Corinna Underwood

The Gluttonous Eye

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The sun was tangerine segment sinking into a bed of marsh mellow as Holden stepped from the driver’s seat and held open the door for his employer. Though her cat-walk stride never faltered, he could tell that behind the dark glasses, she was hiding a secret desire. Hurrying was not in Eloise’s nature. Other people hurried things along for her so that she could retain her languid pace. In the car, she slipped off her glasses and let out an almost imperceptible sigh. Holden adjusted the rearview mirror, so it captured Eloise’s blackberry eyes and passion fruit lips. She knew. She was avoiding him deliberately. It was all part of the foreplay.

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“Will we be going straight home, Miss Eloise? Or will we be…stopping.” He started the engine.

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“I think we’ll be making a brief stop on the High Street Holden. The usual.” She nodded and leaned her narrow neck against the leather seat rest, her thick ropes of hair, like an onyx crown, adjusted themselves accordingly. Holden wondered if she ever really felt that she was away from the cameras. Her dark eyes gazed back from magazine racks, from storefronts, from billboards.  No one looked away. They couldn’t have. This was Eloise; the embodiment of 21st-century beauty. But Eloise had changed. Not externally certainly. There was nothing to show for her last ten years of runway miles but the extra zeros in her account and the ever-growing throng of adoring fans. But she had changed. Once she had been alive, vibrant. Now, like everyone else, she had become a voyeur, a member of the audience. She no longer participated in life. She just drifted through it like the elegant figurehead of a classic galleon parting the waves of the crowd.

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As they nosed through the traffic, a sliver of pink tongue added a hint of natural luster to her lips and occasionally she smiled at no one, just for the sake of revealing her flawless white teeth. Eloise didn’t need to check her reflection anymore; she could see her perfection in the eyes of every onlooker. She had captured them all; the adolescent boys who kept sticky copies of her magazines beneath their beds, the middle-aged men who dreamed of seducing her all night long then awoke to the bitter taste of a stale repast in their mouths, the adolescent girls who would go to any length to mold their rebellious figures into her image, never quite succeeding, and the dissatisfied wives who took out extended lines of credit to pay their cosmetic surgeons for even a taste of what Eloise had. There was no one like Eloise. There never would be. She was unsurpassable. Even the cameras loved her. There was never a need for touch-ups or photo-shopping. Eloise merely arranged their pixels in her own perfection every time. “How do you do it?” the magazine editors never tired of asking. “How can you possibly maintain such a perfect figure, such a beautiful image?” And she would smile and shake her head demurely, refusing to share her secret. 

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Holden pulled up the car on the yellow lines outside Cocoa Cabana. The owner was already rushing out to greet them. Holden held open the door for Eloise who stretched her long legs out to the street and slipped on her glasses to hide the salacious longing in her eyes. Her lips parted for a moment, and her breath quickened. Then she slipped back behind her veneer, smoothed her silk skirt, and clicked into the store, where even the mouthwatering smell of freshly baked pastries couldn’t completely drown her Chanel. In front of the long glass display, she struck a waiting pose while the owner pushed away an assistant who was hastily trying to finish serving another customer. The young girls in the bakery behind nudged each other and self-consciously straightened their hairnets before their clumsy fingers got back to kneading the dough.  

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“How may I help you today?” the pinched-cheek owner gushed. Holden watched politely from the sidelines, recognizing the mixture of awe and disbelief in the middle-aged woman’s eyes. The manageress came over and nodded politely. A different kettle of fish this one; she tried to hide her smirk, but her face showed she has it all figured out. She has seen these model types before, and she is convinced she knows this one’s dirty little secret. Holden watched and waited. 

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Eloise nodded ever so slightly, still maintaining the regal balance of her up-looped ropes of hair. A slender arm reached out towards the showcase, and her flame-tipped fingers began to staccato on the glass while the owner and her assistants began to pile fragile delicacies into an array of bags, tins, and pastel boxes.

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“Another party?” the manageress probed, her voice laced with sarcasm that went unnoticed. Again, the subtle nod. 

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“We have something new. I think you will…your guests will find it quite delectable.”

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She reached under the counter and pulled out a large platter covered by a gleaming silver dome, rested it up on the counter, and slowly unveiled the latest confectionary creation. Even Eloise could not hold back a gasp at this thing of beauty. 

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“Sculpted from the lightest of sponge and covered in a coating of nectarine flavored icing and rum enhanced chocolate. You like?” Eloise’s raised her hand, and for a moment, Holden thought she would touch the beautiful figure of the naked woman poised as if to leap from the tray into the arms of the nearest gourmand.  Coils of thick chocolate were piled upon her head, while others snaked over her naked shoulders to her pert breasts. It was perfection. It was Eloise.

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“Yes,” Eloise’s voice was breathy, “I want it.”

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The cake was boxed. The bill was paid. Eloise and Holden left the bakery with the scent of freshly baked bread trailing after them.

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*

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At Eloise’s townhouse, she rushes ahead of Holden to unlock the door. Behind her he balances the collection of boxes precariously and then for some reason she turns back to him, and he makes a misstep, and a small carton slides from one of the bags. Its Styrofoam halves part company and four feather-weight meringues, pasteled like spring bridesmaids spiral to the dirty sidewalk where they crumble to dust.

Holden holds his breath. Eloise pirouettes around him stoops and tenderly lifts what she can of the three broken meringues back into their box, then goes inside.

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Once the door closes behind them, Eloise’s movements quicken. Holden can see that her skin has begun to slick, despite the cool shadows of the hallway. She pushes the meringues into a bag and checks herself in the hall mirror. A few wisps of hair have begun to uncoil.  Her lipstick has all but evaporated, but her eyes burn with passionate longing. She turns to Holden and helps him with the bags and boxes, and they nudge their way through the hallway to the dining room.

