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Subject: RP: "Cary" by daVinci (M/F)
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Standard Disclaimer: This total work of fiction (resemblance to persons
living or dead, purely coincidental) is not to be read by those who are
morally or legally obligated to look the other way. This is a glimpse
into the interior landscape of a fantasy world. In this fantasy world
there is no communicable disease, no exploitation, no danger, and
everyone ends up happy. In other words, not like real life at all.

All comments and criticisms enthusiastically and gratefully welcomed and
appreciated.
rmbte1@ix.netcom.com 



						Cary
					       by daVinci


		You have to amuse yourself sometimes after being so serious for so
long.
					-- Franz Joseph Haydn

     	I can't really mention my name. It would defeat the purpose of
what I've been trying to do. Not that you'd recognize it, or even care
that much if you did. But it has been my ambition recently to become a
recluse, and being a recluse is hard goddamned work. One must be ever
vigilant. It's the little things that get you into trouble. 
	My problem was I just got bored. Everything became so routine. I
developed problems distinguishing what city I was in, what orchestra I
was playing with, what piece I was performing. Most audiences never
noticed the difference. Several of the critics did. When they started
describing my performances as "workmanlike" and my technical components
"competent" I knew it was time to stop. I cashed in royalty checks and
appearance fees, and dropped off the face of the earth. I moved here, to
this house. A house I bought for only two reasons: its location and its
third floor. The mountains of Tibet, the jungles of Borneo, the ice
tundra of northern Canada...none of these locales offers the anonymity
and isolation of the affluent American suburb. My new house stood on a
non-descript street, in a non-descript neighborhood, in a non-descript
town. There was nothing at all to distinguish it from dozens of
identical affluent suburbs. I was not in the least concealed, I was
right out there in the open...which is why I was so well hidden.
	I looked at five houses in this vicinity before stumbling on this three
story Tudor. It's third floor a massive expanse of unusable area, an
immense attic masquerading as a living space. Much to the exasperation
of the moving company, I had all of 63 boxes of books, 15 boxes of CD's
and LP's, 8 pieces of furniture, three MIDI equipped electronic
keyboards, two computers and one baby grand Steinway hauled to this
cavernous crow's nest. We sometimes manage to fill even the most
enormous of empty spaces. 
	For hours each day (and night) I sat in this room reading my Kafka,
listening to my Mahler, and finishing my own first symphony. How
fortunate I am to be a recluse of the 20th century. Had I been writing a
symphony in Berlioz's time I would have actually had to have dealt with
people: conductors, musicians, publishers. Now it can be done by one
cynical composer who happens to own the proper computer software and a
Korg keyboard. This is a great time to be alive...where do I want to go
today? Let's be completely honest here, I am not J.D. Salinger or Elvis.
No one was really looking for me. I was not a fugitive, a hounded
celebrity. Let's be brutally honest, there was no romantic nobility in
what I was doing. Beethoven stopped performing in public because of a
comical stage mishap, Rossini abandoned writing opera after turning 30,
and Bartok died in exile. I was not "making a statement" or protecting
my artistic sensibilities. I was simply bored, perhaps a bit
"comfortably numb". I was not interested in anything, and nothing was
interested in me. As I looked out of my third story's two windows and
watched the street traffic, the trees sway, the house next door; I felt
secure in the knowledge that no one was really challenging my
reclusivity, a luxury not necessarily enjoyed by other hermitic members
of my tribe. 
	But enough about me...this is not why we are here. This is not why am I
writing. This is not why you are reading. You grow impatient for the
"story" and I don't blame you. You'll be pleased to find out that the
"story" is easy to get to from where we are. Do you remember were we
were? Before my rambling digression on reclusivity and sequencer
programs, we were in my third story "workshop", my Montaigne's tower.
That is why it's easy to get to where we want to go from where we are.
All we have to do...is look out the window. For that is what I did.

	I had shut down the computers and closed the lid on the Steinway. As I
wandered around the room, my head arbitrarily turned to the right and my
vision was slapped by a flash of white. A woman in a brilliant white
bathing suit walked out of her house and towards the chlorine blue water
of her swimming pool. I was not terribly close, but I swore I could see
her breasts sway slightly as she leaned back on one of the several pool
chairs. She arched her back in recline. Her face, somewhat obscured by
the sunglasses she wore, lifted towards the sun. I studied her breasts,
rising and falling with each breath. I examined the flatness of her
stomach and the womanly flair of her hips as exposed by the high cut of
her swimwear. I stood hypnotized by how incredibly tanned, smooth, and
firm her legs looked thrown out as mere appendages by their owner. I
hate to use this word, I have never used it before to describe a human
being, but this woman was stunning.
	It took me several moments to realize I was gazing lewdly upon one of
my next door neighbors, Cary Salasmore. Cary and her husband, Matt, had
come over to introduce themselves the weekend I moved in, and invited me
over for dinner one warm June evening last month. They made an
attractive couple. Matt was athletically handsome and Cary was
beautiful, with dark brown shoulder length hair and a Revlon model face.
Her dark complexion worked cooperatively to amplify the lightness of her
eyes, or the flash of her teeth. I actually found the whole ensemble
somewhat distracting while trying to talk to her. We had dinner that
evening on the very patio where Cary now lay in the sun. Cary and I had
shared an afternoon of conversation as I applied honey pine wood stain
to lumber I was using to construct bookshelves. Last week I had observed
her struggling to assemble a new gas grill, and went over to offer my
assistance and power tools. Not that she couldn't have done it herself,
but four hands were better than two, and I was trying to be neighborly.
So you see, I had been around her and I knew Cary was beautiful in the
way a Michelangelo statue is beautiful, full of finely crafted detail. I
had not realized however, until that moment, that Cary was also
beautiful in a Playboy Playmate of the Year, wet dream type of way. 
	As my mind wandered in the direction Cary's body demanded it take, I
began to feel a little voyeuristic. I managed to tear myself from the
window, but never for very long. I kept returning. I must have watched
her on and off for two hours before, much to my disappointment, she got
up to go in. The last thing I saw was her incredible figure in retreat.
I watched her from behind as she slid inside the house, her outrageous
legs seemed to glide her forward, propelling her along some
predetermined path. I reluctantly went back to work.

