Ungirls (Disorder collection) by Lauren Beukes

Author:Lauren Beukes [Beukes, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2019-06-26T16:00:00+00:00

10

Nats is with a client when it happens. It’s her favorite regular gig. Henk, the marketing director, who is always polite, pays up front, promptly, and wants to get right down to it. He doesn’t talk about his job, he doesn’t complain about his wife, who is beautiful, he says, and their sex life is wonderful, except she doesn’t want to peg him. Which means he comes to Nats every two weeks or so, he gets off, and then he goes home to valiantly bang his wife. Once he asked if she could help him get some Viagra to accomplish his husbandly duties. She told him she wasn’t a pharmacy, and that was the end of it. He’s respectful of her boundaries and her time, and that’s rare.

Sir Floof, the cat, is watching them with slit eyes from his perch on the back of her leather couch. (Easier to keep clean.) The blinds are drawn, his music of choice is streaming (Depeche Mode today), the scented candles are lit, and she’s got the rubber mattress pad on the bed under the black satin sheets. She’s laid out the selection of toys on the bedside table that Henk is required to use to please her, before he’s allowed to get what he wants. Today, he’s starting with the Hitachi.

He’s kneeling on the edge of the bed with a hard-on while she writhes against the magic wand he’s applying with something like devotion to her clit.

Henk reaches out to stroke her, grinning. “Fuck, you’re wet, Jeanie.” Her nomme de putain.

It’s because the vibrator is so damn loud, buzzing like a swarm of pleasure bees, that she doesn’t hear her phone go off the first dozen times.

It’s supposed to be off. Her rules. All devices in the gold skull bowl by the front door, beneath the charcoal portrait of Glenda Kemp, the snake-dancing stripper of the ’70s. No video, no audio recordings, no interruptions, for everyone’s sake.

Her knees are beginning to shake. She can feel the orgasm rising, the heat up her vertebrae, the new looseness in her limbs. “Oh god,” she whimpers, taking his hand to her breast, but then irritation crosses his brow, and he looks over his shoulder toward the front door.

“Your phone is going crazy,” he says. “You might need to get it.”

“God, sorry. Stay right here.” She kisses him and peels herself off the bed. Behind her, Henk scrubs his fingers through his hair, which is starting to thin, to go with his new middle-aged pouch that seems here to stay no matter how much he tries to CrossFit it away.

She scoops up her phone. Twelve missed calls—her mom, Zukiswa, and three from her sister, Chantal—dozens of WhatsApps and Telegrams, email notifications, texts from unknown numbers. She can’t make sense of it.

“Give me a second, sorry.” Nats puts on a wrap, steps out onto the balcony, closing the sliding door behind her, and calls her mom. The view of the city looks out over a sea of red rooftops and trees.

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