It was a sunlit Sunday afternoon in the Moorcock apartment. Narcotta and Wisp sat on the couch, watching one of the Lord of the Rings movies.
Narcotta, leaning forward and holding a half-cut straw in one of her nostrils, inhaled a line of dark blue fairy dust off the small mirror on the coffee table. Sitting up, she snorted loudly.
Wisp glanced away from the television at her fay, pointy-eared wife. “These English subtitles are hilarious,” she said. “I love that they’re afraid to translate what Liv Tyler is really saying to Viggo Mortensen – that she wants him to finger her ass later, while he eats her out. Wey, lucky ex-boyfriend, did that to me, once, and it was – literally – fucking divine.”
Narcotta laughed. “She wouldn’t have to tell me twice. I’d be on that action faster than a Frodo- and Samwise-initiated hobbit orgy.”
Wisp took the straw Narcotta handed her, sat up and leaned forward to snort the remaining powder line.
“Would I have to tell you twice?” Wisp said, flirting, after washing down her blow-nasal drainage with a swig of Pepsi.
She set the soda can and straw down, and leaned back onto the futon couch. Narcotta, laying her head in her lover’s lap, faced the midsized television while breathing in Wisp’s sweet scented sweat. Smiling, she said, “Did you have to ask the last time I did it?”
“Well, then. . . maybe after the movie – ”
A loud, sharp knock sounded on their front door.
Narcotta sat up and met Wisp’s sharp gaze. “Solly? Our rent is due.”
Solly – aka Sollyphamus Poseidonson – was their lecherous Cyclopean landlord. He claimed he was a runt-sized descendant of Polyphemus, the huge Cyclops who, according to Greek writings, was blinded by the human Odysseus.
“Probably,” Wisp said. “Do we have any part of our rent?”
“I get paid next Thursday. I’ll have all of it then. You?”
Narcotta frowned at her florist clerk wife. “My next royalty check for the Queenfist Fairy series should be arriving within a few days.”
“I kept meaning to pull money out for rent two weeks ago, but you got that infection, and we had to pay for that.” Wisp paused, added, “Not that it’s your fault, of course.”
Narcotta, brushing away Wisp’s long silver-whitish hair, kissed her cheek. “I’m sure he’ll give us an extension.”
“If we pay extra. Or, as he keeps suggesting, we put on a ‘show’ for him,” Wisp groaned. She went into their bedroom, carefully placed the straw and mirror in her nightstand drawer and shut it. She returned to the living room, and reseated herself next to Narcotta.
“I missed what you said when I went into the bedroom,” she said.
“I have an idea,” Narcotta smiled, her dark eyes mischievous. “Let Solly in, when I tell you to.”
She went into the kitchen. Pulling a small bottle off the shelf above the stove, she poured some of it into a pitcher full of ice cubes, and placed the pitcher in the refrigerator. After that, she replaced the bottle – whose label Wisp couldn’t read from the hallway – on its shelf.
There was movement outside the door, followed by another knock. Wisp winced at its increased volume.
“Okay,” Narcotta said. “Let him in.”
Wisp opened the door. She smiled politely up at their seven-foot-tall landlord.
Solly, irritable, grumbled, “Took you long enough to answer the door, girl. What were you doing, coming up with excuses for not having my rent?”
Narcotta smiled brightly at Solly. “Come in! Would you like a glass of water? I know it’s hot out there.”
Solly, suspicious, nodded and ducked through the doorway of their Spartan, white-walled apartment. Once inside, he stood up straight. The top of his head almost scraped the top of their ceiling. He towered over his tenants by a foot and a half.
Sully’s hazel orb eyeballed its occupants – Narcotta, in her baggie red sweat pants and white blank tee, and Wisp, in her black spandex shorts and Faster Pussy shirt.
Narcotta handed him a glass of water. He gulped it down. His sweaty, cragged skin smelled faintly of a bestiary.
Narcotta kept the wattage on her smile high as she took his glass from him and set it on a kitchen counter.
They put up with Sully’s “sexist bullshit” (as Wisp called it) because Narcotta’s credit rating had been shot to shit when an identity thief hacked it. She’d proved the questionable financial charges weren’t hers, but it took time for her record to reflect those proofs. In the meantime, they were stuck here.
“Sorry about the wait,” Wisp told their ex-metal worker landlord. “We had to get dressed, we were about to take a bath.” She said this amiably, shrugging off Solly’s lascivious perusal.
“Uh-hunh,” Solly grunted. “What’s your excuse this time?”
“We’ve only been late with rent once,” Wisp glared at him. “It’s not like we make a habit of it.”
