I pull, in vain.
Expert knots, stopper knots, but you would let me free, I know. If I asked.
Or would you make me beg? I wish for this, for your desire to keep me here, at your disposal.
I wish for your desire itself, pure within the context of possibility.
I am here, love, open. I percolate. I wait.
Dark–no, light, still more light–in the au-delà, where you have always found me.
I wish.
I may.
I might.
“You like to tease me, don’t you?”
Louise had followed Gregory’s directions to the estate. He led her past forests, past the long wall, and up the driveway to the home of a good friend–a friend whose family evidently collected châteaux and Maseratis.
Louise stopped beneath the portico, and pulled her car to the side. As Gregory had insisted, she brought nothing but a purse. He said he had taken care of all her needs.
Louise walked to the door and knocked. A small, stern woman answered the door and silently handed Louise a small bag, then brought her through long halls to a large bathroom.
“You may change here, Ma’am,” the woman said. “Mr. Gregory is in the next door to the right. Do not knock. Just enter.”
Louise walked into the bathroom and opened the bag. Ah, how sweet! Luxuries for a lovely weekend!
She looked in: a pair of stilettos and a corset, with a short skirt..
Louise hesitated, then slipped out of her own clothes and put on the costume.
Please feel free to dress in these items, darling, and use the whip as you wish. I am waiting.
Gregory
Louise walked from the bathroom to the next door, paused, then pushed the heavy oak panel.
“Greg, it’s me. Where are you hiding? I couldn’t wait to see you! I…”
Gregory was naked and face down across the canopy bed. His wrists and ankles were already bound to the posts–the scratchy rope was too tight, already leaving marks though he had little reason to pull them yet. Louise stopped, then slowly circled, tentatively swinging the small whip she had received gently against her hand.
“I think you want me to tease you,” Louise said–her voice more confident than she felt. She brought the whip down against a post, so the leather wound round. Not right. She walked around the bed again, then tried it on the bed between Gregory’s leg, watched him tense at the crack, saw him smile.
When Louise had received the invitation for a weekend away, it was a surprise. She had been seeing Gregory now for months, but he was away so often. Time was so precious, so rare. Too rare, in fact. But now, at last Gregory had managed to book a romantic weekend getaway, time alone.
“No, dear, not tease. What I want is for you to really use that whip. But I am in a compromised situation to demand things from you, I realize.”
Louise wanted to kiss Greg now. She wanted to tell him about her drive, wanted to cuddle beside him as they used to when they first met. But it was not the time, she saw. She knew well of Gregory’s fantasy, though they had never played these games before. But he wanted it now.
Louise raised the whip, and let it fall on Gregory’s thigh. A light red line immediately appeared. He flinched a little as she whipped the other leg, but she continued. He tensed as the strips of leather hit his legs again and again, but he shut his eyes and a sort of calm seemed to move into the room as she whipped harder.
Louise watched as Gregory moaned and cried, his flesh turning redder all the while. The rope was even tighter now, and Louise stopped.
“Are you hurt?” she whispered, tears streaming down her face as she saw the welts rise on his buttocks, his face red, sweat streaming down his face. She bent to kiss his bruised shoulders.
“Please,” Gregory gasped, “please more.”
Louise climbed beside him, and kissed his neck, her fingers tracing the red paths on his back. “I care about you, Greg,” she took hold of the rope, began to loosen the knot. “I can’t…”
“No,” Gregory turned, “no, oh, no. Don’t stop! Please, Louise, you turn me on so much. Please, the whip!”
Louise climbed down and whipped Gregory, whipped him hard, as he begged, pleaded her to stop.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asked.
“No, no!” Gregory panted. “Oh, it’s not the word. Remember?”
Yes. Yes, Louise thought and remembered. It was not the right word at all. She whipped him then until he said it, cried it out once.
Louise loosened the ropes, and saw Gregory’s cock stand as he rose from the bed. He grabbed for it, began to sit, but then stood, then took Louise’s hand and led her to the bath.
Gregory thrust his cock into his hands, yelling out as he quickly climaxed, leaning against the cold shower wall. Come rinsed from his hands as the water poured down from the shower head. He panted, then looked up at Louise and smiled. He reached for a towel and patted his skin.
Gregory fell into the bed and lay motionless, red backside, arms, legs, skin swollen now after all, still, the sting of hot water, the long arousal, intensity of the orgasm Louise had watched. “Oh, thank you,” he said, “it was ecstasy.” His shoulders surrounded her, her arousal stirred for the moment until he let go.
