resist me

Resisting you is futile.

I knew it then, that first smile, when you glanced at me across a crowded room, watched me cross my legs and watched me look down to straighten my skirt, then look up, to look at you, looking at me, you.

My words twist, convulse, as I lie back on a soft morning, my dressing slow and luxurious, as though I had nowhere in particular to go, though I am dressing to leave for the day. I have nowhere to go, I wish, but to fall back into bed, with you, your dream, you, not here, somehow here, soon here. Your voice drifts off as words turn to meaning. You know what I mean, exactly. You are here.

I wonder, at the time, daylight savings, time lost, time spent, time waiting, time I could say I devoted to you, to desire, to the mere wonder of a moment, lost, spent, awaited, devoted, desired, a moment. One more. That’s all.

 

 

 

she was just 17…

If you do know what I mean, you have already taken a glimpse perhaps at the enormous undertaking of one Rori, at Between My Sheets. Every year, she reads through hundreds of blogs to select the top 100.

I am #17 on her Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012 list! It is an enormous honor, and I am so happy!

That said, I realize it has been a little longer than usual since my last writing. Rori, and all the wonderful writers out there, you have inspired me to write more, write better, get hotter…

Thank you so much, Rori!

And thanks also to Cheeky Minx, who nominated me. Her fabulous Love Hate Sex Cake takes #4 on the list! Congrats, CM!!

goodnight moon

Sanda wore gold ankle bracelets that jangled gently as she wandered through the farmer’s market. You’d hear a soft music, and look up at a black silk of hair as she sauntered past, look down at her bare foot kicking out from beneath the tightly wrapped long skirt, the circles of gold around her brown butter baby skin.

Sanda told me the story of climbing quickly out a window late one night, never to return home again. She remembered the shadow of the teak chairs on the porch, the banyan tree, voices hushed, her brothers. And then she imagined the rest of her childhood through the stories her father told her.

We sat on her living room rug and drank wine. She complained about her boyfriend’s refusal to fuck her during her period.

Our boyfriends denied us many things, we decided.

“I want him to eat me,” she slurred, lying now on her belly and hugging a pillow. She rolled to her back, and ran her hands down her arms, and across her thighs. “I want him to bury his face between my legs and lick me until I pass out.” She laughed, “That’s not asking too much, is it?”

My boyfriend was completely willing to venture into the world of cunnilingus, regularly, if lethargically. His sweet surrender to my every whim was enviable, Sanda told me. And for a little while, I was aroused by that thought–that he would do anything, anything, I asked him to do.

“Will he lick your ass?”

I knew he would, if I asked him. He asked me how, and dutifully spread my buttocks while I bent over his bed. I felt his tongue wet and cool around  my asshole, my pussy all the wetter as I envisioned describing the experience to Sanda. I pushed back against his mouth, urging his tongue in deeper–a sensation so strange, the way ice cream feels in your mouth, sweet and smooth, only it was  not ice cream, and it was not my mouth. I slid my hand beneath my pussy as he spread me open, wider, his tongue fucking me now, my fingers slick, circling my clit wildly as I cried out.  He stopped, then stood behind me. His cock rubbed gently at my ass, teasing against the tight rim. He hesitated, then sank gently instead into the heat of my pussy. “Oh, you are so wet!” he gasped, and he pushed in once more, much longer. His come dripped from me as his soft dick popped out. He fell onto the bed, nearly asleep already, and I climbed up beside him, pulled the towel between my legs, and hugged him. The towel rubbed against my ass, my clit still wanting.

After awhile, my period began to arrive with Sanda’s, and we spent the evenings of her menstrual banishment lying on the floor, sandalwood smoke trailing from the incense burner on the mantel, record after record spinning, my head light and giddy as the night grew darker, longer. Her skin smelled like butter.

Sanda stood and stretched, her moonlit silhouette framed by the window like a poster. Sanda cupped her breasts. “They are so swollen and sore!” She held them. “Whenever I touch them right now, it makes me want to fuck!” she said.

“Such a jerk.”

Sanda’s boyfriend never acknowledged me, but walked into her apartment occasionally, unexpectedly, and went directly to the fridge. Sanda rolled her eyes as he tossed her an empty beer bottle on the way back out the door. “Think fast!” he’d say.

“Hey, are you coming back later?” she’d ask. And he grunted back to her his yes or no, without embellishment of detail.

My own breasts were swollen now, too, my nipples hard from rubbing against my lace t-shirt. Sanda had promised to show me how to wrap a skirt, and she remembered suddenly, asked me if I wanted to do it now. I stood and reached for the batik cotton length that I had brought, and handed it to Sanda.

