Free Butterflies in Heat by Darwin Porter Page A

sheriff for him."
    "When will the Commodore show up? I'd like to meet him."
    "I bet you would, sweetie," she said, fingering his chin. "I'm sure he'd like to meet you too. With my Commodore, one never knows. He just pops up on the doorstep. His real life's on the mainland. He never lets me go there, though. He claims he comes to Tortuga for 'slumming'. I told him, 'Don't associate me with no slum'. He didn't, of course. My pad upstairs is very elegant. Why don't you come up and look at it? Plus what other sights I might be showing."

    Lola's apartment was a mass of white. No color anywhere, except in her face.
    To furnish it, she'd dipped heavily into her experience of watching Jean Harlow and Joan Crawford movies. Lack of access to the rich furnishings once available to those two movie queens hadn't stopped Lola. She resorted to what she could find at the local stores and the city dump. Coats of white paint and yards of shiny white satin had brought renewed life to the opulent taste of another time.
    In the middle of the living room stood a Victorian adaptation of a Louis XV chaise longue. The central place for Lola's operations, a way station en route to the bedroom. Hanging near it, melted tallow covered the missing or substitute bits of an overscaled chandelier. Beside the chaise stood a round ornate reed table—dominated by a lamp with a shade fashioned like an artificial lily .
    Opening onto the living room, the bedroom invited with a high-posted brass bed, again enameled a glistening white. A shirred satin canopy shaded it, and filmy draperies were held back by garlands of make-believe roses and lilacs. Carefully placed against the headboard were pillows, each one different in shape, but all lacy and feathered around with fringes.
    Everything designed to remind one of a heady background for seduction.
    Lola held up a rhinestone-covered box beside the bed. "In here are some of my beauty aids. You'll forgive me while I make myself more alluring—if that's possible." Into the bathroom she disappeared with the box.
    He slipped out of his jeans, tossing them on the white carpet.
    Moments later, Lola was back. "Wow!" she yelled, squealing with delight. "I wonder if I could lose weight dieting on weenies all week." She was wearing nothing but pink panties, red Joan Crawford fuck-me shoes, and that platinum wig. Though it sagged in parts, her body was actually like a girl's" tiny breasts forming contours on a slender frame that was emaciated. Her mouth was painted a turkey red. She wiggled her hips over to the bed.
    "These white satin sheets are a little much," he said, patting them invitingly.
    "Men perform better on satin than cotton," she confirmed.
    "Let's give it a try." He grabbed her, cupping her tiny breasts and pinching the nipples until she screamed.
    "You're hurting me," she protested.
    "And you love it!"
    Her only response was a soft moan before plunging her mouth onto him. Suddenly, she jumped up. Her back to him, she lowered her panties, revealing her buns. Then she fell on the bed, butt up. "A five-alarm's fire's raging in me," she said.
    "Let's put it out," he said. He never saw her front part, and didn't have to look into her eyes as he did his work. Deeper and deeper, he took the plunge. Lola screamed once, but it was mostly moans reaching his ears. He rode in further, exploring more.
    The bedsprings were rusty and creaky—providing just the kind of rhythm he needed to do his job. She'd brag later about having had him—he knew that. But the joke would be on her. She'd never really have him. He gave them sex, but he'd never give of himself. Not to Lola. Not to anyone.
    The rhapsodic sound of her voice, the way her body was turned on, the way she needed what he offered—everything blended to make him a man again after that nightmare in jail. Riding to his finish, he was the one groaning now.
    Immediately recognizing the signs, Lola started to protest, "Don't, don't, lover man. Make it last