House Play

Spaulding stands in the middle of the pool of baby oil, holding an overhead announcer's microphone. He's covered head to toe in the translucent substance, "In this corner, for the ladies, we have the lovely Yolandaaaaa!" he indicates a young brunette stripper in a green polka-dot bikini, "And in this corner, on the men's team, we have Topher 'Quicksilver Whipping Boy' Silvermaaaaan!"
I pace around my corner of the pool, triumphantly sloshing through baby oil. This is my fourth match, and I am also covered head to toe. It's later in the afternoon, we began this event around 1 p.m., so I've been running a good clip. Before that, I checked a few more of the rooms but still, nothing. Right now I am thoroughly enjoying myself. Being eyeballs-deep in stripper tits is an odd but good way to relieve sexual tension. The fight bell rings as I'm noticing Len enter the room. He's still got the paper bag. I give him a wave right before the stripper sacks me and we plunge together into the pool of goo. After the match is over, I notice that Spaulding gave over announcer duties somewhere in the middle of it to Donavan, and that he and Len are missing from the crowd. This piques my curiousity, and I try to make my way to the Private door as I absently towel myself off, but I'm blocked by Clint who informs me of the correct way to the showers after I give him my lame excuse. Rebuffed, I decide that the showers *are* a good idea, and hand my gooey clothing to a blonde stripper-maid on my way to the facilities.
I do the best job that I can, but this stuff takes a while to get out of your hair and I end up in the shower for a long amount of time. I run into Spaulding on my way out to the main locker-room area when finished. He greets me with a slippery high-five, "Hey man, you rocked those matches today! You like it here, don't you?"
I nod vigorously, "Hell yeah! This place is tops. I'm having the time of my life here. How do you *do* it?"
He gives me a slick, easy grin, "Seems to me that you fit in quite nice with the rest of us." He pauses, "You really want to know how I do it?"
"Are you kidding?" I ask with sarcasm in my tone, "I'd give my left nut." How easy is this? All I had to do was *ask*.
"I'll schedule a meeting with you tomorrow morning in my office." he tells me as he makes his way to the communal shower.
"Hey, why the conspiracy?" I press him, "What's wrong with now?"
Spaulding laughs, "Patience, Whipping Boy. There's a lot to get into, and I think it best that you get home to your wife so that she doesn't begin to worry."
Well, he does have a point. I've been here since noon-ish, and it's now almost seven in the evening. "What time should we do this?"
"How's 11 a.m. strike you? I always recieve the most wonderful morning head from Marissa, so I couldn't possibly get here before then." he shares with a wink as he exits for good.
I find my clothing washed, dried, and folded in front of my locker. Wow, even the stripper-maids are domestic around here. I guess, they're stripper *maids*. I'm just not used to the idea of them being so in such a literal sense. I suit up and return to the main room, where Len is currently in a heated match with Candy, his favorite Latin stripper. She takes him down to his knees in a chokehold and he notices me and waves. George Clark has taken over as announcer. I look around and try to spot Donavan in the crowd to see if I can score a ride home, "Hey Donnie, can you give me a lift back to the wife?" I ask as I end up next to him.
He's engrossed in match Len/Candy, "Sorry Toph, but this is just getting good! I can't leave now!" Donavan apologizes, "Plus, I gotta have a meet-up with O'Clare after he showers off. Something about a permanent membership."
"Yeah, I have mine in the a.m. tomorrow." I say, a little dismayed, "Cool. Well, see you around."
I hoof it the mile and a half back home and mull over what I've seen today. I mean, aside from gooey, bikini clad bosoms. Why did Len leave during an event that he normally wouldn't have missed one second of? And why did he return hours later with the same sack that he left with? It dawns on me all at once, and I feel like the dumbest asshole ever. Of course the cupcake pan isn't at the Men's Society. Spaulding's putting it out on loan. Clint said something today about being on common ground now with Rain. And when Len left, he said he needed to talk to Sheila. Fuck. I gotta talk to Micki. I break into a run the rest of the way back to the Silverman abode, slowing to a jog on the last block. Micki. This morning. Embarrassment and my power erection. Shit, how can I even look her in the face?
She's standing on our front walk, wringing her hands nervously, and there's relief in her expression when she sees me jogging toward her, "Christopher, we need to talk." she says, striding quickly to me and pressing her body a little into mine. Micki has on a white sleeveless dress that fits her like a second skin, and it's distracting.
