Trolley No. 1852

Perhaps she sensed his discomfiture, for, next, she abruptly turned her back to him and gazed through the window in the space between the swags. (Regular folk had “curtains” over their windows; poor writers had “swags”: any sundry fabric that had outlived its original purpose, such as old bedsheets or holey shirts, tacked over the panes. One writer, in the distant future, would have shower-curtain liners and dollar-store beach towels over his windows, a note mentioned here only in passing.) However, Francine seemed awed. “So this is the view that the master of modern horror sees every day when he writes…”

“Why, yes, and it’s a view near and dear to me,” Howard said, but just as the comely woman seemed awed by the sight of west Providence, Howard remained equally awed by the sight of her jutting rump as she leaned over his writing-table. His eyes inched downward, scouring first the derriere’s exquisite curves, then the legs which could only be described as absolutely and inarguably bereft of defect. Momentarily, her heels rose out of her shoes as she stood on tiptoes, and Howard actually cringed like a fetishist, for the action caused her gorgeously toned calves to flex…

“The epicenter of what you’re looking at is called Federal Hill,” he remarked after a gulp. “Oh, pardon me! I forgot the coffee!” and then he embarked for the alcove where the pot percolated.

When he was out of Francine’s view, Howard did something he never did…

He gave his crotch a squeeze.

Oh… my…

He heard her voice as he tended to the cups.

“But, Howard, why are your swags half-closed? You’d have a much better view if you opened them more.”

Howard’s hands shook minutely as he poured the brew, yet as he did so, a mouse popped its head out of a toppled soda-cracker box. Wonderful, he thought with a frown. But he hated spending money on traps! To her query, however, he responded, “Oh, I suppose you’re right but I never bother, in fear that the swags might fall and, hence, inundate me in dust.”

She laughed. “You’re so silly, Howard! But you really must let me improve this view for you…”

What an odd choice of words, he mused and then took the twin, aromatic cups back to his writing chamber.

He stopped cold.

The view, indeed, had been improved, as he found it impossible not to take immediate notice of two paramount changes.

One, Francine hadn’t opened the swags at all but instead had closed them! She’d also turned on the shadeless incandescent lamp he used at night…

Two, she sat up now upon the writing-table after having shed completely her handsome overcoat, to reveal that all along she’d been utterly nude beneath…

“Have I improved the view for you, Howard?” her whisper flowed like some warm, ambrosian fluid.

“I…should say so.” The mere vision of the woman’s flawless nudity left Howard feeling as though he were staring down from a precipice of insurmountable height.

“Oh, Howard. Please come closer to me…”

In gingerly steps he did so, making every effort not to allow his shaking hands to spill the coffee. Even knowing as he did—the extreme degree by which he now violated every gentleman’s law—he stared unblinking at, first, the dizzyingly full breasts whose tea-rose-pink nipples stood so gorged they even seemed to minutely beat with the pace of her heart; the poreless skin smooth as the finest white chocolate; then—in the most shameful departure from urbanity—the glorious mound of pubic thatch shiny as new-spun gold and the tantalizing, half-seen secret of its precious folds which clearly glimmered in anticipatory excitement.

Her face looked dreamy yet burning up in wanton intent. “Make my dream come true, Howard…”

Howard stammered, “But—but…the coffee!”

“Oh, bugger the coffee!” Francine whined, and so excited was she that those secret folds tucked beneath the blond private hair had leaked her equally private nectar onto the very pages of his holograph of “The Shadow Out of Time.”

“I need to have the dickens fucked out of me,” she pleaded now, “by the great H. P. Lovecraft…”

So upon the universal edict that the true gentleman never fails to oblige a lady, Howard, after setting aside the two cups of Postum, lowered his trousers and engaged himself as requested. The details of this engagement need not be elaborated upon; however, attentive readers will very much want to be educated as to whether or not the real Howard was possessed of a masculine endowment commensurate with that of his courageous protagonist, Mr. Morgan Phillips.

The answer to this query would be, regrettably, no, for Howard’s member, when fully aroused, measured only eleven and a half inches, not twelve.

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About the Author

EDWARD LEE has had more than 40 books published in the horror and suspense field, including CITY INFERNAL, THE GOLEM, and BLACK TRAIN. His movie, HEADER was released on DVD by Synapse Films, in June, 2009. Recent releases include the stories, “You Are My Everything” and “The Cyesologniac,” the Lovecraftian novella “Trolley No. 1852,” and the hardcore novel HEADER 2. Currently, Lee is working on HEADER 3. Lee lives on Florida’s St. Pete Beach. Visit him online at:

http://www.edwardleeonline.com