Baby Dicks ~ Melissa Mann

January 15, 2008

Caitlin grips her fountain pen and watches the young woman wiping her husband’s face on the other side of the conservatory.  ‘More meat in your package is what you need!’ she writes in her notebook, pressing a finger between her eyebrows; she is conscious of frown lines.  Out the corner of her eye, she sees the woman put the picture back on the piano and start to clean the one of her children taken outside the family’s second home in Provence.  Caitlin can’t remember the last time she was required to clean anything; eleven years ago probably when she had her own flat, when she worked as a PA at the law firm where Lewis is still the Senior Partner.  They have always had a cleaner, Lewis insisted upon it when they got married, just as he’d insisted upon the housekeeper, gardener and live-in nanny before the children were sent away to boarding school.  Caitlin was effectively made redundant from her life the moment the wedding vows left her mouth. 

‘Your pitiful dick would be a shortcoming for any man,’ she writes, nib punching a green full-stop through the page.  Her hand is shaking.  She puts the pen down and spreads her fingers.  It is an expensive hand manicured twice a week at an exclusive salon off Sloane Square and adorned with a diamond engagement ring and gold wedding band.  It is the hand Lewis took in marriage and made his own.  Caitlin carves the words ‘your warrior of love is too miniscule to win this war!’ across the page of her notebook.

The cleaner has left the house now. Caitlin can’t remember the woman’s name, they’ve had so many; Lewis is rarely satisfied with the way they clean the place.  Caitlin can hear the woman’s scooter puttering just below the bedroom window.  She peers through the curtain, eyes waiting to see the back of her as she heads down the drive.  Caitlin watches as the electric gates swoon closed then turns and strides across the bedroom carpet.  The shag-pile flexes like a knitted muscle beneath her stocking feet.  In the dressing room, a wave of white shirts and made-to-measure suits surges along the wall.  She runs her hand along the length of them; they are barely there beneath her fingertips.  “Chicks hate getting laid by baby dicks like yours,” Caitlin says and smiles to herself.  The wooden hangers knock into each other like a xylophone. 

She is on her side of the dressing room now, confronting the pointed stare of row upon row of shoes and boots.  Lewis is constantly buying them for her.  Blood money she thinks every time she accepts a new pair, for is she not complicit in this killing of herself?  They all have heels, none less than three inches high.  When he’d bought her the first pair all those years ago, she’d thought perhaps he fantasised about seeing her in slutty stilettos, so one evening she’d greeted him home from work, naked but for a red patent pair with a spiked silver heel.  The swell of her breasts and belly glistened with baby oil in the porch light, her blonde hair set free from its clip, wild.  “I want you to fuck me,” she said, pulling out his tie and taking it in her mouth.  But Lewis had called her a dirty whore, told her to put some clothes on then pushed past her to the study. 

Caitlin learned early on in her marriage that Lewis has no time for sexual games.  He buys her heels simply because he wants her to be taller than she is, would like her to be more than she is generally in fact.  Caitlin had considered herself a catch when she first met him, Lewis being so much older than her, but after eleven years married to a man whose compliments are always on the tip of his tongue, she now understands that she will always be a disappointment to him. Caitlin holds a black court shoe in her hands, curved heel gripped in her fist.

“Elongate your short sword to fit her scabbard better,” she says then laughs.  With the shoe back on its box, she kneels down and pushes aside a row of flabby leather handbags.  The carpet peels back like the page of an ancient tome.  From beneath the floorboards, Caitlin retrieves her laptop and, clutching it to her chest, walks over to the bed.  She strokes the lid, a finger describing the engraved logo then opens it and turns it on.  The screen blinks and goes through its routine of waking up.  Caitlin bought it six months ago with the money Lewis gave her for the Prada coat he said she could have.  Within a month she’d earned enough money of her own to buy the coat before her husband could suspect a thing.

Caitlin leans back against the padded headboard, notebook open beside her and begins to type. ‘Guys with tiny pen!ses like yours truly lack manhood.’  On the bedside table, Lewis’ half-moon spectacles eye her from the book he’s reading on hedge funds.  Caitlin chews the inside of her cheek, fingers tripping over the keys in their haste to type the words that have popped in her head – ‘Shame on you!  Don’t you know your wife longs for a big schlong!!!’   A noise on the landing.  Caitlin stops, swallows, breath holding itself at the back of her throat.  Her husband’s black Labrador lumbers through the bedroom door and seeing nothing of interest to him, bumbles back out the way he came.

Reassured it wasn’t Lewis home early again, Caitlin flexes her fingers above the keys to stop them quaking.  The blank email waits patiently for her to gather herself.  From the drop-down list, she selects a name.  Today, Caitlin decides, she will be Sherman A. Santos.  In the subject heading and body of the email, she pastes some text, selects the largest email group from her address book then presses send…
FROM: Sherman A. Santos
SUBJECT: Extend your mini fuckstick & keep your wife coming!
Searching for a sure fire way to fight your s’ex_ual failures?
Looking for more SIZE, LENGTH and WIDTH from your love shaft?
Frankly I had never observed in myself such a might and pleasure before I tried this cure for d!cklessness!
Order top grade V ia_G ra here, 100mg x 90 pills for just $$$$$$120.95!!!!


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