Carnal Corps Ch. 01

This is the first of what is presently a two chapter story. The second chapter is drafted and I expect to post it soon. Ideas for subsequent chapters are gathered in my head, but there is nothing on paper yet. Suggestions are always welcome.

Angel, the narrator, is inspired by a woman I've been acquainted with for two decades. I've seen her grow from a teenager to a woman approaching forty; she is every bit as beautiful and sweet as the lady described in the story. Abuya is based on a doctor I met recently who is as classy and dignified as the woman I've tried to portray.

As always, all characters are eighteen years of age or older.

* * * *

I had been a short pudgy child, reaching my full height, all 4 feet 10 inches, at age thirteen. Then my body began its transformation. I lost weight in all the right places. What was left was voluptuous, curvy, with full C breasts that appeared even larger on my tiny frame. My round face featured oversized brown eyes and a wide mouth. I never had a pimple. People said I looked like a kewpie doll.

What didn't change was the rest of me. I had been a book-ish quiet child; I was a book-ish quiet teenager. I loved Shakespeare and Nineteenth Century novels, old movies, and, most of all, acting. I was eight when Mom and Dad sent me to my first theater camp. I went every summer thereafter. I was a regular in school plays. On stage that I found I could tap into a part of me far different than the everyday studious shy girl.

I got asked out a lot - teen-aged boys love boobies - but all the guys wanted to do was play video games, drink, smoke some pot, make-out. Can't say I enjoyed it much.

Then I met Alex. The fair haired boy of Mom's civil engineering firm, he was brilliant, innovative, and oh so handsome: blonde, blue-eyes, a tri-athlete. I was ga-ga. One day, he asked Mom's permission to take me out.

A word about Mom and Dad. Mom was, and is, striking; a classy blonde whom everyone noticed. In the face of a public that doubted whether a woman, much less a beautiful woman, could be an engineer, she built a civil engineering firm that was among the regions's largest.

I took after Dad. He was short, several inches shorter than Mom, and nice looking, but had none of Mom's flamboyance. He was successful, a fixture at a local accounting firm, but, like me, was a home-body. Mom's career came first and Dad was unstintingly supportive. Sometimes I'd wonder how much my Mom loved Dad, she could be imperious and dictatorial, but there was no question that Dad adored Mom.

Back to Alex. Over Dad's objections, Mom gave permission for her twenty-seven protegee to date her eighteen year old daughter. Madly in love, I gave him something I'd denied everyone else, my body. I didn't enjoy the sex all that much, but pretended and when I turned up pregnant Alex asked me to marry him.

We honeymooned in the Caribbean. And it was there that my body and mind fused. We were making love. Alex was on top, inside me. I was thinking more about the baby growing within me than my husband's penis when he said, "I love your tight warm cunt, my wife's hot tight warm cunt."

If an hour before you'd strapped me to a polygraph and asked me how I'd react to such vulgarity, I'd have said "repulsed" and passed. What I felt, however, was a sudden surge of desire.

Alex, emboldened by my silence, went on, "I love the way my dick feels inside you."

There was a flare between my legs.

He continued, "You like my cock in your pussy, don't you wife?"

My fingers tightened on his back.

"You're so wet and warm inside, it feels so good on my dick. You love being dicked, don't you?"

My fingers dug into his back.

"You love it, loved being fucked by your husband, love giving him your pussy."

"Unnh."

"I gonna fuck your hot snatch, make you come on my cock, fill you with cum."

"Uuunnnhhhhhh."

"Say it, say you love the way I fuck you."

"Uuuuuuuunnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhh."

"Say it, say it my sweet sexy girl!"

"Uuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

"Say it, tell me how much you love being fucked!"

"Uuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnn... love it... nnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

"Love what?"

"Uuuuuuu love... uuuuuuuuunnnnnnnn... the way... nnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhh... you fuck me... nnhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

And I came. The orgasm was powerful and intense, dwarfing anything I'd known before.

That night, over dinner, and before he took me out on the beach and fucked me to a series of blinding orgasms, Alex explained. He loved dirty talk, but was afraid it might turn me off and so decided to wait until after are marriage to tell me. He knew I'd learn to love it, to fulfil his needs. Blindly in love, I did not question his failure to be straightforward or his calm confidence that, once married, I'd conform to his wishes.

