hear?
We were both lounging on the floor. I noticed muscles under Deep’s t-shirt, his long legs and a considerable bulge in his pants.
“I’m a virgin,” I said. “I’d want someone to tell me I’m beautiful. I’d want to know what it’s like to make love to a man.”
Deep blushed a reddish purple and he eyed my breasts for a second. I thought he looked a little like Muhammad Ali.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Twice as old as you,” he said, smiling.
“Same age as my agent,” I said.
He had a sexy smile. His lips kind of puckered and his eyes danced.
“Do you think I’m beautiful?”
He looked at me, his eyes slowly scanning my body from my face down. He lingered over my tits and his mouth opened slightly, like he needed more air, and I felt hotter than I’d ever imagined possible. My panties were getting wet and I couldn’t think straight.
“Very beautiful,” Deep said.
I looked into his eyes and my hand found its way to my pussy, rubbing through denim to silk panties. From silk panties to my pussy which was soaking wet.
Just then a single bird turned away from the flock and bounced into the window.
“It’s coming,” Deep said.
He opened his arms and I crawled into his bear hug. I felt safe and protected, but I wanted more. I licked his nipple, through his shirt and then bit it, hard, hard enough to turn friend into lover.
Deep turned me into him, slowly, as if we had all the time in the world. We could feel the pressure in the air, but we were doing what we had to do. Deep kissed my mouth and neck and breasts and then undid my jeans and moved his hands expertly inside them. I can feel my wet panties rubbing against my clit. Exquisite pleasure overcame me and I screamed.
I lifted my hips so he could remove my jeans and panties. He moved between my legs and I felt his tongue on my clit, licking and then sucking for the first time. He used his fingers to roll my clit to orgasm again and I screeched as though we were the only people in the world.
“Listen to the quiet,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”
I tugged his hair, pulling his body toward me, grabbing his engorged and throbbing cock.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Deep is a kind and generous man and lover. I opened my legs and his big cock played over my pussy and then began to ease in. I was tight, but wet. It hurt, but the pleasure was teasing. He stayed a while, when he was finally in, and then pulled out to plunge even deeper. I was a woman, whispering and then screaming, “Yes, yes, yes please.”
He fucked me so good that I cried.
After that, he undressed me and told me that I had the most gorgeous tits in the world. He sucked their extended nipples, he massaged them, he worshipped them. He put his cock inside me again and the fit was perfect. His strokes were perfect. We were perfect.
Just then we heard a mighty roar and then the crashing of glass and screams, screams as he plunged into me, again and again, as we screamed. Sounds of terror, sounds we couldn’t recognise pierced the air.
“I love you,” Deep said, caressing my cheek.
“I love you, too.”
That’s when love and lust came together. We kissed desperately and I gave myself to another.
“Us forever,” I said.
I remember the horrible sound of people screaming for help.
“You stay here,” Deep said. “I’ve got to go. I adore you, Sacha.”
I watched him go and ran to the window. What I saw was hell. I don’t want to remember. When I’m with Deep, I don’t.
I hear the gong of my doorbell. I’m glad that Peter is here. The sooner he comes, the sooner he’ll be gone. I want to be left alone with Deep, with endless sex. I’m addicted, Deep is my heroin and, when we connect, there’s no room for death.
Soon, my love.
I have twelve pictures ready, the end of the collection. I’ve stacked them against the living room wall and Peter examines each one with scrupulous care. They show well enough with the sun pouring through the new floor to ceiling windows. Two movers prowl the room, bored, waiting to load the gallery van. They’re as impatient as I am. I wish Peter would hurry.
“These are incredible,” he says, his blue eyes glinting with pleasure, “especially this one. It’ll bring a pretty penny.”
He’s examining a woman’s scream, as she falls to her knees in the rubble of what was once her home. I witnessed her from my attic window. She was standing in ankle deep water, bent over, pounding her thighs with her fists. Her mouth was stretched too wide and her unfocussed stare went here and there, looking for something hopeful, even bearable to hold on to. I felt her pounding in my head and I soon had an unbearable migraine. I could still feel Deep’s cock in my pussy, but I was watching him wade past the screaming woman toward a frail voice crying for help. The sight of all the broken and pitiful pieces of what used to be homes, the bodies floating in trapped rancid water, people saving people … it seared my brain.
I had to record it and I got no relief, until I sat in front of a canvas and facilitated the woman’s flight from me onto it. I remember being aroused, despite what was going on around me. I was painting like a madwoman and I could feel Deep inside me, his hands all over me.
That’s how all the paintings happened. My mind was the bridge to their actualization and it almost drove me mad.
It’s been all too much, but the series is done and I want the pain out of my house. I have no more to say. It’s time for a new period for Deep and me.
“So much death and horror and yet, so much life and beauty, your work speaks volumes. You’ve become a very eloquent artist in the last six months and you might be the most successful young artist on the planet.”
Peter is sweet. I smile and place my hand over my heart. He knows I don’t talk anymore. Not since that day. Peter thinks I can’t, but I won’t.
I stand beside him, watching him stroke his beard, as he moves down the line, picture to picture. He sneaks peeks at my tits. He can see the outline of my lacy bra beneath my tee shirt, the breast flesh rising out of the cups. I can see his cock bulging in his jeans. He has a thing for my art and me, and I adore him. We were on our way somewhere, before that day, before Deep. Deep is the only man I’ll ever want. I crave him. Will Peter and his men ever leave?
I must get to him soon. I want my love. I want to suck his cock. I want to press his head so deep in my cleavage that he’ll have trouble breathing. I can still smell dampness over the freshly painted walls. I can still hear roaring angry waters crashing through glass, sweeping up people and their belongings like so many twigs. When I’m with Deep, passion burns away the snapshots, erases everything but Deep and me, and I’m whole again.
Right now, I want to lie on his thigh and press my nose into that space just underneath his balls. It’s my aphrodisiac. I want these people out of my house, so I can go to him.
“This is your best work. Have you named the series?”
Peter passes me a notebook and pen. I’ll always love you, I scrawl, before passing it back to him.
I watch him closely and, as expected, he tears up and holds out his arms. Peter doesn’t know that I belong to Deep. He just knows that we’re no longer moving toward each other. My heart bleeds for him, but I can’t help him, because I can’t help myself. There’s no room for anybody in my life, but Deep.
Peter pulls me close. My breasts are squeezed between us and his cock reacts. I’m so horny that I welcome his bulge pressing into my pussy. I should pull away, but I don’t. I can feel his hot breath on my ear. “I’m so sorry about your parents,” he says. “I’ve got to get you out of this house. I know how painful it is for you. What about Deep, that mute guy? You were friends with him, too. I was there on the bridge when the after-surge came and took him away. He was truly a hero. He saved so many lives that day. His funeral was a celebration. We really missed you.”
I pull away, shake Peter’s hand and walk him to the door.
“I won’t give up until you agree to have dinner with me.”
I hardly hear him. He’s trying to take Deep away from me and I won’t let him. Not yet.
I lock the door behind Peter, run through the living room and up the staircase. There’s a door just down the hall. I open it and climb the steep stairs to the tower. No time for a shower. I strip quickly and drop a diaphanous red caftan over my head. My tits are free and bounce over my belly down past my waist. Deep loves them this way.
There’s a chair by the window, overlooking the sea. Beside it, on the table, there’s a bottle of baby oil. I like the way it smells and feels. I put a little on my forefinger and carefully raise my dress. I lean back and close my eyes.
“Deep. Oh, Deep.”
He takes a while to come. Peter crosses my mind like a shadow. It might be time to talk soon.
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