Fantasy Man -- Fiction

FANTASY MAN


From his stool that grew like roots from the bar floor, Chandler Dopple fingered his drink, observing the crowd of The Balcony Club on “Masquerade Night” at the climax of its dancing orgy. All around he saw the shy girl-next-door dressed uninhibitedly in see-through lace and satin. Girls dressed as devils, angels, hookers and nuns, together cavorting about in hiked-up skirts and knee-high black leather boots. Big breasted police officers were playfully, if not sadistically, smacking jail-birds on the ass with nightsticks. Servers were dressed in revealing assortments of cute cuddly animals. Roman legionnaires were reaching into the furry bikinis of Amazon, Viking and cave women. A tall, muscled Wonder Woman was making-out with a voluptuous Superman in a deep red corner of the club. A raven haired, green eyed, porcelain faced vampire beauty was biting the neck of an unsuspecting nineteenth century British gentleman. And a scarecrow, a tin man, and a lion surrounded an exotic Dorothy in her red, ruby, stiletto slippers. It was beautiful.


Chandler Dopple threw his shot glass back, swallowing seductive liquor, in one swift, smooth motion. His eyes flared with intensity and satisfaction as they snuck through the crowded bar, rubbing up against curves tightly wrapped in red and black leather, caressing silk skin rising and curling like the smoke in lean tendrils to the loud rhythmic heartbeats the executioner DJ spun with confident eyes and sure hands. Chandler’s voyeuristic eyes pulled space-babe spaghetti straps off firm shoulders and slid cheerleader skirts up to the zenith of promising thighs.


His eyes continued to play around the dance floor of the bar, moving and grinding with cowgirls, witches, life guards, Renaissance wenches and pirates, until they came to a dead stop at the far end of the bar. Chandler’s eyes seemed to choose for him, and the executive decision was concurred by his loins.


Chandler surmised that she was very young—probably not old enough to be in this over 21's club. But, of course, the bouncers always turned a blind eye to beauties of this caliber. Her long brunette hair was tied back into two lengthy pig-tails. Her wild, green eyes complimented the exotic features of her young face. A thin white, short-sleeved blouse was strapped down by suspenders that curved around and helped accentuate her full bosom. Black socks were pulled up to her knees and perfect thighs protruded from underneath her extra-short, plaid, skirt.


Ultimately, it wasn’t her beauty that made his blood reach a high boil. Many of the women at the bar tonight had achieved the like. Chandler could feel her sexual prowess, even if her experience was slight. He envisioned within her a great potential to be sexually strong and powerful—a girl manifested for the games of seduction and control. But before she could become his tremendous protégé, she would have to be conquered… taught first.


He stood from his stool, stiff, confident, erect, and he crossed to her with swift, sure stride.


As he approached, he observed her tells. She laughed with some of her friends, a loud boisterous laugh void of coy, innocent thoughts. Her eyes beamed with desire and passion. She perched in a perky posture on her stool—her legs crossed in some vain attempt to hide her panties. She held her cocktail before her red lips, inhaled the thin straw that leaned delicately out of the glass and sucked down her drink with speed and efficiency. And she ostentatiously turned and tilted her head, creating a lively, attractive dance with her hair to lure in horny fish.


Chandler also noticed a wedding ring on her finger. Perfect.


“Another Long Island, sweetie,” she said flirtatiously to the bartender.


“You may place the price of the drink on my tab, if you would, kind sir,” Chandler said, taking assumed position next to her.


She looked to her friends, who nodded and giggled in slight approval only; he did, after all, have a significant age on her. Blushing, she fought to remain disinterested, “Uh, thanks.”


Chandler cocked his head back slightly, looking down at her with accusing eyes, a smirk on his lips. She met his gaze with big, green eyes. “You’re not even old enough to be drinking those,” he said, continuing his iron eye contact, his smirk transforming into a big warm smile, “Are you, my lady?”


She blushed even more and looked away.