And so began my marriage. I was wonderfully happy, infatuated with my husband. I was a prim and proper home-body who learned to loved sex the way he loved it. We started with dirty talk, but moved on: role-plays, lingerie, public sex, sex tapes. I loved it when he sprayed his cum on me and our proclivity for sneaking off for a quick fuck while at parties was so well known that friends let us know which bedroom was safe. Sex was amazing. When I fully got into it, which was almost always, it was like I descended into a world in which sex was everything, all consuming, suffusing every pore of my body.

I did believe in the fidelity and eschewed friends' frequent requests to swap mates, although I was tempted when Alex suggested a threesome. After Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2, well, I knew I could be attracted to women, but decided no after talking to a friend whose menage-a-trois had led to a messy divorce.

Alex made good money, we had a nice home, I took care of my body, regular yoga and whatever aerobic exercise was hot at the time. True to my childhood love, I joined a local theater company, which helped fill the countless evenings when Alex worked late. Alex rose to vice-president at Mom's firm; he was seen as her successor.

There was only one regret. We never had another child. Ross, born seven month after our marriage, was it. Ross took after me, dark skin, dark hair, smart, and, despite his shyness, a shared my love of the theater. He attended summer camps, was the star in school productions, and scooped up the roles for children and teenagers in local amateur productions. On stage he, like I, could shed his natural reticence.

* * * *

Fifteen years into our marriage Alex suggested a role-play that paralleled an actual event; Mom's firm had submitted a bid to design three new high schools. I was to play an engineer evaluating the bids whom Alex seduced and bent to his will. This was not the first time a role play had mirrored our lives; where else to get your inspiration?

I met Veronica at a fundraiser. Polite, attractive, tall and thin, she was on the team evaluating the high school bids. She was clearly the model for our role-play. When I mentioned that Alex was my husband, however, she became condescending and competitive, everything I said elicited a story about how she'd done it better.

That evening I told Alex I'd met her. He said he knew. She'd called him with a question about the bid and mentioned running into me, told him how pretty and sweet I was. He went on and on, way longer than he should.

In retrospect, it should have been clear, but I didn't see it. That is, until the evening I picked up a very drunk Alex at the airport. After I got him into bed, I started unpacking his things, finding a cell phone I didn't recognize in his suit jacket. I was setting it next to his computer on the table when it went off. The call was from Mom.

I answered.

"Mom, hey."

"Who's this!"

"It's me Mom, Angel."

"What are you doing on this line. This phone is for work only."

Mom sounded panicked; Mom never sounded panicked.

"Sorry Mom, it was in Alex's jacket. I was putting it down when your name appeared."

Her voice suddenly became solicitous. "I see dear. Well, can you bring the phone to Alex, I need to talk to him."

"Mom, he's schonkered, fast asleep."

"Oh. Well, there are a few things I need from his trip, his laptop, the phone, I'll drop by and get them."

"Okay Mom, but its's close to 10:00. Can't he just bring them to work tomorrow?"

"No dear, I need to review them for a meeting first thing in the morning. Please get his briefcase, lap top, and the phone together."

"Sure Mom."

What was it about this phone? I tapped the message icon. The first one was from Veronica, saying how much she enjoyed the trip, accompanied by a topless selfie. I sat down and, hands shaking, scanned the messages. Veronica was only one of seemingly a score of women my husband had slept with. I stumbled to the home computer, downloaded the phone's contents, gathered together the material Mom asked for, scribbled a note: "Upstairs in the shower, love you." In the shower I wept. Thirty minutes later I staggered back downstairs. The phone, and everything else, was gone. There was a note from Mom: "Love you too."

The next day, on my divorce lawyer's advice, I emptied the bank accounts. I was waiting to hear from Alex, steeling my courage and determination, when Mom knocked on the front door.

"Alex called me, said the bank accounts have been cleared out. I assume that was you."

"Yes Mom, he's been cheating on me."

I expected warmth and comfort. What I got was somber, business-like. Her presentation caught me off guard; I responded in-kind.

"You looked at the phone?"

"Yes. You knew?"

"Yes, I knew. I know you're hurt honey, but I need you to listen. This is very important. The firm has been losing money for years, we need this project. Veronica was clearly attracted to Alex so, with my approval, he took her to his bed. Unfortunately, we underestimated her. She realized she was being used. She demanded money, we paid. We'll get the contract.