	An  hour later I heard the doorbell ring. The object of my affection,
my new hobby, stood outside the door.
	"I hope I'm not interrupting, but Matt's out of town again and I'm a
little bored, how would you like to help me drink this $110 bottle of
wine?" Cary asked, handing me the bottle.
	"I think I can work that into my schedule," I replied and invited her
in.
	She was still wearing the white bathing suit, but had put on a pair of
cutoff denim shorts. The frayed edge of the shorts threw threading
against the smooth dark skin of her thighs as she sat on the couch.
Another gripping image I had to tear myself away from as I went to open
the wine. I returned with the Pinot Grigio on ice and two glasses.
	"So how's the life of leisure?" she asked when we had settled down with
our accessories for conversation. I had been intentionally vague in
discussing my background with Matt and Cary , saying only that some
financial good fortune had allowed me to retire early from the "music
industry". Remarkably, neither one of them had pursued the ambiguity and
the subject was always changed.
	"So far, so good, though I think I watch too much CNN," I said.
	"A 24 hour news network...is there that much happening we have to know
about?" she wondered.
	"Don't find a need to keep up with current events?"
	"I'm too busy being a stereotype," she said with obvious irony. "Poor
wealthy woman, married to a busy giant of commerce. Nothing to do all
day but sit by the pool and go to the health club. Occasionally I cook
and clean, but most of that is done for me. I think it's important to
concentrate on one thing, to specialize, to focus one's energies."
	"So you might say you're the 'anti-Renaissance Man', or Woman as the
case my be," I said.
	"Absolutely. No use muddying the waters with excess interests or
abilities."
	This was a different Cary than the one I had dined with, or manipulated
hardware with. I liked this one better. This Cary was more intriguing,
though she could be a bit unsettling. Which was, of course, exactly what
she wanted.
	"I saw you watching me," she said suddenly, looking at me deeply. Talk
about unsettling.
	"I...uh...didn't mean to....uh....intrude, I was just..."
	"It's all right," Cary laughed. "No need to apologize. I was flattered.
Men always look at me, and I'm always flattered. I'm past the point in
my life where I can feel indignant, or insulted. I don't like to admit
it, but I like the attention. It makes me feel like I have something."
	"You're very beautiful," I stammered, raising the glass to my lips. An
empty gesture considering the glass was empty. 
	"Yes, I know," she smiled. "Tragically, that's all I am. I don't have a
job, I don't have children, I don't have any amusing, mind-numbing
hobbies, I have no strong convictions. I don't worry about the
environment, I'm not incensed over the death penalty, abortion, or
NAFTA. I eat veal. I guess I'm not 'deep' enough."
	"You have a successful husband," I offered, refilling our wine glasses.
	"Yes, I do have that. Sure he fucks around, but he's my
husband...another thing I don't have the energy to be upset about." She
lay her head back, resting it against the couch. I couldn't help but
notice even her throat was alluring. I had never thought of a throat or
a neck as being 'sexy' before. But that was Cary. The most mundane,
common gestures made one think of the prurient possibilities.
	"I'm either a pathetically passive kept woman, or a Zen master. I don't
know which," she sighed.
	"It sounds like you think about this a lot."
	"Only in my free time," she answered, "but since I only have free time,
it adds up."
	"I think you're lying" I said, "if you were so accepting of your
situation you wouldn't think about it as much as you do. You wouldn't be
here talking about it. It wouldn't occur to you."
	She turned to look at me, a smile approaching a smirk crossed her lips.
	"Well, aren't we the penetrating judge of human character. Am I
supposed to be turned on by that genuineness, that honesty?"
	"Feel free." I smiled.
	"Yet another man who wants to tumble with me. I somehow expected
something different from you Mr. Virtuoso, Mr. Second Coming of Mozart."
I must have looked startled, and she must have picked up on it. "Oh yes,
I know who you are. I know all about you. I bought three of your CD's
last week when I was in the city."
	"Which ones?" I asked casually, trying to downplay the ridiculous hint
of anxiety I felt, face to face with the one woman who has finally
realized no one ever sees Bruce Wayne and Batman at the same time.
	"The Schumann, the Beethoven Piano Concerto, and one other, I can't
remember."
	"I've never been totally pleased with the Schumann, but what did you
think?"
	"It seemed fine to me, but I know nothing about music. The liner notes
said you were a genius."
	"Oh good, I'd hate to think the liner notes said 'he sucks, but we
didn't realize it until after we had pressed the CD'." She laughed,
flashing white teeth and pink tongue. 
	"So tell me," she asked, "do classical pianists have groupies"
	"Actually, this may surprise you, but yes. However they're all 65 year
old symphony patrons, or 19 year old students. I stay away from the 60
year old symphony patrons."
	"How are the 19 year old students?" she asked
	"Eager...but still learning," I answered. She smiled again.
	"You interest me," she remarked.
	"How so?"
	"You're not as obvious as everyone else I know."
	"Why thank you...I guess. You interest me too," I said
	"How so?" she asked, pulling her legs up on the couch and tucking them
beneath her hips somewhat  flirtatiously.
	"In several different ways," I said
	"You're attracted to me, aren't you?" When I didn't say anything in
response she got up off the couch and walked towards me. She stood in
front of me, staring into my eyes. 
	"How did you ever end up here?" she asked.
	"I might ask you the same thing." I paused, then placed my hand on the
side of her leg. 
	"I want to kiss you," she said.
	"Go ahead. I want you to kiss me."
	She paused before bending forward, bringing her lips to mine. Her
ambition was tempered by her reserve, the kiss was light, feathery,
temporary, non-binding. Her tongue darted out occasionally to swipe at
my lips, never lingering for long. 
	"You want to fuck me, don't you?" she whispered, backing away from me.
	"The thought has crossed my mind, but I don't know. You may actually be
too perfect to fuck." She looked at me quizzically before responding.
	"I'm not sure how to take that. Do I blush with awkward embarrassment
like I do when the men say 'No one looks better in a tennis skirt than
you Car'; or do I flash you my disapproving glare like when they try to
grab my ass while dancing at the country club?"
	"This happens often, does it?" I asked, sounding more curious than
flip, unfortunately.
	"Quite frequently, yes," she responded. She reached across me to pull a
piece of melting ice from the bucket I had used for the wine. As she
spoke she began to rub the ice over her neck, and along the side of her
face. She bent forward and placed the ice on my earlobe. I recoiled from
the sensation.
	"But you see," she continued, "it's all just fun and games. These men
wouldn't really know what to do if a woman grabbed their ass back.
They're in it for the flirtation and the fantasy. Not my husband of
course, he's quite proficient and prolific at 'following through', so to
speak." 
	She started passing the ice cube over her breasts through the material
of her white swimsuit. Her nipples hardened, and the water made the
fabric virtually transparent. She threw her head back, eyes closed as
the ice moved over her. I could see the darkness of her erect nipple and
the full shape of her breast. I tried to regain my composure, tried to
regain my passive acceptance of her presence, her desirability. All
right...say something now, I thought to myself. Be careful of the voice.
Make sure she doesn't hear anything she's not supposed to hear.
	"I find it hard to believe," I croaked out, "that you don't inspire
lustful bravado in at least several of the more cowardly, domesticated
husbands of this hamlet; that you don't get serious offers." The ice had
evaporated in her hand, there was now nothing left in the grip of her
moist palm. She came towards me again, for another kiss, for another
declaration. She licked briefly at the ear where she had placed the ice.
Then she backed away again.
	"It's irrelevant," she said. "My job is to sacrifice what I want. I
have to be the good wife. I have to be loyal. I guess I do have at least
one mind-numbing hobby. We all have roles, we all have poses." With that
she started walking towards the door. I watched her mouth-watering ass
sway as she left me, and though my cock throbbed at the sight, I was
somehow not surprised it had ended like this. 
	"I have a friend for you," she said when she reached the door, "you
might like her...I'll work on it."
	She opened the door to walk out, then turned to me.
	"I'll be thinking of you tonight...if that's any consolation," she
said.
	"I'm flattered, women rarely think of me, but when they do I'm always
flattered" I said. She smiled and left. 
	I rubbed my own cock later thinking about Cary's body, thinking about
Cary, thinking about Cary thinking about me. As I shot off over my chest
and stomach I moaned her name. I wonder if she heard me. Did I want her
to hear me?

