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The Art of Marriage
Mistress Mayhem
by Steven Hoadley

     Otis hadn't had sex with his wife in sixteen months. There were various reasons. Perhaps it was her hundred-pound weight gain, or the extra hundred-and-fifty he carried. Regardless, sex had become a labor of hate. An exercise that carried possible cardio health risks.
     He didn't want to die trying.
     Watching his wife, Mabel, he couldn't help but be reminded of an early I Love Lucy episode where Lucy dresses up as a fat woman so she could sneak by Ricky to get into the Tropicana. Mabel was no Lucy. Her cellulite carried depth and weight.
     "I'm going to go to bed," she said between belches. "Turn that goddamn TV down so I can sleep! All you watch are those stupid game shows and old war movies. Don't you have any class?"
     Otis knew not to engage.
     Mabel leaned over and turned the sound down. A gooey, gluey-white lotion covered her face, supposedly to help her skin look like a movie star's.
     "If hear that goddamn TV, I'll come smack the shit out of you!" she yelled.
     With that, she grabbed her oxygen tank -- needed for her emphysema, lit a cigarette and shuffled into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
     Alone at last, Otis thought. He grabbed a diet coke from the ice chest and flopped down on his favorite bean bag chair. He set his drink on the nearby wooden crate that acted as their end table, then lit a smoke of his own.
     He flipped through the channels, looking for an old war movie. The WWII flicks were his favorite.
     Bingo! He found one on channel sixty-seven. We Dive at Dawn, with John Mills. It'd just started. What luck, he thought. He loved John Mills.
     He found his groove amongst the beans, took a gulp from his diet soda, burped as needed, and began rooting for John. One tough, bullet-biting son-of-a-bitch.
     The submarine was making its deepest, most dangerous dive, barely avoiding enemy sonar, when a commercial hit. "Damn!" Otis shouted.
     Up popped a beautiful, busty blonde in a red bathing suit. She held a phone in her hand. "Lonely tonight, guys?" she beckoned. "You don't have to be. Let me and my friends help you get the party going." From each side of her came two other women wearing bikinis sliding and slinking and each holding phones of their very own. They must've liked phones. They began rubbing up against each other, up against the phones, against the screen! Their hands probed and pushed, flesh melting together, purring and sighing all the way.
     Shit, Otis thought. What I wouldn't give to have them girls.
     "Don't wait, call us now, we're waiting," they said in unison, as they slithered around, about, and through each other.
     His first erection in weeks had shown itself and was trying to break through his PJ's.
     Across the bottom of the screen, a big bold phone number blinked. Otis leaned up, looked around for a pencil. Nothing! He grabbed a cigarette butt from the ashtray and used the black of the ash to scribble the number down across his arm. Jumping up and grabbing the phone, he dialed the number. 1-900-SPANKED.
     A recorded message answered. It droned on about costs and whatnot. Otis didn't care, cost be damned. His periscope had risen and the target was in sight!
     Minutes passed. Finally, a live woman.
     "Would you like Martha, Mistress of Mayhem?" She asked. "Or we have Tina, Catholic Schoolgirl, Toni the Transvestite, JoAnn our Toilet Trainer, Jean the Raunch Machine . . ."
     Too many choices, Otis just wanted a live one. Now!
     "Give me the first one!" He said, panting.
     After a brief pause, a woman's voice came on. "What's your name, boy?" She asked.
     "Otis, what are you wearing?"
     "My pajamas."
     "What's on the pajamas, anything?"
     "Little lighthouses."
     "Little lighthouses!" She screamed. "Fag boy! You're a sissy fag boy aren't you, Otis?"
     "Wait . . . uh, what?"
     "Shut up! Take them off. I want you naked."     
     His hard-on had gone limp. He hadn't anticipated this. Why was she yelling at him, he wondered? He thought about asking for someone else, but didn't say anything for fear of angering her further. Hesitantly he, he stripped.
     "Are you the girl on the TV?" he asked.
     "Quiet! You will address me as Mistress, understand my little gay boy?"
     "Wait, I'm not gay, I think . . . ."
     "Shut up, It's Mistress to you!"
     Otis felt locked in. He'd already come this far.
     "Yes, Mistress."
     "You're a bad boy aren't you Otis? Tell me you're a bad boy Otis, tell me."
     "Bad boy? Well, depends on what you call bad? One time my brother and I were . . . ."
     "Otis - NOW! Tell me!"
     Otis flinched. Something was happening.
     "Uh . . . yes. I'm bad. I'm a bad boy."