"I won't lie to you, it's not like Alex made a sacrifice for the firm. He enjoys sleeping with her, I think the blackmail thing even gives it a certain edginess, and you looked through the phone, you know she's not the first. However, if what he and I did gets out, and it will if you poursue this divorce, Alex and I could go to jail. The scandal would kill your father."

I thought of Dad, ever proud of his successful wife and her place in the community.

"What do you want me to do?'

"Take Alex back."

Stunned. "Will he keep sleeping with Veronica?"

Mom placed her hand on mine. "Don't be naive dear. Of course. I slept with more than my share guys on the way up. Still do on occasion. You're father learned to lived with it. You should too."

I asked for time to think about it, but when I did I thought about Dad. I said yes.

* * * *

So began the second phase of my marriage.

Life, on the whole, was good. We did not lack for money, the house was beautiful, the freezer well-stocked. Alex and I got along, it was impossible to resist his immense charm. After six months we resumed a sex life, although it was nothing like the old days. Role plays were definitely out - I didn't want to help him rehearse his next conquest - and dirty talk, which I knew he shared with other women, did nothing for me. I still liked public sex; it was our best sex, although even it was a shadow of its former self.

At the end of his junior year at the New Orleans Center for Creative Arts Ross was accepted as a summer intern at Tulane's Shakespeare Festival. Several years before, at my urging, Mom's firm had become a Festival sponsor. I regularly attended Festival events and had gotten to know several members of the faculty, including Professor Abuya Nyong'o, the Festival's director.

She and I were talking over glasses of wine after the final showing of the Festival's opening production, Coriolianus, waiting for the actors to join us. Abuya was wearing a full length shoulder-less red dress with a cape. As always, her appearance and bearing were dignified, near regal. Her jet-black skin and accent that confirmed her Kenyan homeland. In her mid-thirties, she's managed to retain the slim figure that had led to her working as a model when she first came to the United States.

"Mother."

Abuya turned her head, her large loop earrings swinging freely. She smiled, perfect teeth, radiant smile, and offered her cheek to a handsome young man, who kissed it. She turned back to me.

"Angel, this is my son, Faulkner. Faulkner, this is Angel, her son is one of our interns."

I stuck out my hand . He took it while leaning in to kiss my cheek. His grip was firm. Strong nose, high prominent cheekbones, solid square jaw, and hair, like his mother's, trimmed short, he was handsome. There was also a marked intelligence in his brown eyes. Clearly bi-racial, his skin was brown with cool, jewel undertones. I recalled a reception several years ago when Professor Nyong'o had mentioned she was going through a divorce from the older man who'd swept her off her feet when she first arrived in the United States.

We chatted a few minutes, then he said he had to run. I watched him walk away.

"Very impressive young man," I said.

"Thank you. He makes me proud." She continued, her tone more serious. "There is something I'd like to ask you. Your son is talented and incredibly sweet, everyone loves him. But he's inexperienced, almost naive. I think he'd benefit from venturing out of his comfort zone. Sometimes we refer our kids to local companies, people doing work far less standard than Julius Ceaser. These groups can be way out there, past the edge of good taste, doing stuff we'd never get away with. I was thinking about Ross for one of them."

"What do have in mind?"

"One of my former students, Sandy Vaughn, has a group called Carnal Corps. Their stuff can be very political, very raunchy, usually both. She's doing something at the Ya Ya Theater; its behind a bar in the Treme. I think she could use your son."

The mother's desire to defend her son warred briefly with her criticism, but Abuya was right. Ross was, as I had been, an innocent home-body. He was being offered a chance to expand his horizons.

"Okay, you have my permission to talk to him. Should I mention it to Ross."

"No let me. I'll let him know you and I talked. And there he is now."

I spotted Ross, along with the rest of the cast, enter the room. He was chatting with a slender red-head. Her hair was cut short, her clothes a boyish hodge-podge - hat, white shirt, tie, and pants - of second-hand items. She had a definite style. She introduced herself as Rani, a freshman at the university, also participating in the summer workshop.

* * * *

When he got home the next day Ross said he'd talked to Professor Nyong'o and met with Sandy Vaughn.

"Well, how did it go."

"Its uh... uhh... well, hard to describe... its different."

"Different. How?"