	Cary was back at poolside several days later. I had heard the laughing
and moved quickly to the window, perhaps a bit too quickly. Cary had
company. They lay side by side together there on the patio, drinking,
sunning and laughing. One could tell, even in their reclined position,
that the other woman was much shorter than Cary. She looked younger as
well, from what I could gather. Despite the distance, I could see that
she was impressively built. She wore a yellow two piece bathing suit
that did more to augment than conceal what we mean by "voluptuous". I
watched them talking and laughing for several minutes, trying to keep
myself concealed, lest Cary detect my presence again. I couldn't hear
what they were saying, but the other woman kept shaking her head and
laughing. Cary was trying to talk her into something, something she was
hesitant to do. I was stunned to see Cary pull at the shoulder straps of
her bathing suit, lowering it to her waist, exposing her breasts, which
of course looked fantastic. Cary then proceeded to rub suntan oil onto
her chest as her friend looked on with schoolgirl embarrassment and
shock. But soon, she too, became subservient to Cary's considerable
influence and, after a furtive look around, reached behind her to untie
the top of her own suit. The endeavor revealed an awe inspiring sight.
Her breasts bobbed slightly on her chest as she lay back. Cary playfully
poured a little too much oil over her friends chest, eliciting a short
scream of surprise and delight.
	Where had I ended up? I once shook the King of Denmark's hand, I sat at
a banquet table with Leonard Bernstein and President George Bush. Now I
was a verified peeping tom, watching two oiled women sunbathe topless.
>From the Atlantic Monthly to Penthouse Forum; "I never believed the
letters I read here were true until this happened to me..." I should
respect their privacy, I should walk away from the window and go
downstairs, I should leave them alone...yeah, whatever.

	"Please come for dinner tomorrow night," Cary said, "we're giving a
dinner party, and I'd like to have you there. I'm asking Kristen to come
too." she smiled mischievously. We were standing in our respective
driveways.
	"Who's that?" I asked.
	"She's the vacuous, long haired young travel agent with the big tits
you watched me with yesterday," she replied, the smile still on her
lips. I could do nothing but smile back. How could she be certain I had
been watching?
	"The display yesterday was supposed to tempt me?"
	"Yes. Were you tempted?"
	"Yes...but not by your friend."
	"Oh...so sweet, another compliment. C'mon, what do you say?" she asked.
	"Why the set up Cary?"
	"I have a myriad of reasons," she said with mock mysteriousness
	"Aren't we the enigma."
	"Yes...we are...will you be there?" 
	"Will you be there?" I asked
	"Of course," she replied.
	"Then how can I refuse." I said.
	"Great, see you at 7:00." 

	Cary greeted me at the door. She wore a red cotton knit dress with a
scooped neck and a slit that ran up the side of one dangerous leg. It
was the left leg. The other dangerous leg was put away for the evening,
I supposed. In my former line of work, one saw a lot of women dressed in
glamorous formal wear. But I have to admit that seeing Cary in this
simple outfit made my teeth hurt.  There must have been about fifteen
people there. No one asked me what it was like to play with the London
Philharmonic, or whether I knew any of the Three Tenors, or asked my
opinion of the movie "Shine". Which I took to mean the Cary had not told
anyone anything. I began to relax, Bruce Wayne gets to be another run of
the mill millionaire for another anonymous day.
	Cary threw Kristen and me together immediately, seating us together at
dinner, playing the matchmaker all evening, ensuring we were never far
from one another. Kristen wore a black and purple flower print blouse
with a black skirt, not exceedingly short, but short enough. The
ensemble was fittingly enhanced by a string of pearls and both
fingernails and toenails lacquered in lavender. She was, what Cary would
probably refer to sardonically as, "bubbly". She and I were virtually
attached at the hip all evening. It was Matt who took me away from her
first. He had just bought all this new audio equipment, and was anxious
for me to see it. I acted appropriately impressed as he gave me the
specs and discussed the features. He excused himself and left to mingle
and play the host, leaving me alone for the first time all evening. My
seclusion didn't last long. As I stood next to the kitchen door, Cary
sidled up to me with a drink in her hand and a smile on her face.
	"So what do you think of Kristen?" she asked.
	"She seems a lovely young woman, and quite popular." I added.
	"Quite certainly. All the men are trying to catch glimpses down her
blouse. Including my husband, though there's no mystery there. They
sleep together rather regularly." I almost dropped my glass. She was
amused at my surprise, laughing briefly.
	"Yes...neither one of them knows I know. I know about his other nine
mistresses as well."
	"And you maintain friendly relations with this woman?" I all but
stammered.
	"Of course. I maintain friendly relations with my husband too. He's
been a nervous wreck all evening. Nervous because she's here at all, and
nervous because she seems so taken with you."
	Cary paused momentarily looking in Kristen's direction. Kristen stood
in conversation with three men who surrounded her as in some football
huddle where she had just brought the next play in from the bench. Cary
turned back to face me and I saw mischievous intent in her eyes. 
	"You are my friend, aren't you?" she asked.
	"In a way, yes"
	"I need you to do me a huge favor," she said
	"What is it?"
	"Well Kristen's got a thing for you and..."
	"How do you know that?" I interrupted.
	"She told me. I could tell anyway."
	"How well do you know this woman?" I asked.
	"Oh very well."
	"So what's the favor?"
	Cary hesitated a little before she asked her favor. "I need you to take
Kristen home with you tonight and fuck her senseless." She paused
waiting for my reaction. "Can you do that for a friend Maestro?"
	By this point I understood that Cary loved to play games, some
amusement , distraction for what seemed to her a relatively boring
existence. But for some inexplicable reason I also trusted her. Trusted
that her amusement would not come at my expense. As I say, I don't
understand why I felt this trust, why I felt more like her sidekick than
her potential victim. I had somehow been demoted from Batman to Robin.
	It's been my experience, " I offered, "that seductions don't usually
occur as effortlessly as television screenplays and erotic fiction might
have you believe."
	"Oh...this one will be. Kristen's hot for you, and she loves the idea
of bedding a celebrity. I'm sorry, I told her who you were...but despite
her flaws, she can keep a secret. She's probably pretty good in bed,
after all, my husband keeps going back, and she's a screamer...if you
like that type of thing."
	"How do you know all this?" I asked.
	"Oh...girl talk, you know, while we're sitting around the pool rubbing
oil on ourselves."
	Cary leaned towards me, whispering, "do you like that...do you like
vocal women, women who gasp and pant and scream?" she asked.
	"Music to my ears," I said with a smile. "So I get to release some
sexual tension with a woman who's not you, and you get to mess with
Matt's head. You get back at your infidel husband without transgressing
your code of loyalty."
	"Among other things," she answered.
	"What other things?" I asked.
	"No...I'm not going to let you sap all the mystery out of me. Why are
you fighting this? It's inevitable anyway. Kristen will overcome you,
she'll unbutton another button on her blouse and spill some cleavage,
she'll cross her legs in your direction and allow her skirt to ride up,
she'll laugh at all your jokes and touch your arm. You'll cave
eventually anyway."
	"Will she use ice?" I asked. That brought no response. "Because you ask
me, I have to go through the laborious process of undressing and
ravaging a 25 year old with stupendous architecture and a penchant for
vocalization, just so you can get back at your husband in some
"Dangerous Liaisons" caper? You're a demanding woman."
	"I know it's a lot to ask," she said, employing that devastating smile.
	"Well all right, just this once for friendship. But I'm not fucking any
of Matt's other mistresses, and I'm certainly not fucking Matt...at
least not directly."
	"I knew I could count on you," Cary said, "now, you've been away from
your date for too long. Get to work, turn on that sophisticated,
symphonic charm of yours."
	"I'm on the case Caped Crusader," I started to walk away then stopped.
I made my way slowly back to Cary and leaned to whisper in her ear. "Do
you want me to leave my windows open tonight?" I asked.
	Cary looked at me with an odd expression. I thought I might have seen
admiration in that look. The expression of one who has met an equal? It
couldn't be.
	"That would be an extraordinary touch," she said flatly. 
	I made my way towards Kristen.