"I know." I say, giving her an urgent look, "Inside." I look around quickly and notice that Charity Leonard across the street is watching us from her window, so I wrap my arms around my Micki-Kitty's waist, planting my lips on hers as she lets out a little 'Mmmph', and half-carry, half-walk her inside. It's going to take a little getting used to returning back to normal when we finally make it back home to Curious Goods and our real lives. To be able to touch and kiss her so freely without consequence is a luxury of great merit, and I will be sad to see it go. I slam our front doors behind us and break the kiss, "Sorry. Charity was watching and I'm a little paranoid right now; I don't know how deep this curse is running or who exactly is involved." I explain, letting her out of my grip.
I don't know why I didn't notice it before, but a just-kissed Micki is a glorious sight, indeed. She has a dreamy quality to her, "Why do you smell like baby oil?" she asks as she sniffs my hair.
"Never mind that, look, I figured some things out...."
"It got Rain." She interrupts.
"Wait, it *did*?" I gulp.
Micki tells me what she encountered at Rain's and I compare with her what *I* learned today, omitting strippers and slippery wrestling. Her eyes widen in horror when I tell her about Len, and she rushes over to the phone as she lets out a strangled "Oh, no!" and frantically rummages through her purse. "When we went over to Sheila's today, Len was there. She said he was being 'romantic'." she says breathless, pulling a piece of paper from her wallet, "I could have stopped it from happening."
"How? We don't even know how it's used, just what the wives turn in to. What could you say or do?"
"I'm calling her." she dials the number on the paper as quickly as you can on a rotary phone, muttering the occasional 'Come on!' and tapping her foot, "Sheila?" she says hopefully when she gets an answer. Her face falls into wide-eyed shock and I can tell it can't be good. "Oh, no, I was just calling to chat. If you're in the middle of preparing Steak Diane and lobster I won't keep you. Bye." Micki hangs up the phone, defeated, and faces me. "It got her, too."
"We should get to Donavan's and warn Penelope." I say to her.
"Ohhh, Penelope! Oh God!" she exclaims, snagging the car keys off the counter and pulling my hand, "Come on!"
Five minutes later, I pull us in front of Donavan and Penelope's 60's-era modernism inspired home. I wouldn't let Micki drive, the state that she's in over her friend would have made her crash us into the nearest energy pole.
I make her wait in the car and stride quickly to their front door. I ring their doorbell a few times, but nobody answers. I'm about to give up on the front door and start checking windows when Donavan answers, half-dressed and a little flustered, "Topher! Hey, whatcha doing here? Did the wife ask too many questions about the baby oil smell?" he jokes, "Look, as you can tell by my appearance, I'm a little busy at the moment, so whatever it is can wait. I'll call you later."
Penelope comes up behind him in an undershirt and panties. She still has pigtails, although right now they're on the messy side, "Hey Boner." she greets me, "Don't you have something for your *own* wife?"
My relief at her words is palpable, but there's still something nagging me. I try to play it like Fonzie, "Payback is a bitch, Penelope. Now *I* am the one sorry for intruding. Hey Don, Spaulding have anything interesting to say for once?" I play off lightheartedly, like I just remembered.
"What? Oh, that didn't happen. I realized I had an in-home conference call that my firm wouldn't let me get out of. I could have given you that ride after all. I left a few minutes after you did, actually. Gave him a raincheck for tomorrow evening."
Thank heaven for Donavan's professionalism. I can put Micki's mind at ease, and let her know her friend is safe. For now, "Oh. Well, Catherine and I were going out to eat, and I just swung by to see if you wanted to join us." I lie, giving them an up-and-down glance, "I take it you're eating in."
At least I have *my* meeting before Donavan does now. If only I knew exactly how this curse is put into action. I guess I'll find out in the morning. Here's hoping.

*************************************************************************************

I am currently praising Donavan's commitment to his job. Thankfully, it didn't strike Penelope. From what Ryan disclosed to me, there has to be a meeting with Spaulding first. I am kicking myself for not saving Sheila. Now that the pieces are starting to fall together, I should have been more suspicious of the involvement of the husbands and been more insistent on trying to lure her away from danger. Well, the old Sheila wouldn't have listened to me, anyway.
The Men's Society is a mystery and I feel rather in the dark. I wish I could go there with Ryan, but the presense of women is forbidden, he tells me. He also tells me that it serves as part of the reason to give yourself over to the curse, but that's all he's telling me. I have a feeling he's not fully disclosing everything regarding what he does there all day. He came home earlier smelling like baby oil.