“Come, we need some pins.” Sanda stomped carelessly through her third-floor apartment, the neighbor’s inevitable knock on the ceiling bringing her back to herself. “I am very cranky, tonight, Leyla,” she said, as she walked into the bedroom.  I followed her.

“Stand here, by the mirror.”

Sanda reached into the drawer, and pulled out a handful of safety pins and threw them on the dresser. She reached across, and pulled at the waist of my shorts, and unbuttoned them. I pulled the zipper.

“The skirt needs to be tight on your hips,” she said, sliding my shorts off.

I stepped out of my shorts, and saw the curls of pubic hair beneath my panties. My cunt grabbed onto the tampon I was wearing. Even so, my panties felt damp as she unfolded the fabric and reached around me to wrap it. “This is beautiful,” she said as she pulled the cloth tight. I moved in closer to her, let my breast brush lightly against hers, as if it were an accident.

Sanda folded, and pinned. I could smell the sandalwood in her hair as she bent down, her breath on my breasts as she worked.

“There!” she straightened, and turned me toward the mirror. The skirt was dark blue, and she had hung it low, below the top of my panties.

“I see your underwear,” she giggled, and pulled at the elastic.

I froze, felt her warmth behind me. I shut my eyes briefly, then opened them and looked at her in the mirror. She gazed into my eyes there, and gave a soft nod.

I turned back to face her. Her nipples showed through the peach camisole, and my hand drifted up to touch her breast. She sighed, then smiled, then grasped my hand and kissed my wrist my arm, as she backed into the bed.

For weeks, my boyfriend had teased me about Sanda.

“Oh, is this a girl date?” he had snickered, as he looked up from his work order.

“Her boyfriend ignores her this time of the month,” I explained. My boyfriend did not ignore me. But he was glad, he said, to have some time to catch up on things at home.

In truth, I knew I overwhelmed him. He said so, sometimes. He said so the month that I stayed in the huge house I sat while my professors were abroad. “Sleep with me here,” I begged him. And for three nights, he watched me brush my teeth before bed, the me in purple pajamas that he wrote about years later. I began to kiss him, all three nights, talking talking all the while, and came three times each night after he was fast asleep. When the birds sang in the mornings, I climbed on top of him. He told me he needed more rest, and rolled away.

Sanda lay down on the bed, and I crawled beside her, dizzily turning to kiss her cheek. I pushed the strap of her camisole from her shoulder, and kissed her there. She sat up and pulled off her top, and I did the same.

She pinched my nipple, and leaned in to suck on it, relentlessly, as I moaned. She held my shoulders down, climbed across me, her pelvis now pressing against my knee.

The batik worked its way higher as I spread my legs open.

“May I?” Sanda unpinned the fabric as I whispered yes, yes. She lay next to me, and I reached down, dreamily expecting a hard cock. My hands ran down her legs, then pushed them apart

Sanda wore no panties. My finger followed her heat. Her eyes opened wide, as she spread a little wider. Her labia opened, and I touched her. She was drenching, and I felt the string from her cunt.

“You, too?” she laughed. We paused.

“Have you done this?” I asked.

“Never. You?”

“Never.”

I began to kiss her breasts, her belly. I wanted to lick her cunt, but she stopped me.

“I shouldn’t,” she explained. Her boyfriend was supposed to come over, after all, even if he was a jerk.

I told my boyfriend about the evening. He always encouraged my little crushes, and this time it made me wonder why. Love, yes–but passion, desire! That’s not asking too much, is it?

One day, I jumped into the passenger seat of a westbound convertible, and drove away forever. Sanda and I wrote long letters back and forth after that. But Sanda is the type of woman whose comfort lies in the tangible, in time spent, in the voice, in the body.

Come to think of it, I am that type of woman, too.

tube

The inner tubes were there in the barn and stacked, and this time it was winter, not fall, and you were standing there at the bottom of the hill holding one and grinning at me. “Let’s go!” you said, and I went, carrying my tube up the hill beside you, both of us laughing as we slipped on the half-melted snow over ice and a weekday, and no one else near.

It was foolish, I know, foolish to be there in the cold, in the late afternoon, dark ready approaching even as we started our descent into that fearful night, the wonder and the improvisation. They are tubes, inner tubes, and not skis, not sleds, not snowboards, no canvas covers or lifts to drag our butts up the steep hill, no one watching out even as we sail down dangerously near the river where we rode on these tubes in the cold autumn water such a short time ago.

Your bare hands are red, now, raw, you damn you, always ready even when you’re not, always wanting to take me on these adventures. And I go all too willing. You remind me, it was my idea.

The heat of night awaits us, somewhere, in the glow of a fire, in the glow of love suspected. Your hands will still be red then, but warm as your fingers unfasten, trace temptation.