“Gregory, I don’t know…” she kicked off the heals, and lay the whip on the night table. She kissed him gently on the neck and wrapped her arms around him. He was asleep.
Gregory slept the sleep of angels, Louise thought. But she was not quite sure.
The dark clouds and sunlight in the late afternoon cast shadows that made the entire landscape seem more colorful than it really was. It was bound to rain later, which always makes for a romantic evening, Louise started to dream. But not now.
Not ever, it seemed, the promise of romance gone as quickly as it had come. Or maybe the whipping was supposed to be romantic–but she felt a crack in her soul as she hurt him. And yet he seemed to need it so much. Maybe she should have stayed, even if…
But no, not like this. It was not the fantasy that troubled Louise, not the thought of the pain, the delicate balance with pleasure–that, in fact, was the seduction. No, not that she wanted to hurt him, either, but that something was missing. They had barely spoken, before or during. Nothing so intimate should ever be so cold.
As the fairy tale became smaller in the rear-view mirror, Louise felt a surge of relief, driving in the rain, toward the night, through this unfamiliar land, but eventually, finding her way back home.
It is the tip of your tongue, the very tip of it, circling, the tip of your delicious tongue that I crave, not against my tongue, no, not around my nipple, no, oh, though your sucking is so, so luscious. But closer, yes, closer.
The night is cool now, day warm, now, morning humid, skin slick, your ripe body next to mine, not here, no, not now. It is a dream, a language I cannot speak, this here and now, this desire not so much for interpretation as for knowing. Your tongue, oh, skin, yes, fuck me, more, the unspoken, truth, the Ding an sich.
Remember that night when your black curls tumbled down onto your shoulders, your still-sober lips tracing the outline of my neck beneath my inch-long hair? We were quite a pair then, and you said so, as we dangled our bare feet from the third story fire escape and talked about the world between us in an essential moment alone that burned into my memory as if it were a habit. Your guests chattered in the living room, their fiddles and talk of Vallejo and the light from the apartment now theirs, not ours, the smoke from a neighbor’s barbecue, the stars, the rush of the busy world faraway. It was cooler here, high above, outside, the heat and grime of the day only lingering in the un-air-conditioned buildings and down below on the expressway with the cars and the people walking on the other side, tomorrow’s headlines from the dangerous park across the way. You pointed to the roses there, the pizza joint with its stained glass windows and Italian statues, the woman who held tight to her purse and lost it anyway as she fell to the sidewalk, gunshots still echoing each time that you watched my old car drive up to your building and you ran down the stairs to meet me outside in this, the only affordable neighborhood nearby.
You were young then. A week later you showed up outside my work and called up to me, then realizing that we had no balconies in these office buildings, ran up the four flights of stairs. I startled to look up and see you there, insisting you had to see me now, not in three hours. I screamed to see your head shaved, your indecency now reaching its heights as you told me of your adventures, your readings, your rock star status across the states, your friend’s car broken down for hours on the side of a rural highway, you told me. And you told me of remembering the days you spent there once before, before you knew me, and I gazed at you, reaching for your hair that never grew back, gazing at you and your lips now distracting me from anything that may have been worthwhile in my office, the ladies laughing as I wandered back to my desk, struck down by your grand gesture, your impatience, by the thrilling thought of 5:00. They knew, you see, they knew what I did not know, and I would love you then, in spite of it all, as if fate had ordered it.
It was 2am when I drove home, Aretha singing on my AM radio, a natural woman, me, your fingers lingering beneath my lace blouse, the narrow neck of it stalling you. I had to unbutton it myself. You then removed my clothing like scarves one by one, the remaining hooks and zippers and buttons and such much simpler to decipher, to undo, to push apart the openings, your finger, tongue, words so filthy, I know, mi conchita, you said, I let you, begged you, moments like this, dark summer nights, a hot mattress, the whirr of a ceiling fan, your skin, your strange words still imprinted somewhere, retrievable on cold winter days, yes, it was real I tell myself, and then sometimes like now I wonder at times what was real, even now what is real.
The year begins, sun, solitude, still of morning, smooth water, clean canvas, blinking cursor, anticipating stories, songs, adventures and our scribbled thoughts, attempts at eloquence, attempts at grace, our chance to cast the line, to take that chance, to stand there, raw, to stay.
