The Wife Coach - part 2 "The Reply"

The Wife Coach - part 1 "The Ad"

The comments for part 1 have not only inspired me to expand on the real life behind the story, but also to add to the story in a particular way. I'm not often censored by what I "should" do in my fiction, but, I think it's important to address the issues that arose for people.

I can see where, in real life, this scenario could cause problems. Especially with the "cuckolding" issue. I think if a person actually made some sort of sexual connection or partnership with another person (without their partner's permission)  in order to "heal" a marriage or improve a sex life, that would definitely be wrong. Even if one didn't actually have sex with that someone else, the sexual tension and power play would still be akin to cheating.

I've paid several therapists over the course of our marriage to give me advice. And I've read a lot of things that I've paid for. The advice from the therapists was specific to my relationship, and some helped. In order to get that advice, I had to be pretty open about some pretty personal stuff. The advice I've gotten from books has been generic, and little of it has helped, which has left me feeling frustrated. I've also talked to friends and divulged all kinds of private details to them...because that's what friends do. But still, it's hard to give truly helpful advice when you aren't on the inside. Whether paid or free, outside advice is not always useful.

The idea of getting a man's perspective on what a man wants from a woman is the central theme here. It's a fantasy in the story. But in real life, any advice I'd get from a person outside of my marriage would be just that...advice.

What this fantasy is exploring is the ease of access to insider tips that don't seem to be very forthcoming in the real world. What would it be like if someone could simply open an app on their phone every day for the perfect idea to satisfy their mate? How handy we could sign up for a wife coach as easily as we sign up for a life coach?

I have subscribed to daily intention services before that entail an email each day that gives me something to think about or do, but the closest I've come to finding a daily "sex life" instructional is Cosmo's 365 series, which is terrible, and some that provide a daily sex position to try. I've also found several 30 day sex challenges, but they are also rather uninspiring. I'm not interested in trying to have sex every day for 30 days. I'm interested in learning what makes a man feel desired...without a lot of theory...or another damned book to read...or another $150 for a counseling session that won't help a thing.

I'm a fan of small steps. And, as busy as I am, I'm also a fan of "easy." I get that relationships and commitment are not "easy," nor should they be, for that matter. I'm not trying to get out of work or let someone else do my relationship for me. I've put in countless hours trying to correct what has gone awry. At this point, I'm digging for something new. Something that hasn't been tried. Hence, this fantasy.

Not too long ago, I read a book called Wife School. I've also read, The Empowered Wife. Both of them are decent enough books, though WS is Christian-based, and I'm not religious, so there's that. They give good information about being a good wife (which I'm pretty decent at, btw) but they don't go into great detail about how to be a good lover (which is where I pretty much suck right now). The few books I've read about being a good lover aren't very specific either. Probably the best I've read recently is Passionista. But even that just didn't work (although I appreciated the male perspective).

I realize there is no easy solution. But the beauty of fiction is that solutions can be just that. So, without further ado...here's part two.

The Wife Coach - part 2 "The Reply"

Jaime took a deep breath and opened her email. She'd been checking every few hours since she'd placed the ad. Nothing had popped up yet, but her hope infused every keystroke.

She typed in her password and began scrolling her inbox. Several emails from friends and family. A ton of spam. Some messages related to recent purchases. And some updates from websites she belonged to. But, buried in the middle, there was one that bore the title "REPLY: Married woman seeks man..."

Jaime sucked in her breath through pursed lips, held it for a moment, let it out in a a gush, and opened the email. She squinted her eyes to focus on the words.

I was married 25 years to an amazing woman. Recently, she passed. But we were happy when she was alive. Happy in every way. EVERY way, if I can be so bold to assert such a thing. I've got a lot of time on my hands these days, and I'd like to focus on something other than being so very alone. 

I think I might be able to help you. Or at least...I'd like to try. If I could get some more information about you...and what is going wrong (or right?)...that might give me some place to begin. That is, if you want to.

I suppose I should probably give a little more background on myself. 

I'm a literature professor. I spend a majority of my time reading, writing, and walking my dog, Jake - a golden retriever who thinks he's human.

I'm not sure what I was doing perusing the personal ads. My world has been pretty empty since my wife, Jessica, succumbed to cancer. She was the life in this house. 

I'm also not sure what is was about your ad that pulled me in, but I guess I was intrigued by your request. It was to the point, well-written. You seem to know what you want...or at least what you hope to find. But I get a sense of exasperation...an "I've hit the wall" vibe that isn't so much desperate, but determined.

I've spent the majority of my life guiding young minds to find their true paths. I'd like to see if my skills can work in a different way. 

If you would like to continue this conversation, please feel free to respond.

-Everett

Jaime read through the email a few times before she put both hands on the keyboard. She hit the arrow to reply:

Everett,

Thank you for your reply. I'm sorry to hear of your wife's passing. 

I'm glad, however, that my ad intrigued you. While I do know generally what I want, the specifics are pretty muddy. I'm sort of grasping at straws here, but I'm open to trying pretty much anything. My husband and I have been to counselors, and I'm not interested in trying yet another. 

Really, what I'm looking for are some concrete actions that I can try. 

So, at the risk of sounding completely forward, what would you suggest? What is ONE thing I can try TODAY to start closing the enormous divide that has spread between my husband and I? We'll call this a test. If your suggestion gets me somewhere (even just within myself), we can share a few more details. Maybe even meet in person at some point. 

So, I'll just leave the ball in your court. I'm eagerly awaiting your suggestion.

-Jaime

(...to be continued)

The Wife Coach - part 1 "The Ad"

Jaime scrolled down through the menu of options on the local newspaper's website, looking for the online classified ad purchasing options. It was a weird ad to post, but she'd been thinking about it for some time. After years of trying option after option, it seemed less a desperate last attempt than the smartest thing she should have done months (or even years) ago.

Kurt had been unhappy for much of their marriage. It wasn't that she was a terrible wife, but she'd turned out to be less the wife he'd hoped for and more the wife one became as a result of constant exhaustion, and insidious complacency. She'd become boring.

But Jaime was so out of the habit of being the "right" woman for Kurt, that she couldn't even remember what she'd done to catch him (and keep him) in the first place. Books and podcasts and websites just hadn't provided her the personalized "coaching" that she needed...nor the motivation to keep at it. And Kurt was so used to being disappointed by her half-hearted attempts that he no longer even seemed very receptive.

