I Will Watch You: Four short tales of Jewish love and lust Read online

  I Will Watch You

  Four short tales of Jewish love and lust

  Shosha Pearl

  Table of Contents

  Little Secret, Big Secret

  Fringes of Memory

  Before the Canopy

  I Will Watch You

  Want more Shosha?

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  Author's Note

  Warning: Each of the stories in this collection contains ‘adult’ content varying from mild to explicit concepts and descriptions.

  These tales are peppered with Hebrew and Yiddish expressions. To help readers who may not be familiar with them, each time a new non-English word or phrase appears it is linked to its definition in the Glossary.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted once written permission has been gained from the author.

  Writing forms part of this author’s parnassa (livelihood) and these stories are the product of her skills, time and ideas. They are also the result of a lot of work. Please think very carefully before pirating, illegal downloading or sharing this work – every occurrence will impact on the author’s ability to continue to earn parnassa from writing and to be able to write more.

  Free content is available on the author’s website and additional free content is available to people who subscribe to her mailing list.

  I Will Watch You

  First published 2015

  Copyright © Shosha Pearl 2015

  www.shoshapearl.com

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  Little Secret, Big Secret

  Miri felt so nervous that she kept looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was there. She sat on the edge of the bed and opened the bedside table drawer. Right at the back and barely visible behind all of the other bits and bobs that she had arranged in front was a black, velvet pouch, with its thin drawstring pulled tightly around the top and a silver ribbon tied in a loose bow.

  She didn’t want to touch it immediately; she was not sure if there was a special way to grasp it. So, she just reached in and carefully pulled it out. The afternoon sunshine pouring through her bedroom felt like a spotlight from heaven, making her even more self-conscious of the shape inside the fabric. She knew she was blushing.

  Miri placed the pouch on the bed and went out to check the apartment again. A pile of washing lay in her path to the kitchen; all around the house, there were pockets of order and corners of chaos. But there was no sign of anyone in the apartment, besides her daughter, who was having a morning nap.

  That night, Safra was having her first ever sleepover with her cousins. It would be her first night away from her imma, who didn’t know whether this made her anxious or excited. It would also be Miri’s first night alone with her husband since their daughter was born and she was surprised at how nervous this made her feel. It was a good nervous, like in the first days of their marriage, when they came home after another sheva brachot and found themselves alone together in the quiet of empty rooms.

  She would have to tell him tonight, of course. He didn’t need to know how long it had been going on but she needed to tell him. She needed to erase that space of unshared experience between them.

  Telling him meant that this could be the last time she would have such a private moment for herself. And this morning, there was no need to sneak away and hide inside the white walls. She opened the pouch with growing excitement.

  ***

  As usual, Miri was running late for her appointment. She pushed open the lobby door and rushed up to the reception desk, ready to apologize and explain about the traffic. Fortunately, the waiting room was packed. “Miriam Siegel to see Dr. Roth,” she said. “Sorry, I think I’m running a little late.”

  She grabbed a copy of Cosmopolitan from the top of the pile of magazines on the coffee table, its cover dog-eared and creased, and flopped into a bulky, white chair. For Miri, magazines like this were bitul zman and had issues of tzniut. The thought that she might buy a copy herself was absurd. There was no way that she would have one in the house—and her husband, Avi, would probably go through the roof if she did. But here, in an anonymous waiting room, she relished such a secret reading opportunity.

  Miri scanned the headlines on the cover. One of them caused the blood to rush to her face: “Ultimate Orgasms—A guide for your ideal vibrator.” She looked around to see if anyone had noticed her breathlessness. It seemed indecent to be reading this here, in front of all these people but she had to take a look. Flicking through page after page, it felt like an eternity until she arrived at the article.

  ***

  Everything had been packed with great care in preparation for the mikveh and for afterwards. She had organized herself completely so that she could return home ready, beautiful, enticing.

  With nothing but a towel to conceal her post-immersion nakedness, she stood in front of the mirror, unconsciously admiring her reflection as she dried her hair. Miri pulled open her bag and removed a make-up case, from which she selected eyeliner and mascara, and placed them beside her near the edge of the bureau. Above her amber eyes, her thick eyebrows tapered out toward her temples. Raising the pencil with care, she drew quick, definite lines under her lower lashes.

  The loose pieces of fabric beside her were so small and sheer that it was difficult to believe they were underwear. It had taken her a while to build the confidence to wear a thong but now she liked the way her buttocks looked when she turned to admire herself in the mirror. And she liked their bareness in those moments when Avi slipped his hand under her clothing.