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.
Faraway, Sylvie pulled her car over and stopped.
The warm day had changed into cold night, and the wind against her face was no longer refreshing. Dark skies seem so vast, so lost in ways, even in a world that feels welcoming in the light.
Rejection. That was really all she could call it, she had decided.
She pulled out her phone. No messages. Not from Todd. Certainly not from Jean-Paul… it all was supposed to be so much fun. The lovely French lover should never have been in the middle of such a mess. And the bartender. Well, it all was the makings of a delicious romp. If only.
And it would have been. Sylvie had fueled the first hour of her drive with anger, with her fury. Todd had pushed her away so vividly, rejected her desire for him. He came close to her, his gentle stroking, his own lust apparent–then pulled back once more, as she had felt in much less obvious demonstrations for months now. But why?
It was always that, though, wasn’t it? Sylvie imagined herself rejected for all that she was, for her wanton desire–which evaporated nonetheless when she felt Todd sever the emotional connection. She imagined him needing to demonstrate that she was unworthy of his love, tempting her with the very thing that he seemed to desire most himself, degrading her, in fact. It was this, then, wasn’t it? It was her sexuality that he rejected, her sexuality, perhaps the most noble and beautiful part of her, she thought. Strong as she was, she still needed the grounding of his love, still wanted him.
It is always the wondering why that is so excruciating, Sylvie thought.
But of course, Sylvie also knew about the unmentionable, the failures in Todd’s own life. When his own business began to go badly, everything fell apart. He seemed suddenly afraid. He never said specifically that he was frightened; he wouldn’t. But Sylvie knew the facts, the figures, the late nights spent restless, the phone calls, the reality of his financial situation.
Todd could never fail her for this–in the scheme of things, his material successes never mattered so much to Sylvie. She told him she still cared, that she admired him for who he was, and not for what he could buy. But the more she tried to reassure him, the more she seemed to push him away. The band-aid of her kiss only seemed to disguise a much deeper wound, and kept it from healing.
What hurt, Sylvie suddenly thought, was Todd’s refusal to be vulnerable with her. It was a test, she decided. Great love becomes stronger when we can reveal our weakness to another, when we trust. But perhaps the wound was deeper than any trust Todd could have for Sylvie. Maybe he needed first to trust himself. He seemed to need that, needed to feel strong again in some way, too.
But not by hurting her.
Sylvie sat looking over at the faint lights, not truly so faraway, but she was lonely and tired. 9pm, her watch said. Not so late, after all. And the fact still remained that she had work the next day. She had been unfair to Jean-Paul, and had left everything in ravels. Sylvie reached for her phone.
She dialed.
“Yes, I’d like to make a reservation.” Sylvie started the car as she answered, “For one. Just one… Yes, one night.”
Deep love. I am twelve again, and the song is okay. We can dance to this–not dance, but sway, hands on shoulders, sway, standing close enough to touch and not look. This is disco, yes, but not the gold chain shame that will fuel my swerve toward guys with skinny ties and short hair. No, this is make-out music or wishful thinking. It always will be.
I can fuck you. I can hold you, even with a song, and strip off all of my clothing, cradle your head between my legs as you lick me and reduce me to moans. Yes, I can bare myself to you this much, I can.
But this, this night fever, this is something else again. I laugh as I take the record carefully from its sleeve, blow off the imaginary dust and set it down on the turntable. The album is pristine, stored in a closet or a basement for thirty-plus years, never played maybe–a gift, a time capsule. I lift the arm, and set the needle down carefully while you watch me, this ritual of music so ingrained in both of us. It is a holiday, a lighting of candles, a chant we know by heart and not mind, even now, years later.
Adolescent timidity tries to invade my body now, too, tries to overtake my urge to swirl, here, right in front of you. You are the cute guy in the front row, and I have a crush on you. I blush when I catch you turning to look at me, your gaze terrifying because you might really see through me. You smile back, because you saw everything, and you know now. I cannot hide.
It is the same smile now, and I am damp, panting within seconds to this music. John Travolta walks down the street with a paint can. You take my hand, you–you must have been more leather than lycra, too–your cock hard as you pull me abruptly to you, the ancient rhythm pounding, the falsetto unforgivable, and yet we succumb to it. Years later, we find ourselves still resisting that beat, the flashing colors, the darkness. We no longer make fun of the kings and queens in their flashy clothing; we make fun of ourselves as we become what we once dreaded here on a makeshift dance floor. I am tempted to brush your hand away and start laughing, but I make a wish instead and give in.