Though she felt this ad was making an odd request that was unlikely to lead to any real, good leads, the possibilities were too interesting to let the idea go without at least trying.

When the paged popped up for Jaime to type her ad, she took a drink of her coffee and titled her ad:

"Married woman seeks man to help her become a better wife."

In the text box below that, she typed her message:

"I've been married over ten years. Somewhere along the way, the spark was lost. I've read and researched myself right into a corner, but nothing I've found has really worked. These Cosmo Magazine lists and "what your man really wants" books aren't realistic and aren't working. I need help that is tailored just for me, from a man who knows what men want. What I need most are actionable directives that I can carry out on a daily basis. I need direction. I need to be told what to do. If you're the man to do it, please contact me."

She saved her ad, paid her fee, and sent her request into the internet abyss, crossing her fingers and praying that something would come of this. Somewhere, in front of another screen somewhere, there just might be a person reading her ad who would think to himself, "I know just how to help this woman."

To be continued...

P.S. For anyone who has read my blog for any length of time, you know this is the beginning of a fairly autobiographical story. I've fantasized about this sort of thing for awhile. Having another person, namely a man who "gets it" and knows just how a marriage can stagnate...maybe even a man who's been through it, to help me navigate my way back to being the creative, adventurous woman that my husband fell in love with...well, it would be amazing. The interesting thing about it being a man who's been through it...or is going through it...is that he'd be able to tell me just what he wishes his own wife would do (or have done)...those realistic things that husbands would love for their wives to know, but rarely tell them. I get a lot of this sort of information by reading blogs written by married men in unfulfilling marriages. But, those are glimpses. And what I'd love is a daily dose of inspiration and direction from a guy like this. I imagine one of two types of guys (or both!). A Dominant, who guides me as a submissive. Or a regular Joe who just wants to be heard and share his desires and needs with someone who will listen. In fact, I could see it becoming like a backwards advice column, where men simply email me their suggestions and ideas. 

Hmmm...

The Centerpiece (fiction)

(For Throwback Thursday, here's a story that was originally written for Masturbation Monday. Such
great photo inspiration on this one.)

"Tabitha, this house is just unbelievable! Who is your decorator? I simply must know." Angelica looked around the living room. The marble floors, the large, plush rugs, the exquisite furniture. Every piece was decadent. The detail was unequivocally riveting, and Angelica felt as if she could just sink into the over-sized leather couch, cover herself with the cream-colored, cashmere throw, and lose herself in the 1st edition Lady Chatterly's Lover on the coffee table.

"Michael Evansfield planned and oversaw the whole process. It was a stunning thing to watch him work...the drawings, the fabric swatches, the dreamy young men he brought to assist him. I'm telling you, Angelica, you could give up television and reading altogether with a crew like that around. Pure, sensual entertainment."

"Well, this is going to be a fabulous open-house, Tabby. Everyone will be so jealous. What are you serving?"

"That's a whole separate and wonderful affair. Michael hooked me up with the chef at Tempranillo. His cuisine is like an orgasm melting on your tongue, I'm telling you. He's made all these wonderful, little appetizers, and Micheal promised an enticing display."
"Ooh, it sound scrumptious. I can hardly wait."

"Well, Micheal won't let me see it until all the ladies arrive. He says he's cooked up a lovely surprise for us all."

Voodoo Me 2 (fiction)

Voodoo Me (1)

Jessica looked around her, turned in her chair and glanced over her shoulder as if the whole world were watching. But, no one noticed.

The woman's words echoed in her ear..."Miss? Be sure to to be careful with her. She's a sensitive girl, but she'll do right by you, if you take care of her."

Oh my fucking hell, Jessica thought to herself. The possibilities....the possibilities....

*****

Jessica put the doll carefully in her bag and looked back at her computer screen. It was truly impossible for her to focus on her work. She glanced out the window to her right and lost herself briefly in the soft white flakes falling, coating the sidewalks and streets below. The snow made everything more quiet, like a blanket shutting out the din of the world beyond. It made things seem smaller, as if life existed in a globe that someone could pick up and shake and stare at, losing themselves in contemplation of the falling flakes.

Her thoughts kept folding in on themselves, and she couldn't keep work central...not with that doll lying the darkness of her bag. She could feel the press of its need to be held.

Voodoo Me (fiction)

Her skin was like coal, dark black and ashy in places, so dry she looked as if a stiff wind would blow her away like a mound a sand in a hot desert. She spoke in a whisper as Jessica passed.

"Miss?"

She might have missed it any other day, walked by in her usual haste, but it seemed as if all other sound has paused momentarily for this woman's message to travel to Jessica's ear.

"Miss...ssss...?"

Like the lulling hiss of a snake, the word hit its mark, soft and swaying; Jessica turned briefly to meet the woman's deep, black eyes.

"Excuse me? Did you say something to me?" Jessica walked a few steps toward the woman, sitting on the steps of a large, crumbling brownstone. Two cats sat beside her, a gray and a black, and a mongrel of indiscernible breed lay at her feet, baring its left canine in uncommitted warning. She was a large woman, buried in several layers of multi-colored skirts and sweaters. And her hair, wiry, mottled black and gray, stuck out from underneath a lavender knitted beret in reaching spreads like shadowed coral.

"Would you like to buy a doll? I make it specially for you." She pulled a small cloth doll from a plastic grocery sack that appeared to hold several more like it in varying shades of tan, brown, black, and white. The one she held out to Jessica was white with a bright head of orange yarn wound into tight curls. The doll had no clothes, but it did have freckles, a tiny dot nose, and two painted-on blue eyes.

"You can pick a dress for her if you like? Just two dollars more."

Jessica didn't know why she stopped...why she was drawn to this woman's childish, hand-made wares. But, she walked closer, and found herself asking about dress colors.

"Do you have red? It's my favorite color."

"No red. But, green...and green is better for your complexion anyhow, miss."

"How much for the doll?"

"Ten."

"Okay. Okay, I'll buy the doll."

"And the dress?"

"Yes...the dress, too."

The woman held out the doll and the dress as Jessica dug in her bag for the money to pay her. When she looked up and reached forward with her payment, the woman took her hand, with the money, between bother of hers and held them.

"Miss? Be sure to to be careful with her. She's a sensitive girl, but she'll do right by you, if you take care of her."