	As the evening began to dwindle I asked Kristen back to my place for a
nightcap. A suggestion she enthusiastically supported. If only all men
could have the intelligence briefing I had received. I stalled our
departure until the last of the guests was leaving, and then intimated
to Kristen that we should also go, not taxing our hosts any longer. We
expressed garrulous gratitude to Matt and Cary as we were leaving. Cary
was right, Kristen could keep a secret. She thanked them with her arm
around my waist, and one could never have known of Kristen and Matt's
amorous history. Matt was slightly less clandestine. Maybe it was just
that I knew. Did I see Matt put his arm around Cary? Did I detect a
tightness in his jaw, a coiled spring aspect in his chest, a flinty,
terse tone in his voice? I tried to play it up a little for Cary,
rubbing Kristen's shoulder, toying with her hair. Cary seemed subdued.
Probably my imagination. I couldn't help thinking that Matt was jealous
that I was leaving with Kristen, and Cary was jealous because Matt was
jealous that I was leaving with Kristen.

	Kristen and I sat drinking cognac, killing time before the inevitable.
She finally brought up the fact that she knew who I was. She didn't, of
course. She asked me what it was like to have to perform, what it was
like to play in front of thousands of people. I told her it took a lot
of practice and energy. She told me she liked music, but not classical
music. I told her I understood; that I didn't always like classical
music either. She laughed and said she loved listening to the radio, and
liked to go out dancing at the clubs. She said she loved aerobics at the
health club because they turned the music up loud. I suggested that she
enjoyed that because she was transposing the abstract sensations of the
music into something physical, the exercise, the exertion of her aerobic
workout. She didn't completely understand what I meant.
	"I guess I feel that most things are about expression...music's just
another one of those things," I said.
	"What makes you say most things are about expression?" she asked.
	"I can't guarantee this but, ultimately, people don't like being alone,
so most human endeavors involve some form of communication. It's a way
of making contact with other people, other things, sometimes other ideas
or feelings."
	"And music is like that?"
	"Yeah, absolutely. You hear some song on the radio, it elicits a
response in you, some sort of nostalgia maybe, melancholia perhaps, but
whatever it does, it speaks to something in you, and you speak back. The
emotional reaction is a way of speaking back, or the physical rush of
the aerobic workout.. For all its complexities, all the rigorous
analytical structures we spend so much time discussing, music is a
device. A device that allows us expression to those things we can't
express in other ways." Was I speaking to her, or just thinking out
loud?
	"So what else is like that," she asked.
	"Any artistic or creative pursuit, I would imagine, has some component
of communication."
	"I think sex is like that," she said. I knew exactly what she meant.
	"What do you mean?" I asked.
	"There's all this stuff going on inside of you, you have these feelings
for the other person. It may be lust, it may be love, it may be
admiration or affection. You can't say that stuff all the time. So you
jump on them and tell them that way. Isn't that what you were talking
about? It's a way of demonstrating what you feel, right?"
	"Right." 
	Kristen leaned forward and kissed me. 
	"So? Is there any stuff going on with you right now?" she asked.
	As a response, I bent down to kiss her, our tongues tangling, excusing
themselves from vocal communication.
	"Do you have a bedroom in this place?" she asked when we broke.
	"I just had one put in," I responded. She giggled, and stood up,
offering her hand, a gesture of invitation. I placed my hand in hers, an
RSVP, a gesture of assent and agreement.

	In Matt's defense, I have to admit, Kristen's breasts were even more
spectacular than I could have gathered from seeing them from afar. Large
and firm, they felt heavy in my hand as I ran my palm over their
surface, excited by their weight as I held one through the thin fabric
of her blouse and the stiffer fabric of her bra. I couldn't wait long
before getting to work on the blouse's buttons. I pulled Kristen's
blouse from her skirt and unwrapped her. The look of admiration on my
face was most likely something Kristen was used to, and she giggled
again as she reached behind to remove her bra, letting it fall casually
to the floor, uninterested in any flair for presentation. She let the
work speak for itself, standing back slightly, enhancing the moment.
Gleefully pleased in what must have been my obvious delight, she threw
her herself towards me, wrapping one arm around my neck and running her
other hand over the prominent bulge below my belt. Her hands seemed
small to me and I wanted them around my cock. I quickly unbuckled,
unbelted and unzipped, offering an invitation of my own. Without
breaking our kiss, she thrust her hand into my shorts and grazed her
lavender fingernails over my swollen cock with en excruciating lightness
of touch. 
	"Mmmmmmm, that feels promising" she said breaking away from me. 
	Without answering her, I bent down to lick the nipple of her left
breast while I reached behind her to lower the zipper of her skirt. It
fell away as effortlessly as her bra had. Because of our height
differences she had to stand on her toes to lick at the side of my neck.
I kissed the top of her head and smelled raspberry in her hair as she
bit at my shoulder and rubbed her stomach against my erect prick. She
pushed away from me gently and lay back on the bed. I drank in the
picture perfect pose she struck as she watched me undress. Clad only in
black panties and pearls, her long hair fanned out against the pillow.
She smiled up at me as my eyes traveled from her breathtaking upper body
to her slim waist and then to her full hips and fleshy thighs. Her body
was almost a Wagnerian opera.
	"C'mon, hurry up," she teased and took a breast in her hand, rubbing
its nipple with fingertips that pinched occasionally, and fluttered over
the expanse of flesh. I moved a little faster in undressing. I went to
the bed and kneeled above her, my cock hovered obscenely over her
stomach and she reached for it, sliding a fist along it's length.
	"You're so goddamned hard," she sighed, closing her eyes and licking
her lips as her hand continued its ministrations. I bent my neck to take
a hard nipple in my mouth and then licked all around it, wanting to
taste every inch of her tits, a task that might have taken some time. I
looked into her face. It was a pretty face, not a stunning face like
Cary's, but sweet, deceptively innocent, a high school cheerleader face.
Her eyes were still closed, a smile on her face, but the absence of my
oral attention to her breasts caused her to open her eyes. She saw me
looking down at her, and tilted her head slightly in question. She
grabbed her tits and pushed them together, creating a crease in the
universe that would drive any man with a breast fetish to clinical
insanity.
	"Do you want to fuck my tits? C'mon, slide yourself in here..." she
said, demonstrating with an index finger the path she suggested.
	I didn't move, just looked down at her, "No," I said, "I want to taste
you."
	I flattened myself out on top of her, felt the surface of her breasts
against my chest and started my descent of her body. I ran my tongue
along the underside of each breast before moving lower stabbing my
tongue into her navel, and then swiping it against the inside of her
thigh. My face brushed against the silk of her panties and it felt
smooth against my face. I traced the edges of her panties with my mouth,
licking and biting softly along the way. I heard her moan as I
maneuvered my tongue beneath the elastic waistband, sliding it along the
edge. She had almost imperceptibly started to thrust her hips off the
mattress, searching for greater contact.
	"Take them off," she panted, "lick me, I want to feel your tongue, I
want to feel your whole mouth on me." she groaned, finally impatient
with my maddeningly slow pace. She started to remove her panties before
I could, but I completed the process for her. As I lowered my face to
begin working her over in earnest, she spread he legs wide for me,
running her hands along the inside of her thighs, all the while watching
me intently. A little impatient now myself I tried my best to devour
that which was presented to me in such an erotic fashion. Kristen
grunted appreciatively as I ran my tongue the length of her pussy,
before attending to the swollen clitoris I found at journey's end. I
moved quickly and firmly against it, and Kristen started throwing her
hips up, forcing collision in our connection.
	"God, yeah...just like that...just keep doing that," Kristen moaned
when I moved my tongue from side to side, holding her ass in my hands to
steady her against my mouth. I felt her pussy contract and throb against
my tongue as she came.
	"Yeah....now, I'm cumming...." I knew the event had arrived and I felt
Kristen shudder, heard a gasp, but nothing I would consider a scream.
She sagged back down against the bed, and ran her hands through my hair.
	"Don't stop...more...please...." I hadn't really thought of stopping,
and now redirected my efforts by thrusting my tongue in and out of her.
I grabbed her ass and rolled us over so she was now on top, pussy
planted firmly on my face. She moved to kneel above me and I lifted my
head, maintaining the contact.
	"Fuck yes, I'm going to cum again soon...." she almost yelled. She
began to drive her hips up and down, riding my face in sexual fury.
Thirty seconds later I heard what was definitely a scream. Though the
sound died in the air quickly, I hoped it had not died too quickly. When
Kristen finally rolled off me and lay on the bed, those breasts heaving,
a thin film of sweat highlighting their movement, her pussy damp and
swollen, I was not at all surprised to discover my cock literally aching
with hunger for her.
	After what seemed like a long time, she had finally regained her
breath, and reached for my cock.
	"Your turn now," she smiled, and bent her head down to take me in her
mouth.
	"No," I said, perhaps a bit too urgently. 
	"I want to," she replied, a bit confused.
	"I can't wait...I have to fuck you."
	I was over anxious, and she liked that. She liked my impatience, my
craving, my desperation. Another supplicant to her considerable charms
and talents. She smiled at me as she lay back on the bed, dragging me
with her by the cock. 
	"Do it," she said, "fuck me..."
	I knew from that first gut wrenching penetration that I would not last
long in this initial round. However difficult it might have been only
having to deal with the wet, warm embrace of Kristen's pussy; her
"bedside manner" made matters tortuously impossible. The woman spoke
incessantly. That body, that skill, that dialogue...the woman was a
poster child for premature ejaculation. She should have come with a
warning label.
	"Does this feel good? Do you like this? Do you like being buried in my
cunt?" she hissed at me. "I can feel every inch of you inside me, fuck
me harder...make me cum again." I slammed into her, varying the tempo
cautiously trying everything to maintain some control. But control was
not something Kristen was interested in. She didn't want me to hold
back, she wanted me undone. She wanted me helpless to control my desire,
my lust, for her. I had little time, or inclination however, to consider
my status as trophy to this 25 year old travel agent with the porno film
body and the junior prom face.
	"God yessssssss, I'm close....cum with me, I want to feel you unloading
in me....pump me...faster...faster!!"
	I tried, I honestly tried, but Kristen's orgasm was my undoing. I'm not
too proud to admit it. What do you expect? It was the way her head
tossed frenetically, hair flying wildly; it was the way the muscles and
tendons stood out on her throat; it was the wailing scream torn from her
open mouth; it was the way her lavender nails dug into my shoulder
blades; it was the way her hips convulsed against mine and her pussy
snapped around my hair-trigger cock like a rubber band. It was all of
that, and it was the sound of her voice.
	"Shit....now, I'm cumming now....cum with me...fuck YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!"
	My orgasm almost blinded me. I felt the recoil in my testicles, the
lurching of my cock inside Kristen. I could almost hear my cum
splattering the walls of her pussy. I may have screamed for all I knew.