The thrill of it, the cold, the stunning slide, clouds dark along the horizon that is visible from up high, yellow lingering low in the sky as the brilliant blue turns pale, then nearly dark when we both lie laughing, soaking wet at the bottom. Only one ride today, a sudden urge, a moment stolen from no time, from the precious bite we take from it, from thoughts, from dreams, from the promise, from life.

long blonde hair

Sylvie idly stirred the foam into her coffee with the small spoon that the bartender had placed on the saucer. She looked into her bag for the notebook, the one she usually took out when a thought crossed her mind, or when she was agitated sitting alone without a plan for the day. A swath of yellow hair swung down suddenly in front of her, and nearly hit across her face. Its owner, a tall woman with white patent boots and a tan, had wedged herself in between the chairs, and leaned over the bar with a ten in her hand.

“I just want the usual, Fred” she said.

She straightened, and her hair followed, this time closer, strands falling on Sylvie. It was fresh, still damp underneath, soft. The woman looked at Sylvie.

“Hot and ready to go, Linda,” the bartender said, turning back to hand the woman a saucer and cup and a tall glass.

“Why thank you, Fred!” Linda winked at him as she reached across for her coffee. She looked again at Sylvie, up and down, then smiled at her. “Nice jacket,” she said. “Are you cold?”

“Fred, it is freezing in here! Don’t you see that customers are bundled up?” Linda turned back to Sylvie.

“No,” Sylvie stumbled, feeling suddenly flushed at the unexpected attention, “well, yes. I was just outside, and haven’t warmed up yet.” Sylvie smiled back, glad to talk at last to another woman. “I love your boots!”

“Oh, thanks! They are a little small for me, though. It’s early and my feet are already throbbing in them.” Linda eased back onto a stool and crossed her leg to rub her right foot. “What size are you? We should trade!”

“These boots? They don’t quite match your outfit.” Sylvie looked at Linda’s tan, bare legs in the short white skirt. Her clothing, if a little off-season, was still perfect.  The lace of a scarlet red bra peeked through the latticed design that closed the deep V-neck of a navy t-shirt. Linda leaned over, her skirt riding a little higher up her thighs as she re-crossed her legs to rub the left foot. Sylvie could see the top of Linda’s round breasts, firm beneath her crepey bronze skin–years of sun, no doubt, Sylvie thought. Linda leaned back again and stretched her arms in back, the t-shirt now stretched across her chest. Nipples. Sylvie loosened her jacket.

“It seems to be a little warmer here now.” And Sylvie stood to remove her coat, bending to fold it carefully across another bar stool.

“Hot, even.” Linda sipped from her coffee, then put the cup down on the saucer. “Would you join me?” she asked. “How about a table near the window?” She picked up her drinks and headed toward some plush seats away from the bar. Sylvie followed.

Sylvie noticed the dainty way that Linda walked–sore feet maybe, or an affectation. The square heel of her boots dragged at times across the floor, and Sylvie followed gently, then walked in front to pull out a chair as Linda approached. “Is this all right?”

“Oh, yes, perfect.” Linda crossed her legs again, then uncrossed them and tucked her feet up on the soft chair. “Well, you heard. I’m Linda. What’s your name?”

“Sylvie.”

“Oh–French, right? Are you visiting?”

“Oh.. no, well I’m not French. And not visiting, not really,” Sylvie squirmed, surprised by her reaction to Linda’s invitation, her charm. “I am just.. just trying to figure a few things out right now.”

“Oh, was he terrible to you?” Linda nodded, leaning to hear Sylvie’s response.

The lace showed through Linda’s blouse again, and Sylvie watched, imagined where the tan lines might end–if they end. She felt the seam of her jeans rubbing between her legs, her panties moistening as Linda spoke in her candid, soft way.

“No,” Sylvie answered. “Well, it’s complicated.”

“Oh,” Linda placed her hand on Sylvie’s. “It always is. Tell me more.”

Sylvie had told no one of her frustrations with Todd. For months now she had wished for his embrace, for his response even, and for months she remained disappointed. She told Linda about him. She told Linda about their open relationship, but about Todd’s lack of response within it. She told Linda how she had discovered the hotel, about Jean-Paul. She told Linda that she had come back in hopes of finding him–she did not expect to say that, and was surprised to hear the words coming from her mouth.

Sylvie felt faint with the exertions of the past days, her emotions so close to the edge, and exhaustion setting in now that she had told someone. A friend. “I think I should go to my room for a while,” Sylvie heard herself say, even as she had returned here wishing more than anything to go out and walk until she could no longer think.  She had wanted to walk, to forget these men, to turn her back on the voluptuous life they offered, the desire, the pain.