The woman smiled, several teeth missing, and she looked deep into Jessica's eyes, holding them hostage for several seconds.

Jessica took the doll and put it in her bag. She thanked the woman and turned back toward the busy sidewalk, finding her place among the hundreds of other people walking to work that morning.

It wasn't until lunch time that Jessica remembered the doll. She pulled it out of her bag and took a long look at it. It was a simple doll. Maybe ten inches long, sewn from two piece of fabric. Something a child could make. The face was painted on and the hair nothing but glued-on bits of yarn. But, its likeness was disarming. Jessica put the dress on the doll and held it in her hands, looking at it.

It made her a little uncomfortable, but she set it next to her computer and began typing an email to her team.

About an hour later, immersed in various paperwork, Jessica realized she was overheating a bit. She grabbed an empty file folder, sat back in her chair, and began to fan herself with it. The doll caught her eye. She reached for it, and realized it had become warm between her monitor and computer tower.

She set it up against the window, and went back to work.

Within in half an hour, she found herself feeling rather cool, and reached into her bag for a sweater. As she buttoned it, the doll once again caught her eye. Behind it, out the window, she could see the first snowflakes beginning to fall. She reached for the doll. It was cold.

And suddenly, Jessica's eyes widened with understanding.

She squeezed the doll, and within seconds, she felt pressure in her mid-section...her stomach ached.

She tickled the doll's feet. In an instant, her toes began to curl and the soles of her feet began to itch. She held back a giggle.

She kissed the doll's cheek, and a subtle warmth spread across her own.

Jessica looked around her, turned in her chair and glanced over her shoulder as if the whole world were watching. But, no one noticed.

The woman's words echoed in her ear..."Miss? Be sure to to be careful with her. She's a sensitive girl, but she'll do right by you, if you take care of her."

Oh my fucking hell, Jessica thought to herself. The possibilities....the possibilities....

______________________________

So I was up late last night on Facebook, when this little gem came across my screen:

I thought to myself, HELL, YES! That is exactly what I need. And if I had a voodoo doll of myself...oh! Oh! There's a story in that!

So, I have had a pretty shitty weekend. I was sick all week last week. I hit a mark on the scale I haven't seen since I was pregnant, 10 years ago. I came down with the flu. My cat (who was 17) met her end. And I basically just hit a deep low. 

But I woke up this morning and got my ass on the treadmill (in the morning! I know!) and slogged my way through the fucking day. And now I'm here...gettin' shit done. Because that, my friends, is how I roll.

Happy Masturbation Monday. 

(I'm sure this story...and "What's in the Bag?" will make a reappearance for a 2nd chapter here in coming weeks.)

Eating Out (fiction)

So, I've been super sick all week. It's definitely cut into my writing...and pretty much everything else in my life. I've been home, basically vegetating on the couch, reading, and sleeping. I'm back to work today, but not feeling 100%. I'll probably hit my yoga class, but otherwise, I'm taking it easy until next Monday.

The nice thing is...Throwback Thursday doesn't take much work from me, so here it is - a story from way back in 2010. It was inspired by an actual restaurant and its actual wait-staff. My husband and I both had a bit of a crush on a particular waitress and a particular bartender/waiter. They were lovely and young and a little on the drama-laden, crazy side. We used to go there and tease and fantasize about what we would do if we ever got them alone. So, here it is...

Eating Out

It was an ordinary night, dinner out at their favorite Italian restaurant.  They liked the place for lots of reasons, an excellent wine list, rich food, decadent desserts; the delicious wait staff was an added bonus.  She’d been frequenting the wine bar there since before they’d even met, eying the Botticelli boy behind the counter...the slicked back brunette ponytail, the chiseled jawline, the clean lines of his white shirt and black slacks.  Hazel green eyes, trained to flirt just the right amount with the customers, made me lick my lips, thighs tightening.  It was always where I went, for a voluptuous glass of zinfandel and an eyeful of sexual inspiration.
After my husband and I met, we continued going there, for the food, for the ambiance, for the beautiful waitress with the beautiful name and curvaceous behind.  I’m sure he couldn’t decided which was better, watching her walk toward us or watching her walk away.  The view was equally exquisite both ways.

While I’ve always found women in general beautiful...I’ve never considered myself bi-sexual.  Maybe curious, but not really “willing” to do much beyond fantasize or talk about my husband’s fantasies involving me and another woman.  But years of talking was leading us closer to a reality I wasn’t positive I was ready for.

On this ordinary night, we walked in through the front door.  At the bar, as usual, thank god, was my Italian eye-candy.  Dark brown hair, athletic physique, not too thin, but youthfully lithe, possibly 25 or so.  I picture him hairless, smooth, like a carefully hand-crafted sculpture, worthy of his own fountain in Venice.  Next to him, pouring a glass of wine, her hands gently cradling the neck of the bottle, was our “dream girl”.  Auburn, shoulder-length waves, intense green doll-like round eyes, framed in long, black, made-up lashes.  Alabaster white skin.  Both of them lit up to see us (we were regulars and always guaranteed a fat tip).  

“Hi, guys; how are you?”  Her slow voice, sweet as dripping honey,  welcomed us.

“Good, how about you?”  I replied.  “Just came in for a bite to eat; we’re starving for some great Italian food.”

“Well, right this way; let’s find you a place to sit down.”  Her full hips swayed back and forth, making the bottom of her dress sway around her shapely calves.  “How about a booth in the corner?”

“That’ll be fine.”  I went up the steps and followed her to the back of the restaurant, knowing that my husband’s eyes were jumping from ass to ass in front of him, two brunettes in black dresses, a fantasy unfolding his in mind.

“Do you know what you’d like to drink?”  Her lips spread across her teeth, forming a welcoming smile, her eyes sparkling and inviting.  It’s what made her good at her job, her easy way with people, her charm, her classic approach. 

“What do you suggest tonight?”  We counted on the wait staff’s opinions of the new wines...they helped us try new things and knew our tastes well enough to usually lead us straight the perfect pick.  “Tonight we have a gorgeous Cabernet from Yakima Valley...deep and full-bodied...would you like to try it?”

“Sounds great.”  She walked away, hips and dress dancing toward the bar at the front.

“I see you eying her behind.”  My husband was never very discreet about his desires.  Not that I minded.  I’m a secure woman who knows my man is happy and content just where he is. 

