Chapter 6: My Toy
The pool-house silence was a lie. It lasted precisely until dawn, when the gold-plated intercom by his door crackled to life with a sound like tearing velvet.
“Barnaby. My room. Now.”
Her voice was a sleep-thickened command, brooking no delay. He pulled on yesterday’s clothes, the fabric stiff, and trudged across the dewy lawn. The mansion swallowed him whole.
She wasn’t in the bedroom. He found her in the vast, cluttered walk-in closet, a jungle of sequins, faux fur, and leopard print. She stood before a full-length mirror, wearing only a pair of colossal, rhinestone-studded sunglasses and a thong that vanished between the monumental hemispheres of her buttocks. Her body was a topography of scars, stretch marks, and defiance.
“There you are,” she said, not turning. “I’ve decided. You’re my new project. My… companion. Manuel’s useless for anything but driving and scowling.”
“Companion?” Barney croaked.
“Yes. You’re presentable enough. Skinny. Nice bones. And you don’t flinch away anymore. I like that.” She turned, the flesh of her belly and breasts swaying with a ponderous momentum. “I’m having cravings. Not for food. For atmosphere.”
She picked up a remote and pointed it at a hidden speaker. The thumping, synthetic bass of a 1980s porn soundtrack filled the closet. Bow-chikka-wow-wow.
“Help me with my lotion,” she said, thrusting a giant bottle of coconut oil into his hands. “My skin’s like parchment. A tragedy.”
He stood frozen. The music pounded. She sighed, a sound of theatrical exasperation, and grabbed his wrist. She poured a slick, clear pool of oil into his palm. The smell was cloying and sweet.
“Start with the shoulders. Don’t be a mouse.”
His first touch was a tentative press against the slope of her shoulder. The skin was cool, loose, dotted with age spots. He spread the oil. It gleamed.
“Harder. I’m not a fucking porcelain doll. I’m built.”
He increased the pressure, his thin hands working over the landscape of her back. He felt the knots of spine, the ridges of old, forgotten muscles. The oil warmed, its slickness turning the act into something between a massage and a ritual anointing. She began to make low, approving hums that vibrated through his fingertips.
“Lower,” she murmured.
He worked down the small of her back, to the shocking, expansive rise of her hips. Here, the cellulite formed deep, soft whorls under his hands. He kneaded, and the flesh yielded, jiggling in a slow, endless wave. She shifted her weight, pushing back against his hands.
“Yes. There. The architects of my downfall, those hips. Carried a thousand fantasies. Now they just ache.” Her voice dropped, blending with the porn soundtrack’s moans. “Do my front.”
She turned. The sunglasses hid her eyes. Her inflated breasts, veined and topped with startlingly large, brown areolas, hovered before his face. The coconut oil dripped from his fingers onto the carpet.
He reached out, his hands trembling only slightly now, and smoothed oil over the alarming curves. The flesh was unnaturally firm, yet the skin slid over the implants. Her breath hitched. She grabbed his wrists and pressed his palms flat against her.
“See? Nothing to fear. Just silicone and poor life choices.” Her sausage-lips parted. “Now the stomach.”
This was softer, a great, yielding expanse. As he worked the oil in, his knuckles brushed the waistband of her thong. She inhaled sharply.
“You’re learning,” she purred. Her own hand came down, covering his, and guided it lower, past the elastic, into the coarse, wiry hair beneath. He felt the swollen, heated flesh he’d only seen from a distance, pressed against cold porcelain. Now it was hot, wet, and parted under his tentative touch.
“There’s my good lad,” she breathed, her head tilting back. She began to move against his hand, a slow, grinding roll of her hips. Schlick. Schlick. The sound was obscenely clear, cutting through the music. Her other hand came up and yanked her own breast roughly, pinching the nipple. “See? Everyone needs attention. Even old monuments.”
He was a puppet. His mind detached, floating somewhere near the chandelier. His body, however, continued. His fingers, guided by her insistent pressure, moved in a rhythm as old as time. Her moans deepened, losing their performative edge, becoming ragged, private. Her knees trembled. The enormous sunglasses slid down her sweaty nose.
“Don’t you stop. Don’t you dare,” she grunted.
The closet air grew thick with coconut and the tang of her arousal. Her movements became frantic, jarring. She released her breast and grabbed a rack of feather boas for balance, sending a riot of color cascading to the floor. A final, shuddering thrust against his hand, and she cried out—a raw, guttural sound of release that had nothing to do with the soundtrack’s fake ecstasy. Her body clenched around his fingers, then went limp, sagging against the clothes rack.
Silence, except for her panting and the tinny, forgotten music. Slowly, she righted herself. She pushed the sunglasses up onto her head, revealing eyes that were clear, sharp, and utterly unsurprised.
She looked at his hand, glistening with oil and her. “Towel,” she said, nodding to a pile of linens.
He wiped his hand clean, the act feeling both profoundly degrading and strangely mundane.
“See?” she said, pulling her caftan from a hanger and sliding it over her head, hiding the oiled masterpiece of her body. “Companionship. It’s about service. Anticipation.” She smoothed the fabric down. “Now, I’m hungry. I want pancakes. A stack as high as my regrets. You’ll sit with me. You’ll eat some too. You’re too skinny.”
She strode out of the closet, the music still playing. Barney looked at his clean hand. He smelled of her. He felt the ghost of her textures on his skin: the firm silicone, the loose skin, the wiry hair, the shocking, wet heat.
He was no longer just the help. He was the witness. The participant. The scaffolding was now part of the monument.
He followed the sound of her demanding voice, headed for the kitchen.