“Oh, my,” Linda said. “You are pale! You should lie down immediately.”

And this was it. Linda put another ten on Sylvie’s saucer, and offered a hand for Sylvie. Sylvie grasped it, and rose, almost hypnotically, as she walked from the bar to the elevator.

“Sylvie?” a man called out. A bartender. Sylvie blushed as she recognized the  bartender who had seen her in such compromising circumstances just one day earlier.

Sylvie pretended not to hear him as Linda wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Oh wait!” Linda turned back. “Do you know Rob? He is calling you! Let me get him…”

“Rob?” Sylvie asked. “Oh, no, I need…”

Sylvie wanted to disappear, and Linda seemed suddenly strong to her, reassuring as a best friend. Sylvie sank a little against her, Linda’s long blonde hair once again in her face, so lovely.

“I need to go now,” Sylvie answered, and she stepped into the empty elevator.

buzz

“If you are wearing panties, remove them. Put them in your purse until I ask you for them. The small egg-shaped item is meant for your cunt. Please insert it, and wait for me at the bar. When you are there, you may open the second envelope.”

The winding roads were a challenging drive, even on a dry day–at least at top speed. The Radiohead was now blaring through the state roads, the top down, even in November, even if it meant gloves and scarves. The lakes rippled in the sunlight as Sylvie passed, reflecting bright flashes that blurred as the she zipped past. Numb from the cold, Sylvie could forget her frustration with Todd, her love for him, too. At last the bridge that led into the city became visible, closer and closer, until the convertible was crossing it, zooming down the long boulevard that led to Jean-Paul’s hotel.

The valet jumped from his stand as Sylvie approached, the top now locking back into place.

“You are here for #504?,” he asked. “There is a message for you at the front desk.”

Sylvie traded keys for receipt, tossed her gloves and scarf into the passenger’s seat as she grabbed her handbag, stood for a moment before walking past the door, before stepping into this other world once more.

“Yes, I am looking for a message from room #504?” Sylvie watched the desk clerk typing away at her computer. The young woman glanced  at her colleague.

“Yes, ma’am. The concierge has your message,” she directed, pointing quickly toward a small desk before looking down again. An older woman in a sweater suit sat at the desk, writing a note.

Jean-Paul had made no efforts to wrap the items he had left.  A note, scrawled on a card, in English. A small ball of sorts, another envelope. The concierge opened a drawer, and efficiently placed Jean-Paul’s offerings into a small plastic bag. “Enjoy your stay,” she smiled, more amused than surprised, it seemed, years of customer satisfaction no doubt having revealed the most exotic of urges among a wealthy and bored clientele.

Sylvie looked quickly at the note. She found the ladies room, and shut the door to a small stall. She nervously loosened the garters to her stockings, then peeled off the wisp of ivory silk beneath the garter belt. The panties were drenching, her labia swollen and warm. Sylvie gasped, and pulled the silk down to her ankles, bent to retrieve her clothing, then stood and reached back to refasten the garters.

Sylvie rolled the panties up, put them into the bag the concierge had given her. The egg. Sylvie held it for a moment, then sat to follow Jean-Paul’s request. The garters and stockings pulled, one hook snapping off–these items were not invented for women who spread their legs wide, much though the allure of lingerie seemed to encourage a fair amount of lust. Sylvie’s labia were slicker now as her fingers separated them, as she forced the egg deep into her cunt. Sylvie let her finger brush against her clit. Oh, fuck me now Jean-Paul, Fuck me. Sylvie’s pussy grabbed tight onto the egg, her nipples erect at the smallest touch, a small moan escaping as she squeezed one, her finger circling her clit now with more determination, her back arched, grinding need.

The outer door to the restroom opened; heels clicked on the tile. Sylvie awoke from her reverie, and stood, flushed the toilet to mask what she had been doing. She walked to the sink, the egg like a princess’s pea with every agonizing step. Sylvie’s hair had blown in the wind, her face was red from it–or from this, her lust, her embarrassment–her mascara smudged. She splashed her face, looked back into the mirror. There. More mascara, more red lipstick, fingers through hair, and she walked out toward the bar.

The bartender greeted Sylvie as she entered, and handed her a champagne flute.

“Someone has ordered for you,” he said. Sylvie surveyed the bar, saw a few men with laptops closer to the lobby, but the place was otherwise empty.

Sylvie regained her balance, lust contained though for the moment as she thanked the bartender, and tore open the envelope from Jean-Paul.

“I am in my room right now, dressing. Before you come upstairs today, you must tell the bartender why you came here. Tell him what we did yesterday, and tell him what you want to do now. Give him your panties. I will be down soon to watch. Pretend you do not know me.”