“Yeah, I’m imagining that sitting on your face.”  I rolled my eyes good-naturedly.  It was always the same, his girl-on-girl fantasies.  Far from making me uncomfortable, they usually just made me laugh.  I’d kissed my best friend in college once just to see how it felt...soft, slippery, not at all my thing.  Then later, I’d had my first honest crush on a fellow female grad student, fully knowing it’d never go anywhere, safely imagining things (and occasionally writing about them) in my mind.  This was the first time since then I’d come anywhere near thinking a woman was “enough of everything” to turn me on. 

My husband knew I found her attractive, which probably turned him on even more.  So there we sat, indulging our greatest pleasures:  eating rich, fattening food, drinking a bottle of sexy cab, and enjoying the service in so many ways.

We’d come late in the evening and stayed late, as was our custom, so by the time we were finishing our dessert and the last of the wine, we found we were the only customers left in the restaurant.  The “beautiful boy” came to take our plates and inquire to any final requests.  I was feeling warm and relaxed at this point, full and a bit hazy from the wine.

“Can I get you anything else?”  He smiled and looked directly at me.  I have no idea what made me feel it necessary to add, “You in a take-home container.”  I laughed, and blushed, wishing I could take it back...what on Earth pushed that juvenile pick-up line out of my mouth...no more wine for me.  I looked straight at my husband, silently pleading with him to get me the hell out of there before I said something else to embarrass myself and make it impossible for us to ever return to our favorite dining establishment.  But he simply raised his eyebrows at me and smiled to himself...red wine did naughty things to me, for which he was grateful.  Cole, my young waiter,  simply smiled a somewhat devious smile and said, “You flatter me.”

He took our plates and left us to finish our wine.  As the wait staff finished cleaning up, I enjoyed my night cap of port and my husband sipped another glass of wine.  Our waitress, Harmony, returned with our check and an invitation, “A few of us are heading over to my place to hang out...I just wondered if maybe you’d like to join us?”  It really wasn’t that odd.  We’d been hanging out at this restaurant for years, and since we live in a small town, we ran into the wait staff regularly at other events and had mutual friends.  So, we decided it was a good idea to accept.  My husband, smiling like a fiend, asked her where she lived.  As she wrote down her address and drew a simple map for us to follow, her hair fell across her face and her dress draped loosely across her breasts, baring her ample cleavage.  Seeing my husband’s gaze, I kicked off one shoe and placed my bare foot between his thighs, pushing my toes gently into his dick, which was not quite hard, but certainly not flacid.  He breathed in a bit, and he quickly glanced over at me but gave away nothing as he continued his short discussion with her.

“We’ll just follow you, there,” he said.

And so we gathered our things and stepped out into the cold night air.  Once in our car, the conversation was as normal, my husband making openly sexual comments about his wish to see Harmony and I together and me dodging the topic with “whatever” and “keep dreaming”.

A few minutes later, we were walking up the stairs to her apartment.  Her door opened before we could even knock. 

“Hi you guys.”  Smile.  Sexy, disheveled...she’d just changed and had obviously not gotten to smoothing her hair back down after pulling her dress off and her t-shirt on...which was fine; it looked better messy anyway.  And it was hard not to notice that she hadn’t put a bra on either. She had on a pair of mens boxers, faded navy blue, probably stolen, or kept, from a former boyfriend.  On the couch, Cole and Dean and a few others from the restaurant were already pouring several glasses of wine.  Cole stood up, grabbed two of the glasses and brought them over to us.  Harmony took our coats and my purse and disappeared into another room with them.  My husband and I sat down together on the love seat.

The conversation was lovely...politics, religion, sex...it ran the gamut from intense to dirty to intellectual...all the things a great conversation should be.  Dean fell asleep on the floor in a pile of pillows, and several others trickled out the front door, leaving Cole and Harmony, my husband and I alone to finish the bottle of wine.

At this point in the evening, I was pretty much drunk, but not out of my mind.  I was completely capable of continuing the conversation and continuing to open my mouth and say stupid things, which I promptly did.

“So my husband has a crush on you.”  I looked at Harmony with a smile, so she knew it wasn’t the beginning of an accusation or a cat-fight.  I felt my husband shift a bit uncomfortably beside me.  I put my hand on his thigh to settle him, and he placed his hand on mine for better access at controlling what I might say next (a tight squeeze could easily translate as “shut the hell up...you have gone too far”).

“Oh really?”  She didn’t seem to bothered.  On the contrary, she smiled a little more sexily...if that’s possible.  She was sitting on the floor, leaning on the coffee table in front of us, her bare legs propped to one side, looking every bit the curvy 50’s pin-up in shorts and a tight “T”.    Cole leaned forward a bit more.  He was interested.  But what man wouldn’t be?  The conversation was getting good.

In an effort to level the playing field, and maybe to get back at me a little, my husband let loose with, “And my wife has been enjoying more than just the food at the restaurant herself...been undressing you with her eyes for years, she has.”  I smacked him playfully on the knee and gasped in mock offense, “I can’t believe you just said that!”

Cole laughed, and my cheeks burned.  I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable.  My heart raced a bit as I wondered what course of action to take now.  How to get out of this conversation?  I was feeling a bit cornered.  Harmony to the rescue:  “Everyone wants a piece of Cole...we should just add him to the menu; it’s why half the women in this town come to the restaurant as much as they do.”

The conversation turned then, to other things I can’t remember.  I do know I mentioned something about my shoulders aching, however, because Harmony offered to rub them for me.  I bit my lip and glanced at my husband, eyebrows raised with a nervous smile.  “Okay.”  I said.  We all continued to talk, as I slipped down to the floor in front of her.  She got up onto her knees and brushed my hair over one shoulder.  Her hands slipped around my neck and down my shoulders, her thumbs pressing into the softer spot between the blades.  I let my neck fall forward and hummed a bit in pleasure.  I loved having my back rubbed, by pretty much anyone.  It was a weakness of mine.  My mind wandered from the talk as I focused soley on her palms and fingers and thumbs moving lightly and pressing firmly up and down my spine, down to my lower back.  To avoid interrupting the conversation, she whispered near my ear, “It’ll be easier to do this if you lay down on your stomach and pull off the top part of your dress.”  I considered what she said briefly and then decided I’d had enough wine to accept this as simply something I’d forget by the next morning.  So I unbuttoned the front of my dress and pulled my arms out of the sleeves.  The guys both gazed in our direction with interest.

