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o The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories. o
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Cary (MF)
by DaVinci (dvflorence@excite.com)
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.
This is a repost of a story I wrote about 18 months
ago. Despite the attention my story "Tricia" received
(for which I am indescribably thankful), I still like
this a little better. I will be posting a new story
soon.
All comments and criticisms enthusiastically and
gratefully welcomed and appreciated.
Dvflorence@excite.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.
dvflorence@excite.com