	We lay afterwards talking, filling in the empty spaces. 
	"I thought you were the one who couldn't talk about 'stuff'," I said,
teasing her. "You seemed pretty eloquent to me."
	"I get into it...and things just come out..." she replied, almost
shyly. "Men don't like to talk back though..." I pulled her closer to me
and kissed her forehead, pushing her hair back. We settled back into
silence.
	"Why did you stop playing the piano?" she asked, a quiet, contemplative
tone in her voice. I didn't have a substantial answer for her. I never
had a substantial  answer to that question. 
	"I didn't stop," I answered, "I only stopped doing it in front of other
people."
	She was the one who brought up Cary. She told me that Cary thought the
world of me. She went as far as to teasingly contend that Cary had a
"crush" on me. She said this while reaching between my legs, awakening
anything that might have been slumbering there. There was something
about the mention of Cary's name while Kristen fondled my cock that had
a visible libidinous effect. I grew hard in Kristen's hand. I rolled
over on top of her, kissing her firmly, and fingering her pussy. She was
already wet, aroused by my arousal.
	"I love the feel of your fingers in me," she whispered. I continued to
work at her pussy and clit.
	"Is it true," I spoke softly in her ear, "do you suppose, that no one
can do you like you do yourself?"
	I saw her smile in response, "Maybe," she said, "but you're doing all
right for runner-up." As I moved my finger in and around her, she took
my wrist in her and guided me.
	"Bite my nipple," she demanded, and I followed instructions as she
moved my hand across her clit more rapidly. Her nipple seemed to grow
harder in my mouth as her legs snapped shut, pinning my hand between her
thighs. Her eyes closed again, her mouth opened again. God, I loved
watching Kristen cum. 
	"Fuck me from behind...I love that..." she gasped.
	I scrambled to do as I was told. Sexual obedience is one of my strong
suits.  Slicing into her effortlessly, I felt now like I could fuck this
supremely fuckable woman forever. The momentum had somehow changed. Now
she lay at my mercy, as I had lain at her mercy earlier. I abhor the
concept of sex being about control. I believe that is how we get
ourselves in the most irretractable, and indefensible trouble. I did not
want to control Kristen, necessarily. I wanted Kristen to be without
control. Payback? Maybe. Cary? Maybe. Me? Maybe. But who cared. Kristen
was shaking in orgasm again. I watched the cheeks of her ass clench
tight, saw her grasp the pillow in orgasmic seizure. I ran my hands over
her backside and down the backs of her thighs, watching her cum. 
	She let herself drop to the bed, exhausted. I ran my tongue up along
her spine, biting gently at her shoulders. She was panting for breath as
she rolled over to face me. I licked at her throat and rubbed her
shoulders. I slid my cock along the outside of her pussy and over her
stomach. As she reached down to take me in her hand, I rolled us over so
she now lay on top of me, covering me. She inserted my deliriously hard
cock in the place it most wanted to be. Now it was I who drove my hips
up off the bed, lifting her light body with each lunge. 
	"Fuck, this feels good," she moaned. I increased the pace, holding onto
her hip with one hand to ensure I wouldn't actually throw her off of me.
I pushed my other hand to where we were joined, feeling my shaft as it
alternately became exposed then engulfed by Kristen's pistoning hips. I
lay still, allowing her to control the pace, and ran my fingers firmly
over her clit as she bounced on top of me.
	"Do you like this? Is this good" she teased, quickening her pace. 
	"Christ yesss," I moaned back to her.
	"Tell me what you....fuck...what you like."
	"I love seeing you on top of me. I love watching you fuck me," I
managed to wheeze out.
	"Keep going...please," she pleaded. I rallied my resources.
	"I fucking love this body," I said, running a hand roughly over her
bouncing tit. "I love the way your tits sway and move, I love the way
your ass feels crashing down on me." She was moving alarmingly fast and
furious now. "And I'm going to love watching you cum all over my hard
cock, right before I plaster your pussy with all...." I never got to
finish
	"Yeahhhh, just like that, keep doing that," she grunted. "I'm cumming
again, FUCKKKKKK, OHHHHHH GODDDDDDD!" She slammed her body down on mine
and froze there, grabbing my wrist, pulling my hand tighter to her
trembling clit. Though her ass was firmly planted on the top of my
thighs, her upper body lurched and undulated on me. I watched her ample
breasts bounce and sway in the sweet agony of her climax. Those lavender
fingernails dug into my chest as she shivered through the final stages
of her release. That was more than enough for me. 
	"Kris...I'm going to cum," I gasped, grabbing her ass and driving
myself into her again, violently.
	"Tell me when," she pleaded, her face almost expressionless, her rapt
attention on me and my pre-orgasmic flight plan.
	"Coming soon..." I managed to croak out before Kristen dismounted me.
She quickly moved down my body and took my cock into her mouth, sliding
her lips up and down my trembling shaft. I heard her mouth come off me
and could feel her fist around my length.
	"Come for me...come on my tits," Kristen said as she took my shaft and
laid it within her cleavage. I looked down to see my cock trapped in the
valley of her breasts. I saw the way she used one hand to wrap her tit
around me, the nipple hard and welcoming. Her tongue shot out to swipe
at the head of my prick and then swirled around her upper lip, and
thick, heavy ropes of my cum layered her chest. She laughed victoriously
as the paste rolled down the upper slopes of her tits, collecting on her
nipples and dropping down onto my stomach. 
	She pounced up to kiss me, rubbing her cum and sweat slick chest
against mine. 
	"Me and my 'hooters', we get them all eventually," she smirked proudly,
but with good humor.
	"Consider me 'gotten'," I said.