Sylvie’s hands were shaking. She suddenly thought of Todd, wondered if he was awake. She pulled out the phone–no messages. He probably was still asleep. And yet… and yet.

“How do you like the drink?” the bartender smiled. He was young, curly dark hair, graduate student, swimmer, she guessed, looking at his shoulders and the book open near the cash register.

“The drink?..” Sylvie started, then sat straighter, determined “is delicious. How do you make it?”

“Oh.. it’s only orange juice and champagne, nothing difficult,” he answered, “but extravagant for a Friday morning.”

“And who sent the drink?” Sylvie asked.

“To be honest, I don’t know,” the bartender smiled. “A secret admirer who is staying here, I guess. The concierge told me what you looked like, that I should make it for you.”

“Mmm. Aren’t you at all curious?” Sylvie watched the swimmer redden as he looked down.

“Frankly,” he began, “I’m curious about a lot of things that happen here. But I get paid not to notice.”

“So, there are a lot of curious adventures in hotel bars?” Sylvie felt herself become bolder. “Tell me what you see.”

“Ah.. I just told you I get paid not to notice.” The bartender looked at Sylvie’s rapidly emptying glass. “Another?”

“Oh.. yes.” Sylvie could feel her heart racing, her mind buzzing now as she had quickly drunk the champagne on an empty stomach. “I am having an adventure today,” she blurted, as the bartender poured a little more champagne into the glass.

“Oh?…” the bartender handed Sylvie her drink. She fidgeted in her purse for her wallet, saw the panties again.

“No.. your drinks are covered today,” he smiled.

“Oh! By you..” Sylvie felt herself warmer, fumbling. “I mean, that’s not necessary.”

“Oh, no. Your secret admirer is evidently paying for whatever you order.”

“Oh.. yes, well, that’s nice of him.”

“Nice,” the bartender grinned.  “Of him…”

“Well, yes.” Sylvie was resolved to fulfilling Jean-Paul’s request. “Yes, actually I think I know who sent the drink. He is staying here. I met him last week, and…”

“No need to explain,” the bartender turned. Another man had walked into the bar. Sylvie’s heart pounded, but it was not Jean-Paul. The man took his drink, and walked to another seat near the window.

All the time that Sylvie sat, her cunt throbbed. She feared moving, feared losing her concentration, feared the lust raging inside of her, feared what she might do to satisfy it if it became any stronger. The champagne was good, the warm bar inviting her to talk more, to say more.

“I came here today to fuck.”

The bartender looked up, his face briefly red. “A lot of people do, I imagine.” He grabbed another glass, pretended to dry it as he stood closer.

“I met a man here last week, and we talked. Then, yesterday, he met me at the elevator and took me to his room.” Sylvie was not going to stop now. “He took me upstairs and pushed me down onto his bed. He took off my panties and ate me for a long time. He had his fingers inside me, inside me everywhere, and he made me come .. I don’t know how many times.. before we tore off our clothes and fucked.”

The bartender seemed to stagger a little as he stepped back, looked around the quiet bar. “Why are you telling me this?”

Sylvie smiled. “Oh, it was a…”

Suddenly, Sylvie felt an ache deep in her belly. The egg seemed to grow, move. Her cunt grasped it, and the sensation grew as Sylvie gripped the side of the bar. “Oh GOD!..” she shouted.

“Are you all right?” the bartender grabbed her arm, as tears streamed down Sylvie’s face. She was sure there was a puddle now on the bar stool where she was sitting, and she grabbed the bartender’s arm. The feeling faded, then stopped.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” Sylvie nearly burst into tears in frustration. She was here, so horny it hurt, ready to fuck the bartender himself. He smiled at her, his forehead wrinkling, the face of pity.

“Shall I call a doctor?”

“Oh, no. It’s just.. ” Sylvie could feel the sweat on her forehead, the need deep within her. She felt overwhelmed by her desires, by her wish now to have not only Jean-Paul, but any man, anyone.

Sylvie saw a shadow on the floor behind her. She knew the cologne. Jean-Paul reached around her, his hand grazing her hip. “Yes, I’d just like a coffee,” he ordered, placing the small remote on the bar as he reached into his wallet to pay. Sylvie stared at him as he put his wallet back into his pocket, and dialed the vibrator back on. She could feel her cunt suddenly seize, felt herself immediately on the verge of climax. Jean-Paul looked at her, winked, walked away to sit at a table.

“I’m sorry,” the bartender smiled at Sylvie. “It’s just?…”

“Oh.. yes.” Sylvie struggled to remember what she was supposed to do. The panties. Yes, the panties. Oh, and what she wanted to do today.

“Yes. I have to give you something.” Sylvie reached into her purse and grabbed the plastic bag that held her panties.