Narcotta laid a mollifying hand on her wife’s shoulder. “We’ll have rent, plus your late fee, for you by Thursday,” she said. “Does that work?”
“Yes,” he said, in his gravelly voice. He leered, focused his hazel eye on Wisp’s nipples, poking faintly through her glam rock tee. “Although I can think of other ways for you and Wisp to pay part of your rent – ”
“See you Thursday.” Narcotta had moved to the front door and opened it.
Tearing his eye away from Wisp’s breasts, he turned toward the door, his gaze now lingering on Narcotta’s full figure. He leered at them as he ducked out of their apartment.
Narcotta’s mischievous gaze met Wisp’s as she shut the door.
“What was that about? Why let him in, if all we’re going to do is pay his stupid late fee?” Wisp asked, angry. “All we did was let him ogle us!”
“Not quite. Remember that water he drank?” Narcotta asked, leading Wisp to the couch, grabbing her hand and tugging her down onto the couch. On the television screen, orcs were getting slaughtered.
“It comes from the fountain of Salmacis,” Narcotta grinned. “I special ordered it a while back, off the Net, as a joke. Never know when it might come in handy.”
“Salmacis – the water that turns people gay?”
Narcotta, still grinning, nodded. “Now, imagine you’re Solly, suddenly discovering that you’re gay – as in crazy, must-fuck-NOW gay – and the only person you have around is. . .”
“Your longtime bitch-roommate, Packer,” Wisp smiled evilly, catching on. “Packer’s not gay, right?”
“No, but he’s got a big mouth. Even if he doesn’t beat the hell out of Solly and move out, he’ll certainly broadcast his experience with his ‘faggot’ roommate. You know how he gets when he comes over and we smoke out. At the very least, we’ve permanently gotten Solly off our delectable asses.”
“You think he’ll link his sudden cock-lust to us?” Wisp looked concerned.
“I doubt it. He’s not well-read or bright, from what I’ve seen. Even if he does, who cares? He won’t be able to prove it. The Salmacis bottle will be thrown out with the trash tomorrow morning.”
Wisp smiled. “Can we fuck now? Getting revenge like that. . .”
“Makes you hot?”
Wisp’s smile grew as she leaned toward her wife, and kissed her with lots of tongue. Their wet, hot kiss was flavored by the metallic backwash-tang on blow, mingled with Pepsi.
Wisp pulled away, asked, “Where?”
“Not the bath. It’s too small to be comfortable.”
“Yeah,” Wisp said, visibly warming to the idea. She grabbed the remote controls on the coffee table and shut off the DVD player and television.
They grabbed opposite ends of the coffee table and moved it closer to their television. While Narcotta went into their bedroom to grab the lube and medical gloves, Wisp lowered the upright, cushy section of their futon couch so that it was horizontal.
They watched each other as they undressed. Seconds later, they stood nude, and fae-pallid, before each other: Wisp, slender, with small breasts and her silver-white racing stripe pubes, and Narcotta, curvier with heavier breasts and bigger nipples, and a dark bush that matched the color of her short hair.
Wisp often said that she loved Narcotta’s hairy sex. “It reminds me of those Seventies porno spreads, except trimmed better,” she’d laugh, before adding, “Love me a pube or two with my wife’s tang salad!”
She proved that when they laid down, spread themselves on the futon, sixty-nine style, their tongues working their magic on each other’s sweaty, tangy, red-flushed pudenda, their clits erect as their nipples. They arched downward, moaned, grunted and flicked their tongues more aggressively as earthy juices flowed and dripped, before being swallowed by their willing partner.
Wisp was approaching her brink, when Narcotta, spreading Wisp’s butt cheeks, plunged her shockingly cold, lubed and gloved forefinger into Wisp’s pucker.
Wisp shuddered, anal clenched and came in her lover’s smiling mouth.
Wisp redoubled her tongued love. Narcotta lowered her sex closer to her lover’s face, and panted, the way she did before she came – and come she did, murmuring “Fuck ye – ohhhh!”
Groaning, perspiring and breathing hard, they laid beside each other on the futon.
“That. . . rocked,” Narcotta panted.
Wisp laughed – as did Narcotta, when they heard something slam against, shake the walls of their apartment. This was followed by Packer’s wall-muffled, exasperated “What the fuck are you doing, dude? I am so going to kick your ass!”
More of Steve Isaak’s sexy stories can be found here.
Steve Isaak, also published under the name Nikki Isaak, lives in California. He is the author of the anthologies “Charge of the scarlet b-sides: microsex stories & poems” and “Behind the wheel: selected poems”. (available at Lulu.com). He is also the author/editor of www.readingbypublight.blogspot.com and the multi-author www.microstoryaweek.blogspot.com.