AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Both the on-screen and real-world Art chuckle at that statement.
“Why would that matter?” asks the on-screen Art.
Great question. I’m a lot more sober than on-screen Lemon, and I have no clue what she meant by it—except that it sounds vaguely related to bestiality.
Lemon changes the topic by walking over to the minibar and taking a couple of little bottles from it.
No. Don’t drink more. Are you insane?
She is. They both are. They sit on the edge of the bed with Fluffer on Art’s lap, uncap the bottles, and Art says a fanciful toast along the lines of “may vodka bring world peace, cure pink eye, and bring back the woolly mammoths to the frozen steppes of Siberia.”
Cringing, I watch them down the bottles, and my headache retroactively worsens.
Tossing her bottle aside, Lemon hikes up her skirt so high I can see her panties—and so can both Arts, judging by the avid interest on their faces.
“The dessert is taking too long,” she states, her eyes on Art’s lips. “Maybe there’s something else you can eat in the meantime?”
Fluffer jumps out of Art’s lap with a look that seems to say, I knew these humans wanted to eat me. I fucking knew it! He frantically hops away, out of frame.
Then I see why Fluffer really ran away.
It wasn’t the “eat” comment.
Not directly, anyway. On-screen Art’s pants are crazy tented—and that’s where the poor rodent was sitting, so he just got scared by the awakened Mr. Big.
On-screen Lemon slides over to Art and gently brushes the tips of her fingers over the very top of the tent. “My dearest husband,” she says with a bad British accent. “Is that for me?”
Skunk. Can I just fall through the floor and into a downstairs hotel room?
I sneak a peek at the real-world Art.
A vein is pulsing on his temple. He catches me watching, clears his throat, and readjusts his robe.
“Rule One,” on-screen Art says in a hoarse voice. “Remember that?”
Lemon makes another circle with her finger and reaches for his zipper. “A bunch of hooey.”
Real-world Art lets out a laugh.
I give him a stern look.
He pauses the video. “Sorry, it’s just that hooey means ‘dick’ in Russian, and that’s where her—I mean your—hand is. Also, it made me think, ‘Wow. She’s drunk so much vodka she’s spontaneously speaking Russian.’”
“Hardy har har. Once you retire from ballet, you should consider becoming a fucking comedian.”
“You have to admit, we’ve found ourselves in a strange situation.”
I sigh. “We have.”
“Should we even keep watching this?”
Great question. If the video morphs into porn—and the odds are nearly one hundred percent that it will—it’ll make it that much harder to keep the rest of our marriage platonic. Despite that reasoning, I say, “Yes, we should. I need to know if I should take a Plan B pill.”
Yeah. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. It’s not like I could just take the pill without watching, no way. Why expose myself to high levels of hormones if I don’t have to… right?
“I can watch it myself and tell you.”
I scoff. “Nice try. How about I watch it and tell you?”