“What is.. But why?” the bartender seemed shocked, maybe offended.

“I am about to meet the same person here today, and he said I have to give you the panties I wore over here.”

“Oh.. well,” the bartender pushed the bag back to Sylvie “maybe you should keep…”

“Yes, and I am supposed to tell you what I want to do today.” Sylvie had figured out a way to sit so that the egg was not pressing into her most sensitive spot, so that she could make sense as she spoke.

“All right. So, I think I know what you want to do today. Why don’t you just say it so you can go play your game?” The bartender was annoyed, she could see, the butt of a joke she imagined. And he was. It was all so, so disgraceful.

“Look,” Sylvie arched her back. The egg continued to buzz deep inside her. “I am sorry. I came here because I like this guy, because I am bored and lonely at home, because I wanted an adventure, and I like telling you this…”

The vibrations became stronger. Sylvie moved to get comfortable, but each moment was torture, burning.

“What is WRONG with you?!” The bartender came from behind the bar, as Sylvie doubled over, no longer able to sit on the stool, her juices running down her legs. His strong arms pulled her up as the vibrations stopped, and Sylvie felt his cock, stiff as he brushed against her.

“I am just a little overwhelmed by all of this.” Sylvie stood, now her lust venturing into downright anger. “I’ll be right back.”

In the ladies room, Sylvie sat to retrieve the egg of torture lodged deep in her aching, drenching pussy. She knew this time how wet she was, how ashamed. Todd, Todd.. she flipped open her phone. Still no message. She dried the egg and put it into her purse, dried herself, and walked back into the hotel lobby.

Jean-Paul was standing outside.

“Ah.. well done,” he approached Sylvie, ran his hand down her arm. “The bartender seems quite distracted.”

“You bastard.” Sylvie wanted Jean-Paul to undress her now. She felt her cunt clamp down as he pushed her hard against the wall and kissed her.

“Yes,” Jean-Paul whispered, “but you like it. You come here because you want me to challenge you.”

“Oh…” Sylvie opened her body as Jean-Paul pushed his hips into hers. He stood back, and reached then for her hand. She hesitated, then took it.

Sylvie and Jean-Paul stepped into the elevator. The doors closed.

thursday, perhaps

Room #504 is not so far, only upstairs. I look at the elevators, my heart racing. Room #504 is an entire world away. I stand in the lobby, waiting, watching the numbers light up. 5 4 3 2 The door opens, and you walk off, immediately take my hand and push me into a corner, fury in your hot hands. Yes, I am here. “Baise-moi,” you say. Perhaps.

I told my lover in the early Wednesday light about you, Jean-Paul. I told him, and he fucked me hard, harder, aroused he was at your interest in me, in the mere possibility that I would show up here and then return to him late tonight, my cunt tired and filled with your come.

You may wonder why I avoid sitting now. You may wonder why my panties are already this wet, why when you push me now into this corner as you have, kissing me now as you are, I loosen my coat, ravenous, have my knee bent and pressing into your pants, your ever-growing cock bulging against my thigh.

My lover bent me over his lap before I left him today, peeled down the panties I am wearing now.

You may wonder when you see the red, the welts, you may wonder if he traced his fingers deftly between my legs as he ordinarily does when he spanks me. You may wonder if he pushed his fingers into my holes, if he pushed his tongue into my sweet pussy, if, indeed, he has already fucked me.

My body aches with yet unrequited lust, you, your gallic tongue circling, inching down from ears to neck, from collarbone to shoulder, from lobby to elevator to room to my coat now here, on the floor, the bumps of my garters apparent through the sweater dress I chose for this evening. Dark green, now my nipples beneath the cashmere, your hands running from my waist across my sore ass, down to the hem of my dress, lifting, impatient. Perhaps.

No, yes. Yes, I say as I think of things to say, stop thinking, let you pull the sweater up over my head, spread me across the bed, sheets turned down now, the soft light, the lights outside, my heels dangling, your tongue now tasting my lust, fingers deep, insistent with my swollen pussy, bringing me quickly to loud cries. No, no, yes, yes, yes at last. And then you stand, remove your watch, unbutton your sleeves and throw a shirt across a chair, buckles, buttons, zippers undone, and I gaze upon a cock worthy of the tales I will tell, now near, now, oh, yes, yes fuck me.

You growl, using me, your hands rough on my breasts, you sliding into me with no stops save the limits of my own skin, if that, if you can keep going now, you do, yes. I beg for you, yes, fuck me, baise-moi. Do it now before you explode, your heavy balls relieved, my legs shaking. Only an hour again, only an hour, you hesitate no longer. The grabbing urgency overwhelms me, transforms me, and I feast upon your glistening body, here so glorious in the low light.

