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.

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.

cologne

I thought you were interested when I caught the faint whiff of cologne as you walked past me. I suspected, when you buttoned your shirt just so, and showed up at my door so polished. I guessed that you were hoping you would impress me. And you did.

But of course it is never the cologne or your clothing that makes the difference, never is. But it was nice, I thought–I believe it even if my mother said it was true–nice the effort you put into showing me that it was worth the extra few minutes, worth the consideration, worth you wondering perhaps if maybe I might like you, too.

And I did.

I wore perfume, too. You might have noticed, though I tried hard not to be obvious. I smoothed my favorite skirt, wondering if I should really have worn that one, and the heels, and I felt my face flush when I knew you had arrived, when I came to greet you.

You knew perhaps you might kiss me that day, and perhaps you did. Perhaps I just wanted you to. Perhaps I hoped in fact that we might meet again once, someday, somewhere nice like here, or anywhere really. It is so lovely here, here where birds sing, where music plays and I dream my little dreams, but there are so many nice places everywhere. It is nice when you join me in my world, when you show me yours, when life is full of the wonder of discovery, the joy of sharing, the rendezvous… you, perhaps, the flirting, the spark, the smile, the blush, or even nothing but the mere possibility of you.

ring ring

“Where are your fingers, right now?”

My fingers were wrapped around the telephone when you posed the question, but at your insistence, I unzipped my pants and slid my fingers beneath my panties. As I already knew, your words had made me wet.

“I keep thinking of licking you, licking around your nipples slowly until they become hard. I would suck them for a long, long time, then work my tongue down your belly. I would push your legs apart and lick everything I found there. I would hold you down while my tongue flicked your clitoris and licked up all your wetness. You are wet, aren’t you?”

How could I think when you were doing things like this to me? I was late, but yours was not a conversation that I wished to abandon quite so easily. Let them wait, I thought. And so they did.

“Where are your fingers now?”

“Circling my clit. Oh.. fuck.”

Your deep voice changes when you want me this badly. Your voice penetrates each detailed description of the various and sundry ways that you imagine fucking me. Your voice served as adequate distraction from the traffic and the noise and the hurry of the early evening. These distractions fed me, though: my secret thrill as I wandered in among friends, smiling though I was tired, and yes.. I did flirt. You knew I would. I flirted shamelessly, and every so often, I imagined your firm hand on my shoulder, you whispering behind me that you want me to take you to an empty room upstairs.

But not tonight. Tonight, you sit, cheering on someone you love. And I’ll talk talk, loving children and life, too. Just a little more thrilled, a little more laughing, a little more to tell you later.