Thursday, July 25, 2013

Excerpts from STRAYS and Other Stories by A.F. Waddell

Here's a lovely treat: a series of short excerpts from A.F. Waddell's wonderful (if we do say so ourselves) collection, STRAYS and Other Stories.

An extraordinary and pungent collection of sensual tales! Strays encompasses vivid erotic storytelling, characterizing both the infamous and the everyday. From California to New Orleans and throughout the environs of the American Southwest, Strays sizzles the scenery.


He watched her walk down the hall; he closely followed. Her short robe was loose, open. Light filtered from the end of the hall, between skin and silk, outlining her arms, shoulders, waist, buttocks. She wore tiny beige stilettos. Her calves curved and bulged. Her thighs tensed. Her buttocks moved in outward thrust.

Her panties and bras were scattered on the ceramic tile bedroom floor: black lacy things, red silky pieces, plain white cottons. Clothing was draped over the backs of chairs. Dirty dishes sat on her desk and night stands. Books and magazines were haphazardly stacked. This definitely wasn't D.C. or Hyannisport.

"Marilyn, darling, what happened, did your housekeeper quit?"

"No. Silly. But sometimes I lock her out of my bedroom. Don't worry. The sheets are clean."

Splayed on the bed, Marilyn's legs, stiletto heels, were askew. Her robe opened over bare breasts. She was full and soft, he thought, unlike some semi-anorexic society wives. He wasn't boffing bones, he was sliding softness. The lifted hems of her robe showcased her cunt; she'd lightened the hair: blonde-yellow covered pink. How very colorful, he thought, looks like an Easter chick today -- maybe it'll dispense little candy eggs. He removed his suit jacket and pants and used a chair as a valet. She leaned forward from the bed, took hold of his tie and pulled him close, bending her legs and pushing the tips of her stilettos into the front of his thighs. She tried to pull his mouth to hers.

"Marilyn ... let me finish undressing."

By his silk tie leash she pulled him lower, to her breasts. His hands danced their perimeters and cupped them. They're all nice, he thought, from the fit-in-a-champagne-glass size, to apple to grapefruit to melon size. The other types he didn't know about, or didn't want to know about, or didn't remember from his being nursed. His mouth fastened onto one breast, ensconcing nipple prongs; his hand cupped the other. Why do breasts smell and taste so good? he wondered. I could stay here for a while, he thought, as Marilyn's hand centered the top of his head and downwardly pushed.

"Marilyn ..."

"Jack ..."


Bodies of Water 

I sat at my desk. Moist air drifted through the window behind me; the sun imposed through open blinds, its light enhancing the wood grain of my desk. I didn't use coasters. I had a bad 'zine habit. Stacks of paper lay about. My drawers were disorganized, the small paper clips mixed with the large. The pens and pencils co-mingled.

I was back. N'awlins seemed another planet after life in La La Land. Southern California had little weather to speak of. The forecasters got big bucks anyway. It had little humidity; N'awlins had lots. The men there were prettier than me. They got big bucks too. Me, I was a cop.

My apartment was off Decatur, near the river. I was between a liquor store and a voodoo supply. I could conveniently shop the odd assortment of wines at Jimmy's or drop in at Rita's for herbs, gris gris and candles. Local real estate could be a mishmash of residential and commercial, eye candy and eyesore. Buildings seemed slightly askew, threatening implosion, cartoon-like: from the inside, seemingly spacious -- from the outside, smallish, individual frontage mere slits in the block. N'awlins was sinking. The delta was eroding. The buffer zone was going. The big storm was coming.

I skipped the wine-shopping and dropped in next door at Rita's. On the right, a long glass and wooden display case served as a sales counter; behind it were display shelves and drawers. The left side of the shop boasted low wooden ceiling beams. Rita's shop smelled delicious and so did she: slightly smoky-sweet and heavily herbal, and somehow reminiscent of cooking in cast iron over an open wood fire. My apartment was often perfumed with the various essences that emitted from her place, odor molecules changing with the light, temperature, and time of day or night. Aroma therapy proved no joke. The building wasn't exactly soundproof either.

"Erica! How's it going?" Rita called from behind the counter. She wore a semi-transparent cotton gauze print dress in shades of cocoa, cream and pink. Long curly hair waved around her milk chocolate-coloured face, neck and shoulders. Her wide cheekbones curved under healthily gleaming eyes. Her smile revealed a slight gap between her front teeth, which sometimes emitted discrete whistling sounds. "Tell me something good."

"Let me think about that one."


Cashmeres Must Die

Stuart Metzler sat in his 1959 Pontiac Chieftain on his Maple St. driveway. Mmmm . . . that new car smell. One day they'll bottle and sell it, he thought. He pulled a small memo pad and pen from a suit pocket and made a note.'New car smell -- replicate and market!' He took in the car's interior. 'Dashboard needs more knobs! Bigger!' he jotted. As a Strategy Formulation consultant, he had diverse information and ideas but felt occasionally envious as he watched clients succeed in their projects. He experienced random, uncontrollable urges to lie, and enjoyed gauging reaction. Stuart anticipated the day's work, and wondered what his secretary Vicky would be wearing.