We talk now, yes, it is lovely here, Jean-Paul. It is lovely, and yes, I can walk with you tomorrow. I can show you the city, the lights we see below, the water and the wind. I can tell you stories, tell you of the American dreams, and the things I remember from my younger travels, the night I came home to my lover after I saw you. I can walk, my hot hand inside yours as we walk near the harbor, yes I will tell you more about my lover, what he said to me when he saw me, you dripping down my leg. I can tell you how he said you tasted, how we tasted, perhaps, in awkward words, in charming words, in strange tongues, your tongue once more finding mine.

treat

A pomegranate martini later, I am touching his hand lightly, buzzed by the playful banter that only lets loose when I start to speak in French, when I wrap the scarf around my face, pretending it is a mask for Halloween.. maybe. Pretending he will use it to entice me, tease me, tempt me.

I order another. He does, too, reaches for his wallet and suggests we take our refreshments from the bar to a pair of plush chairs next to a glass fireplace–cozy with its fire, cold as fits this chic, antiseptic lobby where two strangers meet, exchange names only now. Jean-Paul meet Sylvie, we could say, and Jean-Paul has become increasingly attractive throughout the conversation, not the least because his leg keeps rubbing against mine. I remember things I have not thought in years, thinking in another language as I am while I flirt with him now. I roll through the endless possibilities of French verbs, stunning myself by what I remember of their nuances, by what I might say.

I want in not a small way to find him nice, to find him sane, to enjoy this conversation.  I am thinking of room #504, a room with a tub first and foremost, a room with plush towels and space, turned down sheets on a king size bed, peace that I am feeling an increasingly desire to disturb as he so cleverly claims to see something in my eye. I know what he is doing, let him do it. He is so close that I can feel his hot breath on my neck, his brown eyes close to mine, his skin sizzling, about to ignite.

I tell him I can stay for only an hour.

He is already asking me if I am free on Thursday.

The desire becomes overwhelming. He is from Lille, and I have never been there. I am from here, no, not originally I answer… I have been all sorts of places, but he wants to hear my stories of Chevrolets and shooting beer cans off of fence posts. These are words I never learned. We switch into English, and now he is the bold one.

I think briefly about regret: regret at my own voyaging life that ended abruptly. Years slipped by… not wasted years, but a path I never expected, and the turns away from some things I loved. I want him, want his adventures and his stories, want to hear him beg me for a fuck in French. I am laughing younger now as we switch back to his language, tease, talk about life, about books, about all the things I can never say in English. I wonder if it is not the language itself that now is seducing me as much as he is.

I turn to leave, and he walks with me toward the entrance. In room #504, Jean-Paul would undress me slowly. He would talk as we slow the moments, delicious, his kisses covering my clothing, each inch of skin bare, bared. Hours and hours. He walks near me, his steps dangerously close to my sharp heels. He stops me by the elevators.

“Pour toi,” he pulls out the chocolate from his pillow. “Un treat.”

He unwraps the chocolate, dark and silky, and puts it into my mouth, then kisses me, first soft, then fiercely, his hands combing my hair, pulling it. I plant my hands on the wall behind me, I am so dizzy. His tongue swirls through my mouth, sweet darkness, his coarse face scratching, agonizing, enticing.

A jeudi, alors? I pull away, wet and flustered. Yes, Thursday. Thursday. Perhaps.

trick

I walked right past the address that was scrawled on the back of the dry cleaning receipt. The area of the city was familiar, filled with offices and corner bars, bakeries. Stopping to ask a doorman, I felt my cheeks hot when he said that I was already at the right address, a posh sea-front hotel with, indeed, a bar. He opened the door, and I walked in, attempting an air of confidence despite my misgivings.

I had gotten on the trolley yesterday to escape my overall ennui, looking at the ocean for an afternoon, walking in the cold sand to clear my head after the week’s overwhelming events. My job is killing me, I think sometimes, anxious I am from the tragedies that derail lives, the ongoing sagas of despair that I know just long enough to see how deep they go. And then, at times I am so touched by the kindness of strangers, the love of families, the sheer sweetness of devotion over years and years. It is life, I realize, life uncensored. I want to tell the stories, and yet am bound by respect for privacy, for the promise of confidentiality. And so it remains within me, passion desiring expression, if abstraction. Right now I come to the sea to jump into the water and swim, cry saltwater tears, laugh in the waves.

The snow is about to fall–I let the water hit my feet and numb them until I am in actual pain. Then I seek my solace instead in walking, then riding back in a near empty train, damning my own self-sufficiency as I pull out my grocery list, remember all the things I need to do.