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Eloise lets the last bag slip to the floor; its contents spew onto the cool tiles. She leans heavily against the door and smooths damp palms down her skirt. She takes off her jacket, unbuttons the top buttons of her blouse, loosens her skirt, then she takes a deep breath and takes her place at the table.  

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 Holden has already started to methodically empty each box and bag carefully onto the table before her. He lets the packaging fall onto the floor at his feet. There will be time for that later. As the feast builds, Eloise scans it with narrow eyes as though looking for a place to begin. She taps the tips of her elegant fingers on the edge of the polished table, oblivious to the chips of crimson varnish that fall to the empty packaging below.

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A serpent tress snakes from her up-do and slithers down her shoulder. She is becoming impatient. At last, the table is laden; its magnificent centerpiece mirrors her flawless beauty. She smiles a lazy, hedonistic grin, sucks in a deep breath.  Her tongue caresses her lips as she reaches up and begins slowly to remove the pins from her hair. Each one joins the refuse beneath the table with a satisfying click. Soon her hair is a thick mantle covering her shoulders and the chair back. Her lips part once more and her tongue flicks as her eyes slide wantonly over the mounds of sweetmeat. She is ready.

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Eloise allows Holden to slip the crisp curls of brandy wafers over her fingers. She jiggles them through the air mesmerized. Then she snaps each one like a brittle bone and lets them fall into her cupped palm.

Suddenly she is laughing deliriously, and he decides he has never loved her more. He waits. To see what she will want to play with next. 

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The wild mixture of sugary sweet fragrances is heady on the air, and he feels intoxicated. He watches her eyes suck in the soft mounds of sponge, topped with maraschino cherries that glint moistly in the light, dark triangles of ganache-coated meringue, waiting for a tongue to pleasure. 

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The heat of her desire pervades the room, and the chocolate gateau begins to fall in on itself with a soft sigh of resignation. She is still now, and he knows it is time. He steps behind her and parts her dark mane into two thick swathes, gently placing one over each shoulder, almost covering her face. From beneath the stark whiteness of her scalp, he sees the familiar movement. It no longer repulses him.

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Holden watches her chest rise and fall rapidly as though she is waiting for the intimate touch of a lover.

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Eloise reaches for a delicate pastry, oozing with plump fruit and fresh whipped cream. She raises it to her parted lips, breathing in the taste of the delectable confection; letting the anticipation unlock the desires she usually keeps so tightly in check, letting it open her up wide. She traces the delicately sugar-spun webbing with a moist fingertip, letting her index finger dip into its moist crevice oozing with dark cherry liqueur. Then her fingers make a cage around it and squeeze the crimson-black juice from its carapace, as she watches, it bleeds down her arm and stains the silk of her shirt.  She reaches back behind her head as though to fling the sticky mess far away, but her hair parts wider and a snaking tongue shoots out and snatches the prize, stopping for a moment to lick her fingers. 

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Holden watches, fascinated as Eloise’s hair shifts again and begins to twitch as something ripples beneath the naked whiteness of her scalp. Gently she reaches around and probes the bare flesh where a gaping maw is now visible, its hot tongue hungrily sucking the mess from her sticky fingers. Holden hears a low wanton growl of desire and knows there is no time for delay. Eloise reaches across the table with both hands grabbing fistfuls of sponge and crepes ignorant of the soft cream oozing the rough her fingers and slithering down her arms. 

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When she becomes tired, Holden helps her cram the debris into the demanding jaws. Hot saliva dribbles down her nape and clogs her hair with undigested detritus. But he looks away and does what he needs to do for his mistress. Her actions become wild and frantic as she snatches sustenance from the table and fills the gaping hole inside her. As the feast begins to dwindle, she pulls the tablecloth towards her, oblivious of shattering crockery. Her hands become shovels fueling the engine of darkest desire, the desire of the one who keeps her; the one who owns her; who is not quite her. While the ravenous mouth engorges on the sticky mess, the beautiful model keeps her eyes focused on the one remaining oasis of beauty before her. Even though Holden knows she has decided she will not feed this to the beast, he also knows it is inevitable. When there is nothing else left on the table but the beautiful sugar sculpture the maw still gnashes its teeth and will not rest. 

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He helps Eloise lift the sculpture from its bed of candied rose petals and raise it in the air as though she would offer it up to a god who might save her. For a moment he thinks there are tears in her eyes. Then she crams the delicacy headfirst into the gluttonous hole and closes her eyes. The sound of guzzling, slurping, and gluttony subsides and with it the shame. Eloise is beautiful after all. 

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She slumps forward, her forehead resting on the table. When it is safe to do so, he lifts her gently from the chair and takes her to her boudoir where he bathes her lovingly, removing all traces of her hedonistic feast. He then tucks her into bed where she sleeps deeply with a deceptive look of child-like innocence, just as she did when he first brought her into the world.

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Holden smiles and goes to the kitchen. In the darkness, he opens the refrigerator. The cube of light illuminates the shelves layered with meats, grilled, smoked, poached, fried, and some still raw. His eyes glaze, and for a moment the shifting beneath his scalp is nauseating. Then it passes, and he reaches for a bloody steak.

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As well as numerous poems and short stories, Corinna Underwood has published two non-fiction books, Murder and Mystery in Atlanta and Haunted History of Atlanta and North Georgia, and the fiction mysteries with a paranormal twist, A Walk On The Darkside, Beyond The Darkside, and Return To The Darkside. Bienvenue au danse, Corinna.

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