	We had taken a shower together, hands never far from one another.
Kristen's body and a bar of soap was an engaging combination. We lay
together afterwards, enjoying how our moist skin cooled in the night
air.
My arousal came mostly as a result of my complicity with Cary. I had no
idea whether the sound of our lovemaking passed through the fashionable
windows of Matt and Cary Salasmore, though I hoped they had. Cary wanted
Matt to hear, but I wanted Cary to hear. I couldn't escape the notion
that Cary was here with me. Her awareness, her designs, her intentions
made her a component. That's what  got to me. That is why, even after my
second orgasm, I still felt the stirring, felt the nagging hunger. I
thought of Cary listening to us, of Cary's "girl talk" with Kristen
tomorrow, of Cary's bathing suit and green knit dress, I thought of
Cary's breast beneath the frigidity of the ice cube, and I felt myself
hardening. I rolled over to straddle Kristen's waist and show her my
most recent erection.
	"I can't believe you," she groaned with exasperation, but she had pride
at stake too. So we fucked again, this time slowly, languorously,
tortuously, for what seemed like hours.
	"I've got to stop," Kristen finally whimpered, "I'm too worn out...can
you cum for me?"
	I thrust harder, eyes closed, muscles tensed. "I want to kiss you" I
heard Cary's voice in my ear, and I unleashed another torrent of desire
into the young woman beneath me. 

	I was waiting. It only took two days. I answered the knock at the door,
and Cary stood there. I invited her in...again.
	"Thanks for the dinner party the other night," I said.
	"Oh, thank you," she responded with a sly grin.
	"Everything work out the way you wanted it to?" I asked.
	"Couldn't have been better, neither could you have been better...from
what I hear. I just had lunch with your busty girlfriend Kristen."
	"My 'girlfriend'!? Was she wearing that Varsity letter jacket I gave
her? So...? What's the verdict?" I asked.
	"Well, according to Kristen, you're the fuck of the century. Do you
want to break the news to Matt, or should I?"
	"You better, I'll be too busy basking in the ego-glow of my own
greatness."
	"Incidentally, you're the only man ever to decline the 'tit-fuck'
invitation. Congratulations."
	"Intrigued?" I asked.
	"I have to admit I am, yes."
	"Good. You see, self-depravation and discipline can yield desirable
results," I answered. Cary let my response hang in the air, not ignored,
but not addressed either.
	"Well, I know how you are in bed, tell me, how is she?"
	"Quite accomplished, one might even say, a 'virtuoso'...and very
enthusiastic."
	"C'mon...dish the details."
	"What do you want Cary, a scouting report? Looking to add to your
repertoire?"
	"Hey, I need to get something out of this," she said, "I wouldn't have
gone through all the trouble of setting you up with one of the Seven
Wonders of the Sexual World if I knew you were going to abruptly suffer
a case of lockjaw."
	Maybe I was tiring of the game, maybe my frustration was emerging,
maybe I felt an emotional affection now for Kristen, a loyalty of my
own. For whatever reason, for the first time I felt annoyed, even angry,
with Cary.
	"You know Cary, who do you hold responsible for your husband's
infidelities? The women he sleeps with or the man who sleeps with them?
Kristen's not exclusively at fault here; or do you see Matt as the
helpless victim of the evil seductress travel agent?"
	"Or the agile waitress, or the alluring commodities trader, or the
flexible airline stewardess, or the accommodating sales clerk, or the
nubile co-ed ....?" Cary spit out venomously.
	"Why don't you just talk to your goddamned husband?" My voice louder
than I probably wanted it to be.
	"It would be too humiliating," she yelled back. I had never seen her
lose her temper. "Do I look like the type of woman who should have to
'ask' her husband to be faithful!?" She wrapped her arms around herself
in defense. "Don't I suffer enough indignity here, living this life.
Isn't it enough I have to listen to the inane babbling of those around
me, 'oh, our youngest is now at so and so Country Day School, it's very
prestigious you know; we just can't decide whether to buy the Lexus or
lease; do come over after tennis on Sunday for brie and chardonay, it
will be smashing...Jay and Daisy Gatsby will be there.' This is how I
spend my time! This is what goes on with my days! And now you want me to
say 'please honey, you know it hurts my feelings when you let the
college girl working as a secretarial temp blow you in the executive
bathroom, so please try to hide it a little better from now on, okay?"
	"Maybe he does it because he can...because there are no
repercussions...no objections," I offered.
	"As pathetic as it might seem to you, this is all I have. This facade
is all I am. I'm not good at anything else. I'm not a 'genius' or a
'prodigy', I'm not 'brilliant' or 'talented' at anything. I'm Emma
Bovary without the financial problems. I don't suppose you'd understand
that, would you, Mr. Lincoln Center? Or maybe that's why you quit and
ran away, because you're not as good as everyone thinks you are..." This
was meant to hurt me. It didn't really.
	"Cary...we don't have to be about what we do," I said as softly as I
could, "sometimes its enough to be about how we do it." She froze there
a moment then turned, slowly, away from me.
	"I'm not about being anything." she said. What was wrong with her
voice? It sounded different. I saw her shoulders rise a little and
listened.
	"I used to think: tomorrow. Tomorrow things will be better, I'll be
better," she said. "But tomorrow doesn't matter. I am where I am, where
I will always be. I never thought...life would be this short." I saw her
shiver slightly, and figured out what was wrong with her voice. As
unimaginable as it was to my rational mind, as uncharacteristic as it
seemed, Cary was crying. I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her
to face me. 
	I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to somehow provide solace, make her
feel better. I should have said that everything would be all right, that
she would find herself someday, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after
tomorrow. I should have listed all her good qualities, all her
potential. But I didn't say any of that. For some reason I looked into
her eyes and said the first thing that came into my head.
	"Maybe the problem isn't that life's short. Sometimes, the way we live
makes life too long."
	Cary looked back at me for a second, eyes wide, then I watched. Her
lower lip and jaw trembled, quivering in desperation, trying to maintain
some balance. I had said the wrong thing. She burst into tears, sobbing
uncontrollably. But perhaps I had not said the wrong thing, for as she
lowered the fortress walls behind which she had been so long protected
and isolated, she finally gave expression to the unspeakable sadness,
the exhausting burden of grief. She wrapped her arms around my neck,
pulling me to her tightly, as she wept. I held her, silently standing
with her, witness to the display of fragility. I know this is dangerous
to admit, to myself or anyone else, but it broke my heart. Seeing Cary
cry broke my heart.