He stands against the window and looks at me as I sit back and look up myself. At first I wonder if it is coincidence, but he is still looking back across the near-empty train, smiling, then yes, taking the seat in front of me at the next stop.

My hair is blown, messy, my skin all red from the cold wind, my old coat and bag just not the thing to wear to the city–and in fact, I never meant to go to the city, but just to pass through, invisible. But he sees me, I know.. I see him with his sharp lines and groomed nails, details, am surprised as he stands, then shoves a piece of paper into my hand as he whispers “lovely, just lovely” and then gets off at the next stop.

I am here, standing in the huge lobby, see round the corner the blue lights high above a bar, walking closer, gaze at the exotic bottles on glass shelves–so modern, so chic, and I am perhaps less weather-worn now, myself, my disheveled hair in its right place, the cashmere, the skirt, and heels, and all the effort beneath the clothing–perfume and fairy dust, the new lingerie, the finished stockings. My excitement already buzzing, now simmering all the more as I look around dizzy at the surroundings, the possibilities I don’t know that he will notice, but I will, and I walk closer. I turn to watch the bar for a few minutes to look for him–whatever his name is–5pm, yes today, yes here.

And he is here, writing in a notebook, looks up.

“I wasn’t sure you would show up,” he says.

“I thought perhaps you were just playing a trick on me–I nearly missed this place…” I say, noticing his fountain pen, his accent, his smile relaxing a little.

“Ah yes.. a trick. You don’t know me, after all.”

“Yes, for example.. names. But then, you don’t know me, either.”

The night is young.

appointment

My phone rang to tell me that my 9:30 appointment had arrived.

It was a second visit, now prompting the raised eyebrows of those few staff who notice absolutely everything in this dreary place, none the less a car in the parking lot with foreign plates, the cologne once more, the tailored jacket, no tie, the starched shirt now unbuttoned more than absolutely necessary. I walked out and shook hands, leading my visitor back down the long corridor past the conference room where we met last time, and into my office. He glanced down the seam of my French stockings, then back up, blushing as he saw me looking back at him. I showed him a seat.

“Coffee?” I moved the piles of papers away from his chair, dropped several of them.

“No, I…” he hesitated. “Yes, sure. Just a little cream, please.”

I walked back out of the office and down the hall once more, sure this time that he was watching my back again, but I resolved not to turn to look this time. I lingered in the kitchen, aware of the small crowd of coworkers trying to gauge my reactions. Cool, cool, hot coffee, cream, I headed back toward my office. He had picked up the papers, stacked them next to my printer.

“What is this?” he had been snooping, looking at the various things on the bulletin board.

“Oh, the poem? It’s Wallace Stevens.. Do you know it”

“I am not so familiar with poetry in English..” he began, reaching across to take the mug. That was when I saw them: cuff links. Perhaps my most cherished fetish. I backed into my chair, suddenly embarrassed by my delight.

I cannot explain what it is that arouses me so much when I see a French cuff, the small pleats creased so neatly, the flash of gold, such adornment a throwback perhaps, or maybe just another glimmer into the imagination, the care taken to dress surely indicative of much more. I crossed my legs, felt the garter snap as it caught on the fabric of the chair and instinctively ran my hand round to the back of my leg to assess the damage. It was still holding. I felt my belly tighten as I moved back in my chair, trying to focus on our conversation.

But I hear little more now of practical importance, at least not work-related. I hear him when he suggests leaving. I hear him gasp as my fingers unfasten those tailored trousers, let loose his cock from the snug briefs, run my fingers down the smooth hardness of him, my tongue quickly taking over, there, there in my office parking lot, yes there. I hear him, hear the low moans, the holding back, hear myself I think, too, know the want, the lust, the sheer need.

I snap back from my reverie, notice that my purse has spilled open beneath the desk, its various secrets revealed, pleasure beads and perfume, tea bags and the earrings I chose not to wear this morning, my little luxuries.

“So, if you don’t mind, can you let me know how your clients enjoy this?” he hands me a small box. I let his hand brush against mine.

“Of course. I really appreciate this,” I tell him. I do appreciate the gesture, embarrassed now by my intense arousal, smoothing my skirt as I stand and try to mask the heat that is building inside of me.

He pauses. I wait for him to stand up to leave, wondering if he wants more, wanting more myself? Perhaps, perhaps not, lost perhaps too much in my own daydreams, the fantasies, the wish for excitement, imagination, my thoughts getting the best of me, yes the best. He is pretty, yes so handsome in his jacket, flashing glance backward, flirtations yes, always welcome, the frivolities distracting me from the day, the days, the tiresome grueling days that run each one into the other here in this grey office and all that remains here, imperfect, tragic at times, miraculous others.