  Driving home, despite the rain tapping lightly on the car, she felt alive, excited. Small flecks of water found space on the edges of the windscreen, out of reach of the wipers, and streamed down toward the hood. Inside, the car was still and calm, hushed even. There was no sound other than that of the engine and the elements; Miri did not turn on the radio or slip in a CD. She just thought about her arrival home. She thought about Avi. She was grateful not to be tired, and she was thrilled that she had somehow managed, Baruch Hashem, to be blessed with a few good nights of sleep. She felt a rise of nervous anticipation between her breasts.

  ***

  Opening the door gently, her child’s tired, persistent calls came to her immediately. She walked quickly to the living room. Avi was sitting in the armchair, a textbook open in his lap, waiting for her, asleep.

  A wave of fatigue descended as she opened the door to her daughter’s bedroom. Safra was standing in the crib, her arms outstretched, and her blankets thrown on the floor. In a moment of surrender, Miri lifted her child and held her.

  They read stories until Miri declared that it was time to sleep. Bent over the railing, Miri whispered softly, stroking her child’s brow, waiting for her eyes to close, her own growing heavy. Eventually, the room became quiet.

  “Goodnight bubba,” she whispered,
closing the door.

  Miri watched her husband sleep. He had a mass of thick, dark hair, rising high from his forehead and into turbulence—his kippah riding a wave of chaos. His heavy-lidded eyes, so dark when he was awake, were closed and still.

  He had arranged a night at home, which was not so easy for the newest registrar on the ward. “I’m so sorry,” he said sleepily as she led him to bed.

  “It’s OK,” she replied softly. “It’s been a busy week.” It had been a busy year.

  Avi dropped his clothes on the floor and climbed into bed naked. His hairless body was compact and pale. Miri took care to fold her clothes and put them away properly. Even in the dim light from the street, with his eyes barely open, he could see her skin glowing golden.

  “You are beautiful,” he said.

  She climbed into his outstretched arms with few expectations. “You’re tired,” she said. “We don’t have to.”

  “I want to,” he said kissing her dreamily. “And it’s mikveh night.”

  He rolled onto his side, his lips on her neck, his hands searching between her legs and fumbling for a minute or two in her moistness until he rolled on top of her. She lay impassive, her bent knees wide apart, as he entered her. It was over within three minutes. He was asleep within five.

  ***

  Avi’s mild snores were not what stopped Miri from falling asleep. Restless, she placed her hand on her naked belly; its gentle swelling felt soft and smooth. She stroked herself as if in reassurance, resting her hand on her warm breast. Without thinking, she circled it, then moved from left to right, her palm massaging her nipples, which grew firmer. She ached to be touched by another hand—to be explored and probed.

  For a minute or two she lay there, uncertain. And then, as if her body made the decision her mind could not, her hand moved down to the familiar opening and slid a finger into her wetness. But she had never felt comfortable touching herself like this. Even now, she did not know what to do.

  Her inexpert fingers were not what she craved. Quietly, she rolled out of bed and knelt on the floor. With care and concentration, she slowly pulled open the drawer of her bedside table. Her hand fumbled around inside but it took time in the dark to find the soft, velvety sack and remove it without noise.

  She stepped silently toward the bathroom, grasping the black pouch tightly in her hand, closed the door, and switched on the light. She caught a glimpse of her nakedness in the mirror—the curve of her hips, the swaying of her breasts—as she stepped into the bath. Laying a thick towel beneath her, she sank gently into her ceramic shelter and let herself exhale.

  Since purchasing this item of pleasure and shame, she had only once uncovered it outside of this bath. The shiny white walls of the tub offered a feeling of protection; they shielded her from the ignominy of discovery. Loosening the drawstring, Miri eased out an enormous blue phallus. Extending from the base, like a grafted appendage, were two pointed, ear-like features. She pushed the first button with caution, waiting to hear its pleasant hum, careful to ensure that its echoes would not wake her unsuspecting husband.

  The vibration rang through the silicone. Even with her legs parted and her knees pressed against the bath walls, the large blue head was slow to enter, requiring gentle persuasion to make its way inside. Miri eased it in and out until the rhythm and her dampness pulled it inside and she was filled with its plastic wholeness.

  With a thumb on the control, she increased the vibrations until its hum grew to a growl, extracting from her a low, involuntary moan. Eyes closing, she allowed the rising bubbles of pleasure to massage her, to run along her limbs and climb to their extremities. She pressed her knees harder against the walls of the bath and opened herself further to the great blue shaft, sliding it in and out, harder and deeper, pausing only to allow the oscillating ears to press against her clitoris.

  The pleasure grew quickly—perhaps too quickly. It mounted from her toes, through her legs, and up through her back, where it twisted around her organs. Her breathing grew heavier, faster; her body began to tense, her muscles tightened. Pushing back against the bath, her heart pounding in her head, she stifled a moan of release that lasted what felt like forever and sucked the breath from her.