     Otis's head was whirling. Bending over, reaching around and under, he pulled up his belly. His neck hurt as he strained to see his now-stiffening penis. He didn't understand why he'd grown so excited, he didn't care. It was time to start cooking the sausage. He spit in his hand, reached under his stomach, and started pulling.
     "Otis, what are you doing?"
     "I'm playing with it, Mistress."
     "Stop!" She ordered. "Do you have a banana, some panty hose and lipstick?"
     Otis thought for a moment. He thought he saw some bananas in the cabinet. He knew his wife had lipstick, he wasn't sure of the panty hose.
     "Yes, I think so," he told her.
     "Go get them now, faggot, Now!"
     Otis ran to the cabinet. One, sad black banana lay forgotten in the corner, behind the box of macaroni and cheese. He grabbed it and tossed it on the floor by the phone, then slowly, quietly, he creaked open the bedroom door. His wife's wheezing told him he was safe. He tiptoed in, found the lipstick--red, and then crept over to the pile of clothes on the floor. No panty hose, damn! Wait, panties, he saw panties. They would have to do. He took a pair and headed back to the phone, closing the door gently behind him.
     "I got them!"
     "I want to piss on your face, little boy!"
     "Um . . . what?"
     "Nevermind. Put some lipstick on your mouth sissy girl. Smear it on thick."
     Otis opened the cap and began applying it. He felt stupid for a moment. A stupid man bearing a boner.
     "Okay, it's on," he said.
     "Now take it and write across your chest, real big, I LOVE COCK."
     Whatever it took, he thought. There'd be no backing out now. Forging new sexual territory, he scratched out the words on his chest, writing backwards even, so Mistress Mayhem could read it -- if she were there.
     "I did it, Mistress!" Otis said, proudly. He felt thinner, younger, sturdier, harder!
     "Take the panty hose, and put them on your head." Mistress Mayhem ordered, speaking with a steady deliberateness. Her tone excited Otis even more.
     He followed the order. Pulling them down so the elastic tightened around his chin, one eye and his nose poked through a leg hole. The panties smelled like sea moss, sea moss and butt. They carried a hint of his wife's poop smell. He knew it well.
     "They're on," he reported.
     "Good little girl. That's who you are now. My little Otis who loves dick."
     "Yes, Mistress, little Otis . . . yes. That's me, yes . . . ." Otis replied, breathing heavy now.
     "Take the banana and put it in your mouth, get it nice and wet."
     Otis was hesitant. The only thing he ever sucked was his wife's nipple. Once, he tried sucking her toes, but had to stop when one of her toenails had ripped open a deep gash across his lip, requiring four stitches to stop the bleeding. He went for it anyway, sliding the banana in, licking and spreading his saliva all over it.
     "Follow my directions, Otis. Take the banana and shove it up your ass. I want you to stick that banana up your boy-cunt!"
     He couldn't believe what he'd heard. His dick screamed and swelled. The excitment of it all confused him. He never had anything up his butt before. Well, one time, when he was little, the seat fell off his bicycle while he stood peddling. He sat down without knowing he'd lost it and the steel rod broke through his pants and penetrated him. It hurt terribly and he spot-bled for a week.
     He wouldn't be deterred now, he promised himself. He pushed the fruit in. Surprisingly, it slid in easily. It filled him.
     "It's in, Mistress."
     He felt constipated.
     "Good pussy-boy, now start masturbating. Pump that tiny penis my little faggot."
     Otis grabbed his dick and started pounding. This was it, he thought. He'd found ecstasy he never knew existed. He'd been catapulted into a sexual dimension that only side show freaks and prisoners must have known. Why hadn't anyone told him of this before!
     "Yes, Mistress, Oh yes . . . It's so full . . . Aaaaahh . . . ."
     Otis felt it coming. Like a sledgehammer from hell, it came. Spurting his love-liquid like a national geyser. It spat, spewed and gushed, flooding his face and chest with his own man-milk. Spent, he reached down to remove the banana and found that it had broken open. Mushy banana cream dribbled from his hole. He held the banana up; it looked withered and used, just like how he felt.
     He remembered the phone. "Mistress Mayhem?"
     A dial tone.
     "Shit!" He yelled, slamming the phone down.
     He noticed his reflection in the TV screen. There he was, lying on the bean bag chair, panties over his head, lipstick on his lips, "I LOVE COCK," scrawled across his chest. Quite the pathetic spectacle, he thought.
     "What a fucking sicko I am," he mumbled to himself. "Look at me, I fucked a banana! How did I let her talk me . . . ."
     Mabel stood at the door holding her oxygen tank.
     "Otis! For God's sake, what the . . . ."
     "Honey . . . I was . . . I was talking to . . . Oh, fuck it! Go get the camera."


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