We are bolder now. You want me. I want you. I know you will watch me as I step back. I let you, let your lust build as I watch you watch me begin to move, not moving my eyes not once from yours. I dare you, and you move in toward me.
I am stripped bare now, my heart pounding not from the effort, but from you, your steps into my steps, the steps I could not take when I was twelve, or sixteen, or even twenty-five. I take them now, we do, and I turn now, smiling, letting you watch me smile and turn and want you.
We are staying alive, yes, alive now more than ever before, alive from head to toe, the body electric, the past and present here before us, naked, the junior high bullies, the knowing truth at seventeen, the nights at home, the notes forgotten, later too, when this music fades, and we are bleary eyed in lost sleep and heartache, the chances in life that miraculously do come again, even now, even better, and my life flashes before my eyes, now transformed somehow as I see we are the same, we are here, we understand. And you are beautiful.
Yes, of course we are alive, and separate, we want, yet fear to want. And it is this, desire, is it not? Is desire ignited by anything more than it is by standing back and letting a breeze catch, looking from some distance and seeing not only skin and heat but context as well?
Deep, I do not know how deep rivers run, much less how deep love runs.
In all of us, in every way, it is deeper than we ever think it can be.
Tim felt the familiar vibration and reached inside his pocket to stop the buzzing.
The conference room had no windows, and not quite enough room to fit the group–all men–who claimed their space confidently, scrutinizing the scribblings on a flip chart. It was another “status update”… one for a department working on projects related to Tim’s department, but not to anything he was doing. Mandatory face time on a Friday afternoon. No chance of ducking out at noon.
Four hours until vacation.
Liz was home packing. She had scheduled her time off beginning two days before Tim’s, partly to avoid arousing suspicion, partly out of what seemed an overwhelming desire to plot her fantasies with as much preparation as possible.
The nights leading up to this departure date, Liz described in lurid detail what she imagined for vacation: the sensation of hot sand against her chest, her knees digging in as Tim would kneel behind her, his hand on her back, then both hands pulling her hips back toward his as their movements would dig deeper to the cold, wet sand beneath. He dreamed of this, the gentle lull of the waves, the sun beating down as he would fuck her there, on some beach still warm but abandoned after Labor Day.
Liz was silent on the subject, however, when Tim asked her where they were going. They would be camping some of the time, and they were driving his pick-up. That much he knew, and in any event, he barely cared, cared only about the luxury of uninterrupted time with his new girlfriend. Tim leaned back and breathed. At least the hard part of the day was over.
In spite of Liz’s reticence about the trip itself, she had been texting Tim throughout the morning.
“Tim, do you have a flashlight you can pack? THX xo Liz”
“Tim, don’t forget: TWO swimsuits! xxLiz”
“We can have dinner before we leave town.”
The stream of information arrived steadily as Tim finished the proposal, the culmination of weeks of work, due today at noon.
Liz sent details, difficult to avoid, though totally unnecessary. Tim watched the texts carefully at first, anticipating the promise of Liz’s lusty imagination on his cell phone screen. No. Just details. About packing. He answered the first three texts immediately:
“Sure, will do x Tim”
“Already packed. See you soon, Tim”
“Sounds great. See you after work!”
When the fourth alert came minutes later, Tim sighed, looked down: “NEW TEXT MESSAGE”. He turned the phone to vibrate and set it on the table behind him.
Uninterrupted, Tim put the finishing touches on his work, and delivered the proposal to his supervisor. He hurried down the hall to grab the slice of greasy cheese pizza offered at Friday afternoon meetings, stale apologies for a stolen lunch hour. Tim yawned and found a seat near the door.
The others started to file in, men Tim knew from the gym, from lunch, from their attendance at his own department’s status reports…
“Hey Tim, we hear you’re off on vacation! Where are you going?”
“Tim, great to see you here. Are you going to pitch for us when you come back?”
He chatted, anxious to distract himself enough to sit for the rest of the day. A nice enough group of guys, Tim thought as they talked, though he knew so few people even now since he moved east. Two years, and the city was fun, but still not quite home. Maybe this is what happens, Tim pondered, when you stay too long in the place where you grew up. He spent his entire youth trying to plan his escape from Iowa, only to leave and discover that he was a Midwesterner still.