He leaned in, so she could smell his cologne, and in a soft, tender whisper said, “Your secret is safe with me.”


She seemed to melt a little.


“What’s your name, my lady?” he said, moving closer to her.


“Persephone.”


“What a beautifully auspicious name, my lady,” he said, taking the drink from the bartender and handing it to her himself.


Persephone chuckled slightly, guessing he had said something cute or funny. She took the drink and sipped daintily. Her eyes darted down at her ring finger.


“So, uh, what’s your costume suppose to be,” she said, looking up and down Chandler in an ordinary black suit, trying her best to size him up, flirt slightly, but remain hard to get.


“This is my costume, my lady,” he said delightfully, “can you not see my eyes behind this mask. I am a beast.”


“A beast, huh,” Persephone said, sipping at her drink, “disguised as the mild-mannered gentlemen?” Her legs squeezed tighter. Her hand slid slowly across the bar, closer.


“It would be my best costume yet,” Chandler said taking her hand, “if I could convince someone I’m actually ‘gentle.’” He slowly and tenderly kissed the meat of her hand, “Your costume, as much as mine, seems to be hiding a dark wickedness.”


“What,” her hand came to her chest and gorgeous smile in delight of her sarcasm exploded on her face, as if the sun flooded the room, “innocent little me? Why, sir? What would ever suggest to you I am anything but sweet and innocent?”


“Your husband doesn’t seem to be here,” he responded, matter-of-factly, “or he is unforgivably neglecting you, my lady.”


“No,” Persephone said, a hint of disdain in her voice, “Brett doesn’t like the club scene very much.”


“How long have you been married?” Chandler asked, inching ever closer.


“Three months, but we were together two years before that,” she responded, trying to convince herself of the validity of her marriage.


“I see,” Chandler’s head cocked up again, resuming the accusing stare, “and how old are you, my lady?”


“Nineteen.”


“My lady!” Chandler said, feigning surprise, “So young. So young.”


“What?” Persephone asked with growing offense, “I’m madly in love with Brett. We just have differences when it comes to social activities.”


“Who are you trying to convince, my lady?”


“Stop calling me your lady!” Persephone said with outright rage.


The angrier she got, the more it aroused Chandler. This was precisely what he wanted. He envisioned taking her off the stool and fucking her right there on the bar floor.


“Persephone,” he said, as patiently and as tenderly as he could, “did it ever occur to you that marriage might not be the natural state of man, or woman for that matter?”


“Excuse me?” she asked, not expecting his easy manner.


“You are nineteen years old, Persephone,” he began to teach, “do you not feel in the least bit like something is not quite right? That something is missing?”


“Not at all,” Persephone asserted.


“Really,” Chandler responded, unconvinced, “that’s why you’re here with your girlfriends, flirting away with men who approach you?”


She remained silent and looked away.


Chandler, smiling warmly and with a soft tender whisper said, “Shall I tell you what I think?”


Persephone remained silent, her temper cooling.


“You are a game player, just as I am. You are here to conquer and crush men under your foot. By showing them what they can’t have, you tease them. And you enjoy the hell out of it. And why shouldn’t you. It’s who you really are.”


Chandler put his hand on Persephone’s bare knee. He could feel her thighs tighten.


“Take a look at the people in the bar, Persephone. This is truth. The fantasies these people are playing out are how they would really see themselves: as beasts of sexuality and pleasure. Tomorrow, they will put on costumes and live their unnatural lives. You, yourself, will go home and hug and kiss Brett sweetly. Innocently. As if this little encounter never happened. And you, as they, will fruitlessly deny yourself what is truly your nature.”


Chandler carved his hand up her thighs like a knife. He could feel them slowly give way.


“We are beasts of sexuality, Persephone. Marriage is something originally meant to expand land and property, to keep everyone in their particular social class, to keep a tight lease on pedigree. Overtime, it has taken on this sacred façade of romanticism. It is a costume. It is not our natural state, Persephone.