“I’m just trying to get a better grip on her back, guys!  Quit looking at us like that!”  Harmony laughed off their glances as I laid on my stomach on the soft Persian rug.  I put my arms to my sides and tried to relax, as I felt her straddle me and sit on the back of my thighs.  She continued her massage of my lower back, pulling my dress further and further down with the circular motion of her thumbs.  She unhooked my bra and pushed the straps out of the way.

My attention left and entered the conversation between Cole and my husband, certain words catching me here and there.  It didn’t take long for them to lose focus altogether on their own discussion and hone in solely on the activity in front of them. 

“Now that is a beautiful thing...two sexy ladies, enjoying each other’s bodies,” remarked my husband.  Cole replied to him, “Yeah it is...kind of makes you want to join in.”  “Maybe we should,” ventured my husband.  And to my surprise, Harmony responded, “Maybe you should.”  Lying face down, back to all of them, I could hide the surprised look on my face, but not the fact that I’d stopped breathing beneath her warm, soft hands.  Her hands squeezed my hips, and I breathed in again.  No one said anything for a few minutes.  And then I felt another pair of hands on my shoulder and a body leaning over my head.  They were not my husband’s hands, and I felt my breath quicken with the knowledge that my “beautiful boy” was touching me.  I closed my eyes and determined that I would not let myself be freaked out by this.  It felt too good to be wrong.  I felt Harmony’s weight leave my thighs and her hands slipped down the sides of my legs, stopping at my knees and traveling back up the insides of my legs, my dress being pushed up over my ass.  Cole pulled my shoulders up and to the side to encourage me to roll over, which I did...to face Harmony, who was right there, shimmying her way, on her knees, in between mine.  I sat up and pulled myself onto my knees, sitting on my feet.  Cole, behind me, continued to rub my shoulders, and I pulled Harmony’s t-shirt up and over her head.  Our lips met, sweet and soft; her tongue, warm, flicked over mine, and I sucked lightly on her bottom lip, the one with the swollen pout I always admired.  I looked up to see my husband standing over her.  I reached over her head to undo his belt and unbutton his fly, while she continued to lick and kiss my neck, so sensuously, slow, and subtle.  I pulled my husband’s jeans down far enough to access his already hard cock.  I pulled it out and slid my hands up and around it, cradling his balls.  I whispered in Harmony’s ear.

“Suck him off.  I want to watch you go down on him.”

She looked right into my eyes and licked her lips, then turned around and grabbed hold of my husband’s erect penis, slipping it into her mouth.  She ran her tongue up the underside and around the tip.  I leaned back against Cole’s chest.  He must have taken off his shirt while I was busy with Harmony.  He began teasing my nipples with his fingers and squeezing my breasts softly.  I kept my eyes on Harmony, her head bobbing softly and slowly, my husband’s cock pushing out the sides of her cheeks, glistening with her spit.  Occasionally, she’d glance back toward me.  Cole and I sat behind her.  I began to run my foot up and down the inside of her thigh, pushing my toes between her shorts and her skin.  She moaned a little.  And my husband moaned a little, which turned me on.  Cole pulled back my hair and began kissing the back of my neck and I put my right hand behind me, searching out the zipper of his pants.  Finding it, I unwrapped his package and slipped my hand around it, squeezing gently with a back and forth motion.  He let his breath out in my ear.  I felt the heat of it all the way down to my wet pussy.  

I turned to face him, biting my lip with desire.  I wanted nothing more than his face buried between my legs, licking and kissing and sucking while I watch Harmony fuck my husband with her mouth and lips.  My face must have been an open invitation, because that’s just what he began to do.  He pushed me down on to the floor, the view above me was Harmony’s backside, her head still bobbing slowly back and forth.  I could see right up the leg of her boxers, and I’m sure she could’ve felt my breath all the way up to her cunt.

My husband’s moans and grunts made my thighs quiver, and having Cole’s tongue slipping up and down the lips of my wet pussy, sucking on my clitoris was like fucking heaven.  I could see my husband’s face contorting with pleasure.  He was watching me watching him get off, and the closer he got to coming, the closer I followed.  Just before he let loose, Harmony turned and leaned over me, kissed me, kissed Cole, and kissed me again.  I could taste myself, salty and sweet, on her lips. 

It was my turn to enjoy my husband’s cock.  If he was going to come, I wanted it to be between my lips.  I looked up at him, smiled, and put my mouth around him, my hand at the base of his scrotum, squeezing lightly.  Right then, I felt fingers, whose I didn’t know, sift between my nether lips, rubbing against my clit and seeking entrance inside.  One finger slipped inside slowly, searching out my g-spot, with surprisingly quick success.  I groaned, vibrating my husband’s cock, making him moan.  He grabbed the back of my head, taking a handful of hair loosely in his fist, guiding my head back and forth, slowly.  I sucked and sucked, while the fingers in my pussy danced in and out and in and out, causing my own wetness to drip down the insides of my thighs.  I could feel my orgasm beginning, as my sucking became quick and forceful and frantic; my husband’s thighs began to quiver, and I knew he was about to come, so I backed off and slid my mouth down as far as I could, feeling his cock at the back of my throat, and back up to the very tip.  I wasn’t ready for anyone to come quite yet. 

I turned around to see Cole sitting on the floor, leaning up against the couch, with Harmony’s head between his legs, her shapely ass up in the air, knees spread for better balance.  On my knees, I reached my arms around her and placed my hands around her swaying breasts, which filled my palms and then some.   My husband got on his knees behind me.  Entering between my slippery lips, he slowly began to fuck me, his hands holding on to Harmony’s hips as I continued to massage her breasts and she sucked on Cole’s dick.  I slipped one hand between her voluptuous thighs, then one finger, then two, into her shaved cunt.  With the other hand, I kept my balance by grabbing hold of her ass.  Using my pinky finger, I stimulated her clit while I plunged my fingers deep inside of her again and again.  Everyone was moaning and writhing and sweating and breathing as one.  And all at once, like the crescendo of a complicated and passionate symphony, we came...we came and came and groaned and screamed out our intense relief at letting go so completely. 

We collapsed in a heap of breathing, sighing bodies.  Silently, we caressed and rubbed whatever skin lay beneath our hands.  Cole and my husband sandwiched Harmony and I, who faced one another.  We fell asleep like that.