Joe, Tim’s supervisor, nodded as he walked past–twenty minutes late–and took a seat near the front of the room. The meeting finally began.
Tim thought about Liz.
He had met her the day he began working in this office almost two years ago. She worked in human resources, and he remembered her curly red hair pulled back from her face, her gauzy polka dot blouse gaping open enough to reveal an edge of lace curving against her white skin. She handed him a stack of papers–insurance plans, short-term disability, words words–and he was there, in the panting flurry of a new job, a new life, the hint of her breasts distracting him from the details she explained clearly, he did not doubt, though all he remembered about them was the sound of her voice. He returned the forms to her the next day, lingering long enough to ask her to lunch.
She said no.
Tim saw her once more about six months later, in the hall outside his office. She caught his glance, then turned quickly to hide the tears running down her face as she left the corner office. He watched, saw Joe walk out and slam the door shut a few minutes later.
There was chatter about the outburst, of course, but no one had known about Joe and Liz, or what had happened between them. Days later, Joe seemed unchanged, laughing and throwing darts as he sipped his beer, flirting with the waitress exactly as he did every Thursday after work. And Tim never saw Liz again until this past spring–open enrollment. Dental insurance. She took in the required paperwork and smiled at Tim. Her nipples hardened beneath pale pink angora, and he asked her out to dinner. She said yes.
That night, Tim ran his finger gently along Liz’s ivory arm, up to the short sleeve of her sweater. He put his hand on her shoulder, and pushed the red curls from her neck, then kissed her gently, his cock hardening as she kissed him back, blushing, her nipples beneath the softness hard once more.
The rules were clear: no contact at work. No talking, only texts. And avoid the bar down the street.
The cell phone vibrated once more. Joe glared back at Tim. It was one o’clock.
Tim reached into his pocket:
3 NEW TEXT MESSAGES
He looked quickly, opened the first:
“I put gas in the truck!”
Oh.. good. More of these. Tim knew that Liz was excited, but the time she sent it… eleven o’clock! She knew! She knew he would be working, trying to finish.. But still. A twinge of guilt ran through him for not answering. He looked at the next:
“DAISIES!?? Oh Tim, how romantic! I love them XXXX Liz!!”
Flowers? Tim was perplexed, thinking first of what occasion he might have missed. The trip? Yes, but they would go bad then, and she would have them for nothing. He should have answered her before the meeting. Should have seen this.
Flowers? Tim pushed the phone back into his pocket. If not from him, then, from whom?
Tim was romantic. Only he liked to show it in practical ways.. making Liz her lunch when she stayed overnight with him, changing the wiper blades on her car. She appreciated this, he knew, and he felt he could always do those things, always make her life a little better in small ways because he adored her already. He felt his dull days brighten, just knowing she was upstairs, just knowing that he would leave and sometimes see her pull out of the parking lot near him, that they would meet somewhere minutes later. She texted him most days, told her about her indiscretions, her lack of panties, and he answered her, promising fingers and tongues plunging into her wet crevices. She told him about the way other men looked at her as she leaned over, pointing out the way to fill out the W-2 forms. She told him about her garters, her heels, her own fingers creeping beneath her panties, when she wore them, as she lingered in the women’s room after lunch. She told him she dreamed of him locking the door to her office and pounding his steel cock into her hole as he pushed her face down into her desk, the papers floating to the ground, and her utter incapacity to retrieve them as he held her hands locked behind her back, as he used her slick cunt in his moments of vicious lust.
Flowers. Tim grabbed the phone and opened it again.
“Tim, my panties are drenching. I wish your fingers were where mine are now.” One o’clock. She was drenching at one o’clock
Tim’s cock hardened as he thought of Liz’s panties, wisps of lace, precious in price, evidently for the artistry, the way they drew lines on her skin, embellishing the curves beneath, covering her if only so that he could uncover her.
Joe stood, “I am afraid I have to be at another meeting in a few minutes.” He turned quickly and walked back, planted his hand on Tim’s shoulder.
“Good work helping with that proposal, Tim. See you after next week.”