“We are creatures of desire and passion,” he continued, “We were meant to fuck in the streets. Utilize the senses. Dance and play. This is what makes us feel alive. This is why we are alive.”


“You’re wrong,” Persephone said weakly. Her legs completely parted.


“Am I?”


***


Chandler kicked the door to his apartment open as he and Persephone continued to kiss and breathe heavily at the door’s threshold. Chandler tore the suspenders away from Persephone’s shoulders as Persephone began pulling off Chandler’s black suit coat. Chandler picked her up in his arms and carried her through the threshold—her warm body melding into his. Persephone tossed his suit coat on the floor into the hall, leaving it behind as Chandler nudged the door closed with his foot.


Instinctively, Chandler carried her into the room, not bothering to turn the lights on, but finding his way as if blind, using his other senses to define his reality. Persephone’s lips were warm and wet against his. His tongue pushed through her yielding mouth. He could taste the alcohol and smoke on her breath. As he carried her into the bedroom, he could feel Persephone vigorously working on the buttons of his shirt, tugging and yanking at his long tie to loosen it free. He felt her hands rub up and down his muscled chest. His grip on her waist and thighs tightened.


When in the bedroom, Chandler set Persephone down on her feet. They stood for a moment. Eager eyes locked. He took her hands gently within his, staring hard into her powerful eyes. He lowered himself down to one knee, and looked up at her submissively. He tenderly moved his hands to her waist and began to pull down Persephone’s plaid skirt.


As if immediately pulled from the spell, a flash of reason splashed on Persephone’s face. She managed to mouth, in a windless, weakening breath, “no,” which of course, to Chandler, meant “yes.”


Now, he was ready. Now, the moment was perfect.


He ripped away the skirt, tearing it in two, revealing Persephone’s petit cotton panties. He returned to his feet, his expression now beastly and brutal. Her’s uncertain and scared. He took the top of her blouse in both hands, just above her heaving bosom, and in one strong, vicious motion, pulled it apart cleanly down the center. All that was left behind was a pair of full, round, percolated breasts.


She said and did nothing.


He lifted her a foot off the ground by her underarms and hurled her roughly through the air onto the bed. A subtle moan escaped her lips as she bounced on the mattress. He stood over her a moment, staring her down. He caught a look of acceptance wash over her face. She was ready to learn.


He climbed onto the bed and straddled her between his legs, pinning her tightly to the bed. Persephone’s hands pressed up against his chest—still defensive—as he tried to come down. She held him up only for a moment as he continued to press. Then, Chandler could feel her slowly give way. Her hands fell away from his chest and grabbed the headboard behind her. She looked up at him, now fiercely defiant. He smiled in complete ecstasy, took her throat firmly in both hands and began squeezing tightly as he lowered himself on her.


“Last call, Mr. Dopple…”


What…?


“Last call, Mr. Dopple…”


Chandler Dopple, startled out of it, scratched the thinning hair on his head and finished the last of his drink.


“I’ll take my bill now, sir,” he said, quietly, “Thanks.”


As the bartender went to print his bill, Chandler looked back over, one last time, at his “Persephone.” Dressed in jeans and tee-shirt, she was getting ready to leave with her friends, a boisterous laugh void of coy, innocent thoughts expelling from her mouth.


“Here you are, sir.”


Chandler looked away from the group of girls and pulled his wallet from his pocket. In a slow, clumsy motion, he pulled a ten and a five from his wallet and gave it to the bartender.


“Thank you, sir.”


He slowly worked himself to his feet, grunting as he put on his coat. He then rummaged through a coat pocket and retrieved his wedding ring, placing it back on his finger. Not that it helped to take it off. Not that it helped a middle-aged, overweight, all-girls Catholic high school literature teacher. But he could dream.


“Have a goodnight.”


Chandler staggered slightly to the door, tired and a little drunk. He’d have to be careful going into the house so he wouldn’t wake anyone up again. In any case, his wife was going to be pissed.

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