I've sent him back there to sneak in and see if the cupcake pan is being held in Spaulding's office. I have my fingers crossed. There is still the big question mark as to what the men give up in return for their mindless wives, but at this point I'm ready to give up my curiousity just to get this thing safely into our vault and away from other troubled couples. Ryan's been gone over an hour and a half now, and I've just started to worry when he strolls through the front door. I take in the look on his face and his empty hands and realize that we aren't leaving on a plane tonight, after all.
"It wasn't there. He must have taken it with him." Ryan breathes out as he closes the door behind him, "Sorry, Micki, it looks like we have another night here, at least."
Admittedly, when this is over, I *am* going to miss the easy domesticity that we have here. I'm not going to lie and say that it hasn't been a nice feeling recieving husbandly attention from Ryan. I won't let on, though, "Good thing I didn't start packing." I grumble, making my way to the staircase, "Well, at least you have tomorrow morning. I'm going to get cleaned up. I'll see you upstairs."
I scrub up and dress in panties and my white satin pajama top, and I'm towel-drying my hair as I exit the bathroom when the sight of Ryan fully naked causes me to drop my towel. He's just beginning to pull his boxers up facing the other direction and all I'm seeing is tempting olive flesh. My strangled gasp gives me away and he hastily finishes pulling them on, "Jesus, give a guy some warning, will you!" he exclaims in shock.
"The bathroom door swinging open wasn't warning enough?" I counter, a little flustered myself. In all the months we've lived together, I've never seen him in the full buff, and our real home is decidedly smaller than this one. Then again, here the roles we're playing have forced a more intimate interaction.
"I didn't hear the door." he lands on the bed in his boxers and reaches for the remote control, "Sorry you had to see that."
"It's okay." Pause. "Sorry I scared you." I give him a confused look, "Aren't you going to take a shower?" I realize he's settling into bed, and this forces me to pose the question.
"Took one earlier at the Society." he tells me as I settle next to him to begin the ritual of lotioning, "We uh, we were playing racquetball." he adds, switching on the television to late night re-runs of "Sanford and Son".
Racquetball? I have a feeling that he's lying to me, but I hold my tongue. We *aren't* really married, so it's none of my business what shenanigans he gets into at that shady little men's club. This doesn't change the fact that it bothers me that he can't be fully honest, but I decide it's no use to ask, and instead silently induct him into the task of his nightly footrub duties. His hands seem a little softer than usual tonight, and he's actually looking at me, which I've noticed during these sessions is rare. Usually, he gets so focused on what he's doing that he barely moves his eyes from my feet. Our eyes meet and hold gazes for a moment in silence.
"This has been surprisingly easy." I tell him, breaking the moment. The uncomfortable dampness in my lap tells another story; I've been going through underwear like kleenex lately.
He beams beautifully, "I agree. Even after what just happened, we remain comfortable. It's nice." he eases his touch on my feet, making circles slowly with whisper light tenderness, "Makes for good teamwork."
Paradigm: It drives me mad. 'Oh, I'm so comfortable around you Micki, and now I'm going to bring you to near-orgasm at your feet' Ryan's disembodied voice says in my head. He continues to stare at me and I try my best not to appear aroused, but I don't think I'm doing a very good job. I take in a breath to gain the ability for speech, "Where'd you learn how to kiss, anyway?" My lust addled brain tricks me into saying. I fight my hands' natural response to fly to my mouth and keep it cool, leaving them flat at my sides on the bed and forcing them not to twitch against the spread.
"You like how I kiss?" he says with parts amusement and question.
I have no control over my head's nodding motions and slide down shyly against my pillow, "You must have practiced on a lot of fruit as a kid." I try not to moan. Not working. He's gotten deeper again with his hands, pressing into both arches with a force that makes me cry out involutarily. This time I don't fight my hand's urge to cover my mouth. That sounded like I just came. I didn't mean to sound like that.
Ryan laughs at me, "Don't be embarrassed. That's what happens sometimes during a good massage. And I don't *give* bad massages." An eyebrow goes up teasingly. Strange. He hasn't paid this kind of brazen attention to me since Lloyd, "You're no slouch at kissing yourself." he adds, "Your mouth tastes delicious. Like you eat a lot of sweets."
I begin trembling slightly after those last few, drawn-out words. I want him. I want him *badly*. The ache of it is driving me batshit crazy. It doesn't help that his hand has started a tentative journey up my leg as he looks at me with glazed over, wild-eyed *something*. Lust, maybe? It feels like it's radiating off of him. My breaking point has arrived, I think. Why should everybody else in this town be having sex and not us? Even Angry Sheila got laid. It doesn't seem fair.