Tim reddened, hoping that Joe did not notice his excitement, his lack of response to the gesture. He glanced again at the clock. Another two hours until he could get to Liz, until he could run his hand along the side of her thigh, feel her press against him, his hands lifting the wet lace and teasing her, but only for a short time before slipping the panties off and gliding into her. His cock pressed against his pants as the phone vibrated again. He leaned forward, flipped it open
“Come over now! I want you so much.. xoxo Liz” Two o’clock. She had waited a whole hour to send again. It really was not so much, even if he was busy. He wanted to text back, but saw his colleagues next to him. Impossible to do it discreetly.
Tim needed her now, too. So long to wait, it seemed now… and the messages sat there. Liz would never wait so long for her release. She never could resist the urge to let her own fingers circle her clit. She would pull the purple dildo from her nightstand after a while, push it between her plump labia, her whole body tensing, pausing as she instinctively aimed for her favorite spots, over and over again, just short of climax, then pushing past it. He imagined her head pressed hard against the pillow as she came, her cries loudly calling out his name.
Bzzzz
“Where ARE you!? LIZ!”
Oh.. if only. Two-thirty. She made it longer than he had imagined…
Three o’clock. Another buzz.
“Oh Joe, can’t wait!”
Joe! She called him Joe. Another hour, and she had called him Joe.
Tim’s chest pounded. His gut ached. He knew it was a mistake, knew she meant Tim. But in the power of her lust, she was texting his name. Joe.
But he wondered. Joe had left a full hour ago. It was three o’clock. The meeting ended early, and Tim exited quickly, rushed into a storage closet and scrolled down to find her name, pressed send, then waited for her to pick up. Ring. Ring.
“Tim?”
“Yes, Liz! It’s me. I.. I can leave now. I’ll be there in twenty min…”
“Tim.”
“Yes! I ‘m sorry I didn’t answer the texts. I was finishing the proposal, then had to go to the meeting.”
“Tim, it’s fine. It’s just…”
“Okay Liz. Be there in just a few minutes. I just have to check my email and close up. Then we can leave. I love you.”
“Oh Tim.. Okay. Goodbye.”
Tim opened his mailbox.
From: The Big Cheese (ooh. Boss with a sense of humor) To: Joe Cc: LIST
Joe, great proposal. Congratulations on all the hard work. You definitely earned a great vacation.
From: Joe To: Tim
Great work, Tim. Thanks for the team effort. I hope you have a great break. Hey, I never mentioned this, but the wife and I separated for awhile. I think I convinced her to try it again, so we’re going away for the week. Amazing what a bunch of cheap flowers on your anniversary can do.
From: Liz To: Tim
Tim. Why didn’t you answer? I found the flowers, thought they were from you. But then…
I am so sorry. He loves me, Tim. It was good, Tim. I hope you understand. I love you.
Tim blinked at the screen. No one knew they were married? Buy why? Why was it a secret? And why did she accept Tim’s invitation for dinner, much less want him to be her boyfriend, to go away with him? Did Joe know? Why? For everything, why?
Tim grabbed his jacket and walked out of his office. He headed down the stairs, walked down the street toward Liz’s apartment. In a few minutes he would see his red pickup parked on the street outside. He would take the keys from her silently as she cried and explained, and he would start the old thing, then wrap his right hand around the bench seat, looking back through the center for other cars. He would stop, then shift, three on the tree, and pull forward, driving all night if he had to, driving on, to the next best thing.
“A little wider,” he said, squinting a bit as he squatted down to examine me there, demurely perched upon the chaise.
I leaned back, defiant now, and opened my legs enough that they pushed my knee-length skirt high up my thighs.
“Like this?” I asked, mocking him. I knew full well that he could see only the top of my thighs, not more.
“Wider.”
I let my head fall back, and spread my legs just a little wider now as he aimed his view.
I heard the shutter click, and felt a warmer sensation take over my entire lower body. I was suddenly drunk with it. I wanted more.
My legs spread even wider, my unshaved pussy now was his, was there for all the world to see, my glistening lips, my hot desire. I feared this, feared what he was doing to me, The fabric beneath me was damp.
“Come for me,” he said.
I started to stand, then realized what he meant, and eased myself back onto the sofa, unbuttoned my blouse slowly and let it fall open. My clit was alive, dancing, and I could nearly come. I could, nearly, just from the excitement of this timeless exhibition.
He was famous, he said, would publish these pictures somewhere. I really do not know where. Nowhere, maybe. Maybe he is just another pervert. But then, it seems, so am I.