	For the next two weeks, she seemed to disappear, as I must have
disappeared in the perceptions of record executives, agents, and
audiences. She didn't come by, I didn't see her in the yard, on the
patio, in the driveway. I gave thought to creating some contrivance, an
excuse to knock on her door. But though I thought about her constantly,
I decided it best to just leave her be. I know being a recluse is hard
goddamned work. One could use a little cooperation.
	A weather pattern without conscience gripped the area; the heat index
approaching Tony Gwynn's batting average. Local news reported seven
deaths as a result of the record breaking heat. The power company, in an
alarming display of naivete, asked us please to reduce electrical
consumption by not running the air-conditioning. We smirked and turned
the dials to 10, causing brown outs all over the state. I moved my room
air conditioner from the bedroom to the third floor and worked on my
symphony 20 hours a day. I was close, I could feel it. The heat and
humidity continued to build as I unraveled the chaos of measures 70
through 110 of the third movement. It's mystery fell apart in my hands
like a dry dandelion. In 72 hours, I reworked the entire movement,
bassoons and timpani now pushed the viola variations forward, higher
woodwinds now a frozen rope, impenetrable and unyielding as violins
chased it, mirroring its every move. I was writing the music about
something now. I was writing the music about agony and desire. I was
writing the music about lack of identity, in an identity driven world. I
was writing the music about seeing something you want, and trying to
reach it. The finale to the fourth movement was broken glass and jet
engines. It screamed like the human heart. It wept like the human heart.
It spoke to a woman who was better than what she had become. When I
listened to the playback and heard my voice making arguments I could not
dispute, I knew I was done. It was 6:15 on a Thursday morning. I printed
out the rest of the score. I found a felt tip pen and wrote "THE EMMA
SYMPHONY" on top of the first page. I shut down the machines, and fell
asleep.

	I awoke in the late afternoon. Looking out my window towards Cary's
house, I saw nothing. But I glanced at the sky and saw the atmosphere in
a very bad mood. I grew up in Indiana, this was a sky I recognized, a
sky with bad intentions. I turned on the television to hear that both
tornado and severe thunder storm warnings were in effect for the
vicinity. No one knew when or where the storms would begin, only that
weather with this much vengeance would be something to remember. 
	Perhaps it is my boyhood years, but I have an affinity for heavy
weather. I might very well have been a storm chaser had not so many
people told me "...here, play this music." I watched the storm
disembark, watched it fall from heaven to earth and land like an angry,
expelled deity. I listened to its overture, the distant thunder that
moved quickly through darkening skies on gusts of wind. Then the rain,
sheets of water that devoured rain gutters and street sewer grates. The
lightning was perfect. The electricity was knocked out at 8:45 PM. You
could feel the temperature drop 20 degrees. 
	There was only one thing that I, being me, could do. I went to the
Steinway. I went to the Steinway and played. Glenn Gould used to
practice pieces while running a vacuum cleaner to cloak the sound of the
piano. Without hearing the music he claimed he was better able to feel
the music. I felt like that somewhat as I played beneath the sound of
the torrential downpour coming through the open third floor window. I
finished and sat with my hands still resting on the keys. The rain
sounded like applause. The lightning reminded me of flashbulbs.
	"I owe you an apology." I turned quickly, startled by her voice. She
was standing on the stairs, arms folded in front of her, leaning against
the wall. "You are as good as everyone says you are."
	"I'm glad you came back," was all I said to her, sliding around on the
piano bench to sit facing her. She was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt
, her hair, and the shirt were wet from the rain. She came over and set
next to me on the piano bench. We just sat there for awhile, not saying
anything. 
	"I talked to Matt tonight," Cary said finally, "he's in San Francisco,
I tried to tell him...tried to say those things...those things we talked
about...he said we would work it out when he got home."
	"Are you going to work it out?" I asked
	"I don't know...I didn't talk to him to save the marriage, I just did
it for me...you know?" she said, turning her head to look at me. I
looked back.
	"Good for you Cary...good for you." I smiled. She smiled back. She took
a deep breath and changed the subject.
	"You know, I've never heard you play until tonight. Not in person, I
mean. Pretty impressive Maestro."
	"It's a living...or at least it was" I said. 
	"What about you? Are you going to 'work things out'?" she asked.
	"Oh...I haven't been here trying to save a career...I just did it for
me." She saw me wink at her and she laughed. Then we were quiet again.
She put her head on my shoulder, and I was gripped by the poignancy of
that gesture. 
	"Is there any good in trying to figure things out?" she asked.
	"Sometimes," I said, "but it's hard work."
	She lifted her head from my shoulder, looked into my face for a moment,
then kissed me. The kiss wasn't light this time. This time wasn't a
game. This wasn't flirting, or manipulating, or puppeteering. This time
we were serious. Was I catching her in a moment of weakness? To this
day, I don't think so. If anyone was being caught in a moment of
weakness, it was I.
	"I missed you," she said.
	"I missed you too."
	"I would like very much," she said, almost demurely, "to make love to
you."
	"That's it." I asked, "that's the best you can do? No witty barbs, no
sardonic tongue in cheek irony?"
	"I don't feel like it tonight," she said distantly.
	"I would very much like you to make love to me," I said.
	She moved from her position beside me and pulled her t-shirt out of her
jeans and over her head. I watched it all, as in slow motion, and loved
the way her raised arms tightened her breasts against her chest and the
material of her bra seemed to inhale. She straddled my hips sitting on
my lap. I noticed that she seemed to be gently grinding herself down on
to me. She felt me harden almost immediately.
	"I surmise that after all you've seen of me I'm no longer too perfect
to fuck," she said.
	"No. Too perfect not to fuck." I said and kissed her again, forcefully,
sliding my hands over her back and under the strap of her bra. I pulled
her tightly to me and felt her nipples harden, pressing against my
chest. This was no longer an amusement. This was the arm of craving, the
sweet complicity of rescue.
	She stood up, a little breathless, and unzipped her jeans. She slid
them, together with the white panties she wore, down the sweep of those
sculpted legs. She moved quickly to stand in front of me, now totally
naked, while I remained fully clothed. Finally given the opportunity, I
reveled in the excruciating beauty of Cary's body so close to my own. I
took inventory, running my fingertips over every inch of exposed flesh I
could reach. I cupped her firm breast in my hand as she leaned over me,
the weight of it resting in my palm as my other hand felt her shoulders,
stroked the side of her face, and traveled the sleek lines of her
ribcage. My ardor matched only by my thoroughness. Her hair was still
damp and I breathed the moisture in, wanting to fill my lungs with the
scent of it, with the feel of it. I sought to drown in the rainwater
that had drenched her on her way to my house, on her way to my room, on
her way to my affection for her. 
	I gasped when I felt Cary's hand on my skin, her fingers on my chest,
her palm on my stomach. She had reached down to unbutton and unzip my
pants. I pushed them down my hips, mirroring her earlier choreography. I
sat back down on the piano bench, my hard cock standing up eagerly up
for her. She saw my arousal and smiled before resuming her position,
straddling my thighs and lowering her hips onto me. She grabbed my cock
in one hand and placed her pussy over it. In one languorous motion she
slid down, swallowing me deep inside of her. I groaned ecstatically, and
her hands slammed down on the keyboard behind me. I never stopped to
think about what might have been the root note in that cacophonous
chord, suffice it to say it was atonal. 
	I was almost afraid to move. I could feel the semen churn in my
testicles already. Cary drew my face to her breasts, I tongued her hard
nipples, and sucked at her breasts as she ground herself on top of me.
My hands gripped her slim waist on either side as her movements became
more rapid, more frantic. There were no screams. There were no
pornographic invectives. There was only a trembling in her hips, a
flexing of her muscles, a firm grip in her hands, and an expression of
conveyance in the line of her jaw, in the flutter of her closed eyelids,
and in the quiver of her slightly parted lips. It was the sexiest, most
compelling sight I had ever witnessed. Not in its performance, but in
its performer. 
	"I'm sorry Cary....I can't....I can't...hold back..." I stammered. She
looked down at me, smiling.
	"I don't want you to hold back. I'm tired of holding back."
	I squeezed the flesh at her waist with one hand, and the flesh of her
upper thigh with the other and let go, looking into her face the entire
time, forcing my eyes to remain open. A ball wrenching spasm gripped me
and fired gouts of cum into her. She seemed momentarily startled by the
force of my expulsion, then the face of grace again, as my orgasm
triggered another for her. We jerked there together, both bewildered and
assuaged by the force of our deliverance.