In the morning...Dean, who’d passed out in a heap of pillows earlier in the evening, woke up to a pile of naked bodies.  I wonder what he thought.  Probably something to the effect of, “What the fuck?  Why didn’t anybody wake me up...I could’ve helped...I got skills...”

            Hmmmmm....maybe next time.

Traffic Stop (fiction)

"Fuck!" I blurted between clenched teeth.

 The blue and red lights in my rear view mirror were the last thing I had time or money for. But, as a law-biding citizen is wont to do, I immediately began looking for a place to pull over. It was a dark night on a poorly-lit highway, so I thoughtfully pulled down a side road to keep us both out of harm's way. (Hey, what can I say...I've got nothing against cops, and I had no intention of watching this one turned into road kill by some inattentive driver.)

I turned down my radio, looked in my rear view mirror again, and killed the ignition. Then I sat in the dark and waited for the lecture. As I watched the officer walk up alongside the back of my car, I began to roll down my window.

"Good, evening ma'am. Did you know you had a tail-light out?"

"No, I didn't."

He had a strong jawline and high cheekbones. His lips looked soft, but his five o’clock shadow looked rough. He’d obviously been on shift for awhile.

“Can I see your license and registration?”

I handed over the requested documents, and licked my lips. He looked them over and handed them back to me.

"Where you headed tonight?"

"Home."

"Is it far off?"

"No...just a couple of miles."

"Is your foot feeling a little heavy tonight?"

Ahhh...an officer with a sense of humor. I began to relax a bit.

"Not particularly. I suppose I just wasn't paying attention to my speed. My cruise control is out and I tend to get caught up in the music."

"Well, try to slow down a bit. I'm gonna write you a warning for the tail-light, but you need to get that fixed tomorrow. Can you do that?"

"I'm sure I can fit it in a heck of a lot more easily than another ticket."

He emitted a weak laugh, and the corners of his mouth turned up a bit. I love a man in uniform, and his smile made him that much more attractive. I relaxed a bit, knowing I wasn't going to receive a ticket. Maybe it was the late hour, or the full moon, or the fact that I hadn't eaten since yesterday...but something made me consider the idea of asking him to follow me home. The invitation stuck in my throat, for fear of being rejected, or worse...pissing him off and ending up with more than a warning. 

"I'm headed up the same way you were going," he said. "I can follow you until your turn off so you don't get pulled over by someone else."

"Oh. That'd be nice." Shit...it's now or never. "Maybe you could follow me all the way?" I bit my lip, figuring I could laugh it off as a joke if he seemed offended by the proposition. I wasn't really sure how to go about this...seducing a cop. What was I thinking?

"All the way?" His eyebrows raised.

"Yeah...all the way." I hoped he picked up on my intonation.

"To your house?” He paused, considering. “Suppose I could do that. Got nothin' else goin' right now. You have a good night now...I'll be right behind ya...so keep that speed down, right?"

"Right. Thanks, officer." I rolled up my window, turned the key in the ignition, and wheeled my car back out onto the highway, my heart thumping between my breasts. He was right on my ass. And I began to think of how I’d like him to really be on my ass…his hands searching me and patting me down. I really did only need to drive a few miles. I made a right turn and then a left onto my road and pulled into my driveway. He pulled up behind, and I decided to play the only card I knew how to use…the damsel in distress. As I walked up to his car, waving a bit as if to get his attention, he opened his door and stood up, one leg still in the car, one on the gravel drive.

“You’re never going to believe this, but I seem to have left my other key ring at work…the one with my house key.” Lame. I know. But, I hoped it would work. “Do you think you could help me get in?”

“Are you sure this is your house?” I hadn’t thought this one through. Of course he was going to wonder if I was just trying to break into someone’s house. “I can show you my ID…it shows the address.” I started nervously digging through my purse to find my wallet.

“Ma’am, I know your address. I’ve seen your ID.”

“Oh…yeah…right.”

“So what do you want me to do? Pick the lock…kick down the door…or call the locksmith?” He was poking at me…but it was obvious he was willing to help.

“Ummmm….maybe just boost me up the kitchen window? I’m pretty sure it’s unlocked.”

He shut his car door and walked up toward me, shifting his duty belt, and adjusting his hat. He didn’t say anything; he just followed me up the front walkway, around the side of the house, and watched me drop my things on the grass. I pointed up, designating the window. I removed my heels as he clasped his hands, creating a hammock for my foot. I put my hands on his shoulders, put my foot in his hands, and hoisted myself up to the window. Thank god I was wearing a skirt. And thank god I was wearing a thong. I hoped the view was enticing. I slid the window open and pulled myself up over the sill. Once I made my way in, I looked down at the officer.

“Come around front…I’ll open the door.” I ran down the stairs and opened the front door. “Thank you sooooo much. I don’t know what I would’ve done. I guess I’d have had to drive all the way back into town….with one tail-light.” I smiled what I hoped was a flirtatious smile. He tipped his hat and bid me goodnight. As I watched him walk away, I breathed in every bit of courage I could find and blurted out, “Would you like some water? Maybe a cookie or something?” Oh, good lord…I was pathetic. I figured he’d turn around, laugh…and continue on his way. But, he walked back up to the door.

“Ma’am…are you attempting to invite me in?” I bit my lip and looked up at him with my head lowered and my eyes raised…looking, I suspect, much like a little girl in trouble. “Yes. Yes, I am,” I stuttered.

“Huh…well you have perfect timing, because I just called myself out of service, and I was about to head home.”

“Huh…what do you know?” Something grabbed hold of my good sense, strangled it, and left me with nothing but gumption. I put my hands up to his face, but in my suddenness, he grabbed hold of my wrists to stop me, swung me around and cuffed me. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Playing along,” He said. He shut the front door and pushed me up against the entryway wall, pulling my skirt up. His hands rested briefly on my hips and then caressed my ass. He released his duty belt, letting it down to the floor, and unzipped his pants, letting them slide down around his ankles. He pulled me toward him, pressing his bulging hard-on into the crack of my ass and reaching his hands around to my breasts. He pushed my shirt up, unclasped my bra and slipped his fingers in across bare skin to my nipples, which hardened at his touch. He guided me to the stairs and bent me forward, my head lying on one stair, the rest of me bent with my ass in the air. He grabbed hold of my cuffed wrists, slid the fingers of his free hand from the small of my back, down my crack, pulling my thong out of the way. His fingers continued their slide, from asshole to clit, where they subtly and softly began to circle. Letting go of my wrists, he licked his fingers and traded hands, inserting two of his now wet fingers into my throbbing pussy.