  Then everything was still, the only sound was the persistent low buzz of the machine that echoed in the tiled room as it slipped out from inside her. She closed her eyes, exhausted. It was time to go to bed.

  ***

  Thursday was Safra’s morning with her savta. Miri sat in the kitchen with her mother and her mother’s sister, Rose, waiting until it was appropriate to go.

  Aunt Rose was old. At least, she behaved as if she were old, even though she was the youngest of her siblings. Miri’s mother said it was because she had lived a hard life with two difficult husbands. Miri thought it was because she smoked a packet of Dunhills a day and was always having a shtickel whisky.

  They sat around a vase filled with a dozen flowers, only one of which was still beautiful—the rest drooped pitifully. “Rose gets offended if I throw them out too soon,” Miri’s mother said. The final living white lily reached out from the left side of the vase as if stretching out to greet the wall, its burgundy stamen ends like a collection of sunbathing caterpillars. Miri could smell the decay from the vase; she thought the odor was bringing on a headache.

  “You look tired,” Aunt Rose said.

  “She is tired,” her mother said. “Of course she’s tired. She has a child who doesn’t sleep and a husband who works all day and night.”

  “You need to look after yourself,” Rose said. “A wife cannot be a wife if she is always tired.”

  Her mother got up to clear the table. Miri lifted her mug to her lips. It was empty except for a small volume of reddish-brown tea. She put the mug on the table gingerly. With the deft speed of a matriarch, her mother added the cup to her laden tray and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Miri left just after Safra went down for her morning nap. At the door, Aunt Rose slipped something into her pocket. “Treat yourself,” she said. “Spend it on something that makes you feel good.”

  At the traffic lights, three people waited in the central pedestrian island for the red man to turn green. A jogging woman in long, shiny tights half-heartedly marched on the spot, oblivious to the two men behind her staring at her bottom, every detail of which seemed clear to Miri. She thought her own was probably nicer.

  Her intention had been to visit a fabric store that her mother had told her about. She wanted to make some curtains for the dining room. But as she sat in her car looking at the $200 her aunt had just dropped in her pocket, she knew she would not be buying fabric today. Instead, Miri pulled into a car park, took out her smartphone, and searched online for shops within a 30-minute drive of her mother’s home. She was especially interested in those in areas that G-d fearing Jews would rarely think to visit.

  ***

  Steep steps covered by grimy red carpet led the way to the shop floor. The music was loud—really loud—and everything was bright and unrestrained. Miri wanted to run but she could barely move. She steadied herself by focusing on a row of erect penises. She turned to the handcuffs, leashes, and whips, then to the garishly cheerful Playboy paraphernalia and French maid costumes, and eventually stumbled to the back of the shop, sheltered by the endless lines of sex toys.

  She was one of two customers browsing the shop; the other was safely distant, buried deep in the shelves of pornographic DVDs. Standing very still, Miri took a deep breath and started looking at the vibrators on display.

  Near the entrance, a man stood behind the counter, his back to the large television screen comprising blocks of CCTV footage. She could see herself miniaturized in one of them. He smiled at her and began to approach. “Can I help you with something?” he asked kindly.

  Miri beamed a crimson smile and said, “I read about something called a ‘Rabbit’.”

  ***

  They had been talking about their Tu B'Av dinner for weeks. Someone
at work had raised the idea of ‘date nights’ with Avi, suggesting that perhaps his young wife could be in need of attention. It made sense to him. Perhaps they needed to spend some time together.

  He brought home a small bouquet of yellow roses and kissed her softly on the mouth. He suggested she might like to see if her mother would take Safra so that they could spend an evening together, just the two of them, like they used to before she was born, and before his work hours had gone from madness to brutality. He suggested Tu B’Av.

  Savta collected her granddaughter after lunch. “I won’t stay,” she said, surveying the room. “I can see you have a lot to do.”

  Miri cooked and cleaned and thought. In her mind, she tried to construct the conversation she needed to have with her husband that evening. It made her a little sad to think that telling him would mean an end to these moments—these increasingly frequent moments—when she would wait for Avi to fall asleep and then would quietly climb out of bed and into the private, secure world of their bathtub. The furtiveness thrilled her as much as the vibrating pleasure.

  She had felt guilty, of course. Each day that passed made her confession more difficult. And she knew that if she did not share this now, she would never share it.

  Miri did not want to upset Avi with the details of how long it had been going on, or how often. She did not want him to feel that her purchase was a reflection of his sexual prowess. It wasn’t. Well, not really.

  An hour before he came home, she stopped to prepare herself with the care she took for a mikveh visit. She chose a simple green dress with straight lines that she drew together at the waist with a thick belt. Tonight she would not cover her hair.