The Golden Dive
Published by: eXtasy Books
Author : Valerie Herme'
Word Count :30947
Publication Date :2014-06-10
Series : #
Heat Level :
- Product Code: 978-1-4874-0056-9
A pair of desperate bisexual shapeshifting water spirits put Jerry McLane in touch with his true nature.
Unemployed, broke, and squatting in a repossessed house, Jerry thinks he’s as far down as he can get. Then he’s attracted to the new couple next door. Their pale skin, dark eyes, and flowing hair stir his mind with fantasies of sex involving both the woman and the man. Driven to them by hunger and loneliness, he quickly finds himself initiated into new levels of awareness and sexuality. Much deeper change lies ahead for his mind and body. The shapeshifting underwater quest they lead him on is more erotic than any encounter he ever believed possible and more dangerous than any challenge he has ever faced. Only by losing his deepest identity can he find the courage he needs if he and his new lovers are to survive.
Wet hair slaps my face. The woman’s blue lips sweep past my waiting kiss. Her cold cunt shrivels my cock. She growls in frustration and presses her hips to mine.
I wake, sag into my mattress, and wish I was looking at my beautiful dream woman instead of the raw wood of the attic trusses. Closing my eyes to wish her back sharpens my sense of smell. Instead of the sea scent on her skin, my nose collects the odors of dumpster garbage and unwashed clothes.
Her cool body lifts me like a wave. Her tongue fills my mouth with a frosty kiss.
Strong arms pin me from behind. I’m caught in the embraces of the woman below me and the man above. His hard chest presses my back. His sturdy legs spread mine. His icy rod invades my ass.
Whoa! Frozen gay daydreams? Huh-uh. Nope. No, no, no. This isn’t an authorized Jerry McLane scenario. I try to shake the vision from my mind. I’m so far down, even my fantasies are stomping on my face. What’s next?
Haul your butt out of bed, Jerry.
I plug in my thrift-store hot plate, pour water from a yellowed plastic jug into a dented pan, and hold my hands near the outside of the burner to catch the heat. Bubbles form in trails along the sides of the pan. I’ll watch until they rise to a full boil. This is one of the more engrossing events on my day’s calendar.
Calendar. Crap. The inescapable squares of the one hanging on a nail beside my window dare me to look. Eleven days until the utility company shuts off my electricity.
My frost-rimmed view shows me gray skies above bare branches. Dirty ice clings to the edges of the driveway I share with the neighboring house. The car path is kept clear by heat from coils under the concrete. Temperature sensors turn them on and off automatically. When the electricity dies, my driveway will freeze over. So will my attic.
The water boils. Whee! I put the used tea bag I found yesterday into a cracked mug and add the water.
When I bought this place, the developer touted Riverview as a smart-house community. All sorts of gadgets went off and on automatically. She didn’t say, Smart homes for dumb people.
Then the economy tanked. The neighborhood emptied. The driveways, kept clear by their automatic defrosters, became unused paths to houses abandoned by owners who had gone underwater on their home loans.
I was one of them. I’m living in the storage space over the garage. The bank that foreclosed my mortgage would kick me out if they knew I was here.
The weak tea is my big treat for the day. I sip it and wince.
Last year at this time, I’d be leaving a soft bed warmed by one beautiful young woman or another. After brewing espresso in my immaculate kitchen, I’d head out the door dressed in cozy running gear. I was Jerry McLane, the young, hard driving acquisitions lawyer, the picture of success.
Look at me now. Pudgy, pale, listless, hiding, broke, alone, hungry, and caffeine deprived.
Feeling sorry enough for yourself, dough boy?
A noise draws my attention, the once-familiar sound of a sleek car. I look outside in time to see a bright red German convertible glide through my narrow view of the driveway. The top is down. The occupants, a man and a woman, are dressed for the wrong season. His linen shirt and her sleeveless top expose pale arms. Eddies of frigid air flick the fringes of their streaming dark hair.
My nose touches the cold glass. I crane to see them leave. There’s a dealer sticker where the license tag should be. The car is new. Its brake lights come on, followed by its back-up lights.
They’ve spied me. Crap. I duck. The purr of the car returns. The horn honks.
If they report me to the homeowners’ association, the security service will know who’s been rifling dumpsters for food and turning on outdoor taps for water. I’ll be on the wrong side of the gates before the morning’s over. I’ll die of exposure before I can walk to the homeless shelter.
Try not to look guilty, Jerry. I rise up. When the people in the car see my face, they smile and wave. I wave back. They look akin, like brother and sister, with handsome pale faces. Their hair clings to their necks as if they’ve risen from a pool. Their breathing doesn’t steam the air. Though the day is cold enough to make a polar bear feel underdressed in a parka, they’re relaxed in their summer clothes. The weak daylight under the overcast sky makes their skin look blue.
They keep waving, their left arms cutting arcs above their heads in time with each other. I smile harder. They settle in their seats. The car zips them away.
I hold the edge of the table to keep my legs from buckling. Am I dizzy from fear, or lack of food, or recognition? The woman in the car resembles the cold, beautiful, blue-lipped face in my fantasy. Was her companion the dream man who took me from behind?