"Sandy's thinking about using different actors in a series of ten minute vignettes involving a couple - younger man, older woman - in different stages of their, well, relationship."

"Go on."

He paused. "Mom, its all about sex. What Sandy has in mind for me, well, it's the first meeting between the man and woman, she talks dirty. At first he's doubtful, then he gets into it he starts talking dirty. That's pretty-much all they do, talk dirty. We're supposed to ab-lid the end. Jeez. I know Professor Nyong'o thinks it's a good idea, but I don't think I can do this. I've been on two dates in my life, I'll look like an idiot on stage talking about sex."

Ross was getting worked up. Time to calm him down. "Let's get a pizza."

That always made him happy. "Yeah, thanks Mom."

Over a pepperoni we talked about the show, deciding, for the moment, not to decide. He'd sleep on it.

* * * *

Up first the next morning I retrieved the script from Ross' bookbag. The actors were a man and woman, he eighteen and innocent; she thirty-six and experienced. It was exactly as he'd described. It opened with him answering a phone call. She got right to the point.

Her: "I live in the apartment across from you. I watch you at night, naked. I like your body, I like your cock. I finger-fuck my pussy thinking about your prick."

Him: "Who is this?"

Her: "I dream about pushing you onto your back, stroking your cock until it's big and hard."

Him: "Do I know you?"

Her: "You've seen me on the street honey. You like the way I look, your eyes linger on me. After I got it hard, I'd lick it all over. I'm so hot thinking about it. I have two fingers in my pussy right now. And sweetie, I've got a tight hot cunt."

Him: "Where are you?"

Her: "I'm such a slut. How about I flash my hairy cunt the next time I see you on the street. Would that make you hard, would that make you horny? I love showing off my pussy. Right now its red and oh so juicy. It wants your big hard prick. I'm running my fingertips along its drippy hot sticky lips, fuck juices are oozing out. I'm finger-fucking myself."

Him: "Maybe we should meet some place, in public."

Her: "No time, I'm horny now. I don't need to get acquainted, I need to get fucked. I need to be fucked by your fat prick."

I read on. She was outside his door, on her cell phone. They kept talking; she knocked; he opened the door. As the conversation continued he, obscene phrase by obscene phrase, began to match her, inciting in him such a fuck-lust that he ignored the obvious - that she was half out-of-her-mind - and invited her to his bedroom.

I imagined Ross, in his innocent voice, saying the nasty vile phrases. I stroked a stiff nipple through my shirt, lay the script down, and headed upstairs, bringing myself off in the shower. When I got back downstairs Ross was on the couch, reading the script.

"Did you look at it Mom."

"Yes."

"What do you think?"

"I think you should do it. I agree with Professor Nyong'o, it would be good for you to try something different. The young man is, like you, inexperienced. You'd need to rehearse, but you can do it."

He screwed up his face, thought for a second, said, "Okay."

* * * *

Over the next week Ross was at Tulane during the day, with Carnal Corps at night. When I was in the city I'd drop by, visit with Abuya. She praised Ross' work at the Festival. She also said that while Sandy had indicated that while Ross was struggling, he was having trouble with both the words and physical intimacy with Amanda - the woman playing opposite him - it was Amanda who was the real problem. She missed rehearsals and consistently muffed her lines. It hurt Ross' progress.

"Why don't they get someone else?"

"Amateur theater, Angel, you're kinda stuck with who shows up."

I also noticed that Rani was definitely interested in my boy. I mentioned it to Abuya.

"Yes, she has herself a little crush. Your son likes her, but he's passive. I'm not sure why. Inexperience? Not picking up her signals? Maybe they're just respecting my request that the interns keep hands off until after the Festival's final show. It's become a problem. All these randy young artistes swapping beds; there was a lot of jealously, a lot of hurt feelings. I've asked them to slow down. For the most part they have."

* * * *

That weekend Ross mumbled something into the phone, then hung up. "Damn."

Not like him. "What is it son?"

"That was Amanda. We were supposed to get together and practice, but she backed out again. I'm already having enough trouble with the part, this doesn't help."

After a pause I said, "Why don't we read it together?"

"Yeah, and have my mouth washed out with soap."

I laughed. "Actually, it might help. Who better to get over your embarrassment than me. If you can say it in front of your mother, you can say it in front of anyone."

Ross started to object, then stopped. What I'd said made sense.