Donna Metzler stood in her bedroom staring into a lingerie drawer. In a jumble were the panties: the one hundred percent white cotton high waist, the pastel nylon, the killer girdles, the Days-Of-The-Week undies. She consulted a calendar: Tuesday! She sometimes wore Sunday's undies during the week. Cotton felt best, softly clinging in her curves and nooks and crannies. Nylon felt strange. Girdles could be a bitch, but on occasion they helped achieve the ever popular iron belly effect. Brassieres with evil-eyed tips looked up at her: silk, cotton, nylon; under wire, torpedo, push up. “The breasts! The breasts must be controlled! Control the breasts! BW ha ha ha ha HA!” She imagined a mad designer at Playtex.

Donna finished dressing in a pink and white checked cotton blouse with a peter pan collar, black Capezio pants, and flats. She grabbed her keys, purse and sunglasses, and was out the door. She commandeered her Chevy Bel Air and drove the Springfield streets. The homes and lawns seemed quiet and perfect. A little too quiet. A little too perfect. She imagined chaos and pain behind closed doors: little pastel houses, like gawdy wedding cakes, poison under layers of frou frou and frosting. The whites were dingy. The souffles were flat. The decanters were tapped. The one-eyed god droned, selling soap, lies and subliminalism . . . Snap out of it! Donna told herself.

She pulled into the Texaco station on North Main. Donna smiled as Tony appeared at her driver side door. He broadly grinned. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes and teeth project sparkles of light? His uniform was always suspiciously spotless. His chronic perkiness was a turn-on. Men in service were a turn-on.

“Check your fluids, Mrs. Metzler?”

“Please, Tony.”

In his office Stuart pulled a magazine from his desk drawer. Secretaries boasted photographs of smiling women answering telephones, typing, serving coffee, bending over to pick up dropped pencils and more. A young woman sat behind an open-front desk in a grassy field. Her hair draped her face and heavy-lidded eyes as she chewed a No. 2 pencil and dreamily stared. She wore a sweater and skirt, but no stockings. Her legs were parted. She wore white cotton underpants, the whitest imaginable white, which contrasted with her freckled tanned thighs. Debbie is a secretary who dreams of an acting career. In her spare time she volunteers at her local Senior Center, and as a Big Sister.

Vicky Miller sat outside Stuart's office at her desk in a small reception area. She wore a twin sweater set, form-fitting skirt, nylon stockings and heels. Her desk neatly displayed a front strike Remington typewriter, telephone, and intercom. She opened a desk drawer: it boasted nail files, polish, small cosmetic bag, perfume, hairbrush, extra pair of nylons, almost everything a young woman might need to look and feel her best.

Stuart buzzed. “Miss Miller, please come into my office.”

“Be right there, Mr. Metzler.” Vicky grabbed a steno pad and pencil, and entered the sacred chamber of dark, rich woods, shades of forest-green, wall trophies, and Men in Suits.

“Miss Miller, may I ask, what is that sweater you're wearing?”

“Why, it's cashmere. It's very soft. Feel?”

“But of course. Cashmere . . .” He hesitantly reached and slowly ran his hand over Vicky's left sweater sleeve. “It's amazingly soft.”

“It's heavenly. But I've often wondered. What does a cashmere look like? They don't have to kill them, do they?”

“Vicky, I'm sorry. Cashmeres must die.”



She lay on her back on the bed wearing a camisole and panties. The ceiling fan whirred. The wall unit had given up the ghost. The humidity was a bitch. It sapped her strength and mentally fogged her. In its moisture it was perhaps akin to drowning: allegedly not so bad if one stopped struggling. She gave in to it.

She lifted her arms as he slipped her camisole over her head and lay it aside. He slipped her panties down and off. She turned and lay on her stomach as he undressed.

He marveled at vaginas. They were beautiful in a strange sort of way, reminiscent of deep mouthy sea creatures and small slippery consumptive creatures from science fiction films. In some ways there seemed to be more variation in them, than penises. A vagina could be a delicate cleft or an askew slash, or several sizes and shapes in between. Its lips might be a mere slit, tiny and tight, gathered inward; larger and slightly splayed with scalloped edges; larger still, with distended stretched lips. They had a melting candy/ice cream quality. An artful finger or tongue or penis could set free their flow. Tasting and testing, he felt smothered yet driven. Drugged. As he tongued her his taste buds processed sweet/sour/salty. Pyridine, squalene, urea, acetic acid, lactic acid, propionic, isovaleric, isobutyric, propanoic, and butanoic acids, oviductal fluids, sebum, perspiration, alcohols, glycols, ketones, and aldehydes.

Bethany's heels dug into the mattress; she rocked her hips and propelled herself towards the headboard. She held his head and pulled Alan's hair. She pulled him up and seized his cock. Cocks could be interesting in a general kind of way: multi-colored, hued from white to pink to yellow to tan to ebony and in between; multi-sized, from diminutive to jumbo to colossal; multi-textured, from soft to firm to hard; multi-shaped, from strait to curvy to bent. They seemed one-eyed teary spurting monsters, looking for caves to rave and rage and bang in, before going back out into the open world of exploration.

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