He's halfway up my leg with that wonderful roving hand when I give in, my fingers going into his hair and pulling him up to show him exactly *how* much I enjoy kissing him. He lands on top of me with a delectably manly heaviness as our mouths collide. The hand that's still on my leg continues to it's destination point as his surprisingly present erection prods my hip. I clutch his ass with my free hand as I writhe under him, intoxicated by his mouth on mine.
"You feel so fucking goood." he muses roughly against my top lip, as two of his fingers press hard into the damp cloth of my panties, "God*damn*. Did I do that?" he says in surprise, delighting in what he's doing to me. He begins a deliberate massage of that area, looking me straight in the eye as our noses touch with a crazed, intent stare. I continue to pull a little on his hair, and have no control over my hips reaction to buck up into his hand, moaning in affirmative. Good fucking Fuck, he feels amazing. I must be dreaming, because it's hard to believe that anything that feels as good as he does right now can be real. I utilize the hand on the back of his head to draw him into another kiss and fall into the drug that is Ryan Dallion.
'That fuck is actually being romantic.' Sheila's voice (the old Sheila, before she transformed) rings through my head like a warning bell. Why must my logic betray me now? Ryan's mouth moves in a luxurious trail down my neck and slows my thought processes, but I can't quell the nagging questions that come to mind. Why is he just *all of a sudden* making this extreme overture? Why won't he tell me all of what goes on at that Men's Society, where he spends his whole day? My mind is betrayed by my body as his kissing expedition reaches my breasts and his lips close over an achingly sensitive nipple through the material of my pajama top. Oh man, he *is* an artist. His mouth and hands are playing me like a professional musician plays their instrument. Rockets have started to go off. Why question? Why not just give in?
'He's playin' more than just your bod, Snow White.' the old Sheila's voice echoes, and forces my thinking brain to wonder again why he can't trust me enough to tell me the whole truth, which leads me to the terrifying thought that maybe some vestiges of the cursed pan have already affected him in some way, and that he's not in his right mind.
"Ryan?" I try to ask, but my close-to-orgasm voice betrays my intent, just as my hand does when it scratches its way from his ass to clutch at his hip.
"MmmmMicki." he growls into my breast, generating tiny electric tingles.
My thinking brain screams in protest, chipping away at my body's reactions to his ministrations. It sickens me to think that this isn't really him making me feel this way. After all the goings on, I can't be sure, and now it bugs me to no end that he can't trust me enough to let me know what he does at that place all day. I catch a familiar scent as I try to stop my hips from their undulations, but it's hard because his fingers feel just..."Ryan, *why* do you smell like baby oil?" My intellect triumphs. My body's urges want to punch it in the teeth, but I have managed to regain some modicum of control and begin my attempts to push him away.
"Why are you asking me this now?" he asks, his mouth never moving from my flesh as he works his way back up my neck.
Dammit. My limbs feel boneless, and my attempts at pushing him off of me are bearing no fruit, "Because you reek at the smell of it." I attempt an answer with a leveled voice.
He stops when he reaches my face, giving me a guilty grin, "Uh, that's what the soap there smells like?" he replies lamely, and I can tell that he's lying.
Oh, I think I need to throw up. If he *really* wants me, why can't he just tell the truth? I will my hands against his chest as my mistrust of him strengthens my resolve, and push him away from me with all of my might. "Ryan, we're taking this too far." I say firmly as I back away from his advances, "There's method acting; then there's making a huge mistake that neither of us can take back."
"Mistake?" his face falls out of its former elated quality into one of dejection, and he sits back, stunned.
"Mistake." I confirm shakily, trying to look anywhere other than his lap, and the proof of his obvious excitement, "We're acting, right? Just acting." As if he'd actually *really* want me. He's had a billion chances before this. Why would he pick now, unless he *was* under some affectation of that Men's Society? Plus, he lied to me. Why would he lie if he had nothing to hide?
"Fuck. Yeah. I'm sorry...you're right. Acting. It was just acting." he stammers, resuming his former mode of refusing to look at me, "We spoke too soon about the comfort, didn't we?" Ryan quips coldly, getting off the bed and making his way to the door.
"Where are you going?" I ask, my voice cracking. I am *not* going to cry right now.
"I'm sparing us both the *dis*comfort and sleeping in the guest room." he tells me in a deflated tone, "Goodnight, Catherine."
I feel the pain of loss in my chest as he slams the door. I can't stop feeling like *I* was the one making the mistake. I wish I could trust him. Why can't I trust him?