Punish Me with Kisses by William Bayer Read Free Book Online

with drums. It's all very Afro, very outré. He pinions her hands above her head, lowers himself slowly, taunting her, making her strain upwards to flick her tongue against the steel-hardness of his shaft. It grows. At every lick it grows. She strains. He smiles. And then the sweet cream cascades upon her face, a river of perfect foam spreading slowly upon her dusty skin. Afterward—off to the Racquet Club for thirty minutes of squash with the hardball boys, then a long hot shower—wash away all the sweat and sex—and back to Chapman Int to gobble up some little company or country, and then, finally, The Long Ride Home. What the hell does he think we are, anyway? Does he think any of us is really sane? WASPs! God, how I loathe us, so hard and pure, so squeaky-clean!
    Anyway, the weekend is the purest shit. Awful sessions at the dining table, the phony old dark carved baronial groaning board. He slices the roast so thin it curls up in shame. The pan juices are as pale as mother's family's blood. Two straight-up candles, church-type, flickering, illuminate our faces, bring out all the smugness within. I sit opposite Child. She's talking about her new Comp. Lit. course. The reading list's exhaustive—her eyes glow as she lists the books. Proust, Joyce, Mann—ugh! Mother nods like a zombie. Daddy-O evinces a mild interest. Mandy passes the roasted potatoes. The peas are so green they're either frozen or dyed. Finally I can't stand any more, want to make my distaste evident to all. Mother provides me with an opening. 'Wow that does sound like quite an interesting reading list,' she says, and, turning to me: 'Don't you think so, dear?'
    'Well,' I say, laying down my flatware, 'since you're asking me I assume you want the truth.' 'Yes, of course,' says Mother Dear. Daddy-O, knowing I'm about to unload some shit, glances over and narrows his eyes. I say: 'All right, since you want my sincere opinion, I have to tell you that it all sounds—well—a bit jejune.' 'Jejune, dear?' Mother, deeply perplexed, begins to shake her head. 'She means barren,' says Child. 'She means it sounds like it's all a bore.' 'Is that what you mean?' Daddy asks, in his slow hushed inimitable tone. 'Actually,' I say, 'I don't know what jejune means. It just seemed like a good word to use at the time. Forgive me, Child—I really don't think those books are a bore at all.' Child looks at me. She knows we're crazy. She's GOT to know. A long silence. Mandy appears with floating island. Hurrah, hurrah—
    Â 
    W alking out of Central Park, turning down Fifth Avenue, she realized why she hadn't seen another jogger on the track. It was Labor Day, 6:00 A.M . Even the earliest regulars were out of town or still asleep.
    It had been three years since Suzie's death, a little less since Jared's trial. She no longer called herself Penny Berring . She'd taken her mother's maiden name and was Penny Chapman now.
    Her apartment was on East Eightieth between Madison and Park, in a brownstone owned by a woman psychiatrist who encouraged her patients to care for great quantities of cats. Dr. Eleanor Bowles, herself, kept quite a few of the beasts in the duplex she inhabited on the upper floors. Penny could hear them meowing whenever she entered the house, and, on certain hot days such as this holiday morning, the stench of them wafted down the stairwell to sicken her slightly as she came through the door. Still, despite the meowing and the odor and Dr. Bowles' strange patients—who turned up at odd hours, often with a cat-carrying case or two in tow—Penny was content with her home. Her rooms were pleasant, and the location was good for using the park and getting to work.
    She glanced at the card above her mailbox. "P. Chapman," it said. Looking at that name, she couldn't quite connect it with herself. It seemed to speak more of a Cosmo type than a depressed stay-at-home editorial trainee.
    She unlocked the inner door and started up