“You’re wet…that’s nice….” He bent over me, breathing his words in my ear. My ass instinctively pressed up and back, beckoning his entrance. He pulled his fingers out and moved my panties further to the side, allowing room for him to push his dick into my waiting cunt. The top of my head and my right cheek pressed harder into the carpeted stair, making a light thumping sound with each thrust of his hips. He kept his hand on my cuffed wrists, using them like a handle to pull me towards him as he pushed himself deeper and deeper into my wet folds.

I began to drip, my own pre-ejaculation running down the insides of my thighs. Gripping my hair, he pulled my head off of the stair, suspending my entire body in space, my back arched, neck exposed, mouth open, shoulders impossibly bent. My legs spread taut, grounding me to the floor, thighs tight, I clenched my muscles around his dick, letting out a scream, the heat rising from my cunt to my throat.

Quick and powerful, my orgasm began…a gush of clear fluid dripping and running down my legs. He groaned, shuddered, and bucked in response, letting loose a flush of hot cum. He gently released his hold on my hair, lowering my head back to the stair, letting go of my wrists. As his shaft slipped out, I dropped to my knees. He pulled up his pants, re-established his duty belt, unlocked the cuffs, tipped his hat and said, “Thank you, ma’am” before he walked out the door. Right then and there…I knew I had no intention of ever fixing that tail-light.

This one is from way back in February of 2012.

What's in the Bag? part 1 (fiction)

Emily looked into the bag she had brought with her into the kitchen and felt minutely silly over its contents. Spicing things up in the bedroom was not her strong suit, and she found herself too often falling back on cliche, rather worn-out ideas. Not that he'd likely care. Cliche or not, if she were trying, Sam would be pleased enough.

Emily missed her sex life, even though she was the biggest reason it had dwindled to near nothingness. She had promised Sam that she would work harder to bring things back, that she'd actually go to some lengths to show him that she still wanted him. That she could speak his language, so to speak, and feed his deepest sexual needs.

She shook the bag a bit and watched the smaller pieces of silicone and stainless steel bounce around the larger stainless steel item she'd purchased, furrowing her brow and wondering how on earth she was going to go about the introduction of these little accessories.

Best, probably, simply to begin, and not think it through too much. She took a deep breath and called out, "Hey, Sam?"

From the back room she heard him respond, "Yeah, hon...whatcha need?"

"Could you come help me in the kitchen for a moment, babe? I need help heating something up." Immediately, she felt dumb for her choice of words. Her attempts to be cute and sexy just always seemed to come out sounding awkward and clunky.

"What? Heating something up? Why do you need my help with that?" He sounded confused, and Emily supposed that was at least somewhat equal to her current feeling of anxiety and self-consciousness.

"Just come here, please," she replied loudly, with an apprehensive sigh.

"Just a sec...I'm coming..."

Not yet, you aren't...but hopefully soon, she thought to herself.

Sam came walking down the hallway, in his shorts and t-shirt, barefoot and just a tad disheveled. He appeared a little stressed. Whatever project she'd interrupted seemed to be taxing his nerves; hopefully what she was planning to serve up would be a welcome distraction, regardless of how clumsy she might be at presenting it.

She held up the bag and shook it.

"I bought you a little something...." She almost sang the words, letting the final syllable trail off, and smiled crookedly while suggestively raising one eyebrow.

"Oh, yeah? What might that be...sounds like a bunch of keys...or a triangle. So you either bought me a set of antique prison keys or you are expecting me to play percussion back-up in a very horrible band. Which is it?"

"Neither. And you're weird." Emily smiled at his ridiculous sense of humor, and found herself relaxing just a bit. At least he was in a good mood.

"I need you to do something for me," she said.

"Yeah...you said you needed help heating something up? What the fuck does that mean?"

"Well, how about you take off all your clothes, lay on the bed, close your eyes, and let me show you?" The words rolled so quickly off her tongue she couldn't take them back. There they were...out there...and his reaction was pending.

His eyebrows raised and he simply let out a "hmm" sound as he pursed his lips. Intrigued...that's what she'd call his current facial status.

"Well? Why are you still standing there?" She breathed in her nervousness and let out the words with a dusting of as much incredulity as she could muster in her present hesitant state. She wanted to come off as secure and confident, but mostly she felt like an impostor in her own skin.

No matter...she was going to do this...and do it well.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, and let his shorts drop to the floor as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. Naked, he left his clothes in a pile on the kitchen floor and almost skipped into the bedroom.

"I don't know what you've got up your sleeve, woman, but I'm game."

Emily followed Sam into the bedroom with her bag of goodies. When she reached the bed, where Sam was already sprawled, he sat up enough to grab hold of her waist and pull her toward him.

"You gonna get naked, too?"

"Soon enough..." she smiled, pushing him away and looking at him through her eyelashes, "First I've got some presents for you."

She looked into the bag she held and reached inside, pulling out a silicone cock and ball ring. She held up the figure eight and showed him, "First this. before you get any bigger there, cowboy."

Emily climbed onto the bed, spread his legs, and sat on her heels between his knees.

"Oooo-kay...." He nodded with a look of surprised approval.

She took his just-awakening penis in her left hand and began to softly touch it to life, just enough to make it stand free from his thigh. Letting go, she used both hands to spread the silicone hole wide enough to slide it over the head of his dick and down to the base of the shaft.

"How's that feel?" she asked.

"Fine...it's fine," he was smiling and seeming rather amused as he watched her spread the other half of the silicone ring with one hand and tease his ball sack through it.

"Now to get you harder..." Emily smiled and slipped backward off the bed. She pushed the power button on the stereo and began slowly unbuttoning her shirt to the music. Sam just lay back and enjoyed the show, as she let the shirt fall to the floor and began to unbutton and unzip her jeans. She turned around so her panty-clad rear would be his next view. She pushed her jeans slowly down her legs and bent forward to pull her feet out of them. She hoped he liked the view as she revealed her little lace surprise.