I do not come for just any man. I look at him, as he smokes those detestable cigarettes that normally do nothing but turn me off. But they turn me on now, as I reach round back to unfasten my bra, then lean back on this chaise on a stage of sorts, not in a living room, but pulled out with a screen behind it to make it seem staged. I know this is on purpose, for the light perhaps, but this sex out of context brings the smoke rings into perfect perspective as I raise my head and lick my fingers. Snap. He takes another picture, and I lean my head to let my hair fall down around my face before looking up at the camera and licking my fingers again. Snap. He likes that one. He is snapping, and I begin to luxuriate in the haze of the fantasy we are creating. I toss my head back again, ecstatic the longer he takes, but then roll onto my knees and let my bra fall as I lean on my hands, searching once more for the camera, mesmerized once more by it, breathing in his smoke and his cologne, catlike as I arch my back deeply and purr.
“Tell me what you want,” I tease, as I spread my legs, my back arched even more, my face and not my exposed back to the camera.
He circles around me, predictably. I do not let him capture me yet. I roll onto my back, take my long pearls into my teeth as I have always wanted to do, and hold out my hand in vain, as if I did not really want for him to seize my erect nipples on film.
He uses film. He develops it in the chemicals that are as ancient as the notion that his smoking actually benefits his health. He develops the film in his bathroom, issuing me stern warnings not to open the door at certain times, at certain times when the room must remain completely dark, even outside the bathroom, because any light would destroy the negatives.
In the dark, we are alone, primitive. In the dark, all we can do is fuck. We can fuck in the dark, chanting and moaning and grabbing at all other sensation but sight for some remnant of the world, some indication that we are real and not simply figments of our own imagination. He plays loud thumping music as we fuck, loud as I take another sip of wine and roll him onto his back so that I can take over and use him, too. His cock is fine, hard, new, never ending it seems as I take him in far enough that it aches, then the ache opens me, the only thing that will fill me, the only thing I have ever needed.
He lets his head fall back, as he pants.
“So you like photographing my naked pussy, don’t you?” I tease him, agonize as I slide back and let just his head slip in and out of my flooding cunt.
“Tell me,” I say, as he has not yet answered me with anything more worthy than a grunt.
“Say it,” I tease him still as he tries to push his cock higher, his hips now lifted into the air beneath me, my hips still high enough that he never can.
“Say what?” he pleads. I feel his hands pushing my hips, fighting to make me give in to his gorgeous huge cock.
“Tell me what you want from me,” I said, my hips still stronger than his hands, which have not yet succumbed quite to out and out aggression.
“I want you to fuck me,” he said.
“Tell me exactly what you want, how you want it, and when, ” I say, now powerful, now lusting powerfully for him wanting me.
My resolve conquers my immediate desire, and I jump away from him and light a candle, now stand above him, eyeing his hand wrapped around his enormous dick, his eyes dilated in the new light and glaring wildly at me.
I pick up the camera.
Snap.
His cock will be lovely, there. I do not know how to develop this film.
“Show me what you want,” I say.
He looks at me, the camera, looks afraid, looks needy as he lets his hand slide down the length of his cock, then back up, his eyes closing.
“Oh my god…” he moans and lingers as his hand reaches the head. Snap.
His cock is lovely, yes, but it is the photo of his face that whets my lust now. His cherubic eyes shut tightly, eyelashes peaking out of the creases beneath his eyes, his dimpled grimace, the lines of his forehead drawn, not young but knowing, his mouth unposed, open. I imagine his need. I hear his ever louder breathing, his cry, his silence now just as he could come.
I remember that day, the dim light. I remember his other hand dangling, holding, then dropping his drink, the ice cubes sliding across the floor, the bourbon and the smoke drifting up from the ashtray through the room, my mouth nudging away his hand. Once, twice, I lick him, swallow him, and he stops me there where I am kneeling against the chaise longue to reach him, my drunken desire now for him, to reach me, spread me. He regains control, an animal, hungry.
“Wider,” he growls, as he spins round back of me, pushes my back against the furniture and lifts my skirt.
I let him. I want him. I arch my back, and his cock glides into me. Slick, tight. I imagine a photo of it, an x-ray. I imagine his cock through me, deeper, deeper still. I imagine his piston-tight fucking, his ass clenched as he digs deeper, my lungs expanded, my head buried into the plush fabric, my resistance futile. I imagine his come shooting the negative black–just the opposite of the liquid that leaks from me later–coating my bones, coating my blood, a door opened, and my heart is exposed.