	We walked down a floor to the bedroom, leaving our clothing, leaving
our respective poses behind. I watched her walk in front of me. She move
so fluidly, so gracefully, almost without effort. I was hard again by
the time we reached the bedroom. I grabbed out for her suddenly as we
reached the bed, pulling her back to me by the hips. She yelped in
surprise before murmuring approval as she felt my excited cock cushioned
against her ass. She ground back against it briefly, making me moan,
before extricating herself from my hold, turning around and gliding back
on to the bed. Her arms opened, welcoming me to her. I descended upon
her, hungrier than ever. I felt her body yield beneath my weight, and my
cock slid into her again without guidance from hand or manipulation. Her
arms wrapped around me, I moved my legs to the outside of her hips and
covered her like a blanket. I tried desperately to consume her, to bury
her beneath me. I couldn't get close enough to her. My position clamped
her legs together, somehow pushing her pussy tighter against my
screaming cock. 
	"Oh Godddddd," she murmured quietly, almost whispering, and I felt the
walls of her pussy grip me again in the slap of orgasm. She held me
tightly in her arms a she heaved in pleasure. When it was over she
relaxed her hold on me, sunk into the mattress and started laughing. The
laugh was full of who she was, who she wanted to be, how she wanted to
feel. 
	"Christ..." she laughed, "I'm not sure how to handle this." It was good
to see her happy. It warmed me. I know that sounds stupid. It warmed me.
I almost laughed myself. 
	"You're more than I can handle too." I said through my suffused comfort
of being with her. We were both laughing together now. She raised her
hand to her forehead, and I kissed at her fingers, and the back of her
hand.
	Cary regained herself, looking at me, the trace of a smile on her lips.
	"It's just that...that...it's you...you know?" She was more serious
now. "I don't do this...I've never...I...."
	"It's okay," I whispered, placing my forefinger on her lips, "I know. I
understand..." I said, quieting her.
	"Everything about this," she said, gesturing around her, "is
so...simple, so easy."
	"It  makes sense?" I offered.
	"Yes...exactly. It makes perfect sense," she said, and kissed the side
of my face. I lay there with my granite like cock in the sweetest pussy
I'd ever felt, part of the most fabulous body I had ever seen anywhere;
and what I noticed most was how soft her cheek felt against my own. Her
hips shifted delicately, reminding me of my own need. I started to move
myself in and out of her again. She picked up the rhythm quickly,
coupled in synchronicity we had created in recognition of moments, a
product of time and place, the age of discovery.
	My movements became more urgent, racing against my own selfishness. I
thrust into her more forcefully wanting to see her come again before I,
inevitably, surrendered to my feelings for her. I raised myself, now
kneeling between her splayed thighs, and pulled her onto me by the hips.
A trickle of sweat had formed between her breasts, despite the coolness
of the room after the storm. I shifted the position of my hands so I
could lift Cary's upper body towards me. She followed my lead, wrapped
her legs around my hips and ass, crossing them at the ankles and allowed
herself to be lifted towards me. This position, yet another embrace,
allowed me to lick at the sweat between her breasts, feeling the soft
cushion of her breasts against my face. She wrapped her arms around my
neck and pummeled herself up and down my shaft. I slid my hands down to
ass, supporting her weight in them.
	"Mmmmmmm, yesss," she sighed, "again...again..."
	I felt her arms and legs tighten around me, and I returned the embrace,
squeezing her as tightly to me as I could. I threw my hips at her one
more time. I felt the muscles in her ass clench and poured myself into
her plaintively. 
	"God Cary...." I bit down on a strand of her hair that had flown into
my mouth as I suffered the amnesia of orgasm. There goes another
symphony, as Balzac might have said. Conscious, deliberate thought
abandoned to the searing relief and mind numbing pleasure of firing my
cum into Cary. Very far in the distance I could hear her groaning. It
was loud enough for me to hear, and that was all that mattered. She
shivered and whimpered in my arms, as if chilled. I thought of wanting
to warm her as I continued to throb out fluids. All strength expended,
we tumbled to the bed, deliriously exhausted. Through the distance I
heard Cary laughing again, happy again. She ground her hips against me,
my cock still buried in her. I shivered...it had nothing to do with
temperature.

	I awoke to sunshine in the bedroom and turned to see Cary looking at
me, resting her head in her hand, an elbow planted on the mattress.
	"Hi." she said, smiling at me.
	"Hi. What time is it?"
	"I don't know. The power is still out." I looked at the clock to see
flashing digits verify what Cary had said. She bent forward and kissed
my cheek.
	"I have to go," she said.
	"I know."
	She got out of bed and I watched her walk out of the room. I remember
watching her walk into her house from the pool the day this all started.
I heard her moving up the stairs to the third floor, where all this had
started, to retrieve the clothes we had left there. I threw on some
clothes and waited at the bottom of the stairs for her to come down. 

	We walked to the door together. The storm had left debris all over.
Tree branches littered the lawns, broken telephone and power lines
curled across the street. Apocalypse in suburbia. Cary started to leave
then stopped, turning back to me. She put her hands on either side of my
face and kissed me. It was a long kiss, and I kissed her back, wanting
to say so much in that one shared moment. When she left, I watched her
walk home through the wreckage and I thought of what lay within that
kiss. There was tenderness and affection, but there was honesty too,
integrity and dignity. For all Cary's manipulative sexual game playing,
both with herself and others, for all the angst and emptiness she
expressed through biting sarcasm and wit, she was genuine, she was for
real. I felt, in that moment, that Cary always told me the truth. And if
one such as she could ever find herself with one such as I, that all
affectation would drop away, and nothing else would remain but the naked
kiss that lay beneath.




All comments and criticisms enthusiastically and gratefully welcomed and
appreciated.
rmbte1@ix.netcom.com

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