Reaching behind her back, she reached between her shoulder blades and undid her bra; then she turned toward him and let it slowly fall away from her breasts, exposing her already hard nipples. Standing there, smiling, she bit her bottom lip and blushed as she let the bra fall to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her lace panties. Like a slinky cat, she climbed back onto the bed and crawled back between his legs, where his cock was thickening.

She licked the just under the tip, then traced her tongue around the underside of the head. Deciding he was hard enough for the next toy, she reached over his leg to the bag that was lying beside him. Feeling around inside, she found what she was looking for and pulled out the stainless steel ring. Emily held it up to her mouth and began to lick the inside of the ring, letting her saliva lubricate it. She placed it at the head of his cock, wrapped her hand around the shaft, and slipped it over the head to fit right under it. As it wasn't quite tight enough to stay in place the way she wanted it to, she leaned down and took the head of his penis in her mouth and began to slowly run her tongue around and over and under the head, finally taking the whole of his prick into her mouth.

The metal was hard against the roof of her mouth, and as she let his cock expand into her tongue and cheeks and the back of her throat, she could only imagine the sensations this was going to introduce to her pussy.

She grew hotter and wetter at the thought.

Sliding her mouth up to the tip of his dick again, sucking hard, she tested the hold of the metal ring. It seemed stable, so she let him go and sat back to view her handy work. He was hard, and the skin of his penis was pulled tight against his erection, his balls turning slightly more purple, his dick a stunning shade of crimson.

He was ready. And so was she.

She slipped her fingers between her legs and spread her lips. Straddling him, her cunt found him easily and slid over him. She felt the balls of the cock ring enter her. Resting her weight on his pelvis, she began to rock back and forth, grinding against him, filling herself with him.

But the cock rings made him impatient, and he rolled her over onto her back so that he could thrust with greater precision and impact. When he fucked her hard, she came with a gush, and that turned him on so much he usually came right after.

Emily noted, eyes rolling back and a moan caught in her throat, that the steel ring caught perfectly on the ridge that guarded her g-spot. With every pull and push, she found herself losing more and more control as the orgasm built. The could feel the beginning, like a surge of electricity in her chest, her belly, her thighs. As it exploded, and she felt her cum begin to seep around his plunging cock, her limbs melted and her head rolled back.

But he wasn't done yet.

"Roll over," he directed. And she did so, her pussy dripping with her own spent desire. She got onto all fours, sticking her ass in the air. He placed his hand the soaked lace, slid his dick back inside of her, and proceeded to fuck her hard. Hard enough that she could feel the bones in his pelvis hitting hers, tempting bruises to the surface as later proof of the intensity.

Emily fell forward onto her forearms, her face pressed into the bed. Sam reached down and grabbed hold of a handful of her hair, pulling back until her she found herself looking up the wall toward the ceiling. It hurt. But it hurt good, and she felt her nipples harden and her insides begin to wrap tighter around him as he moved within her.

They were both moaning and grunting and yelling out...wordless appeals and lust-laden groans. It was as if they could not fuck hard enough or go deep enough to release the pent up urges.

Until suddenly, his body tensed, and she knew it was time.

Quickly, wide-eyed and ready, she pulled away from him, yelling out, "Come on me! I want to feel your cum dripping down my back!"

And so he did. And it did. He spurted hot cum across her skin, and she heard him, grunting like a pained animal, and felt him, lurching and tensing with the exertion.

Afterward, as they lay there in a messy, sweaty, cum-covered, sticky heap, Sam whispered, "What the shit got into you, hellcat?"

Emily, looked at him, leaning over her, "I don't know. Sometimes it just comes out...it's like it goes dormant for months or years and when it comes out it's desperate and hungry and can't possibly get enough to be satiated."

He sighed, "I wish it came out more. I love your dirty side."

"Really...?" She replied. "Cause if so, you're gonna love what else is in that bag."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Take a peek."

He reached over and grabbed the bag. His eyes widened a bit, "Huh...that's a thing?" He looked upward, toward the ceiling, pensive, considering. And then he nodded.

"Uh, huh...and we're gonna use it next time," she smiled and winked, "Guess you've got something to think about now, don't you?"

You'll have to read next Monday, for the continuation of this story, to find out what's in the bag...

Mr. D is out of town this week, so showing initiative is harder, even though that is my goal this month. I'm sending this story to him, via email, as a bedtime story, though. And maybe, just maybe, I'll buy him the surprise that is in the bag...the one you have to come back to read about next week. The one that will likely have Mr. D scratching his head and saying..."Hmmm...okay..." And for sure...I've got to have some of those adorable panties.

I'm also sending him other little stories. And as he gets closer to returning, I'll step up my game, to get him heated up before he gets home.

Wearing Nothing but His Socks (fiction)

She had her hands in the dirty dishwater when he came flying around the corner wearing nothing but his socks, his hair disheveled, and his face unshaven.

"He's outside!  Quick...to the bedroom!"

"What?!"  she feigned shock, but her naughty smile betrayed her.  Since they'd had kids, "quickies" were definitely where it was at.  They'd tried all kinds of possible places (yes, even the closet), and had been interrupted more than a few times, which was part of the intrigue - they could be caught with their pants down, at any moment.

The difference between a quickie and regular sex was that there was never time for foreplay, no time to undress, no time to think about all the reasons that they shouldn't.

"He's out there with friends...what if he brings them in?" she offered the concern, but knew he was already beyond worrying.  No time.

He grabbed her around the waist, pulled her to the bedroom, and locked the door.  Her cotton lounge pants were hardly an impediment to his searching, as he pulled them down around her ankles and pushed her over the bed, which, handily, was the perfect height for it.  Down on one knee, without romance or a ring, he slid his finger from the crack of her ass, across her puckered asshole, between her lips, and stopped at her clit.  With two hands, he spread her open and licked her to wetness - nothing that could really be called foreplay...really just a fast way to lubricate her.

She listened carefully for the front door, but it was hard to concentrate with his tongue where it was.  And when he stood, and eased his dick into her from behind, she lost her sense of hearing.  Completely deaf, she pushed her ass into him, urging him to go faster.

His hands held tight to the handles created by her position, pulling her to him with each thrust.  She grabbed hold of the quilt and bit it hard, suppressing her verbal reactions.  She was already dripping her own wetness down the inside of one thigh.

He pulled out briefly to turn her over her, still right at the edge so he could remain standing.  He liked the view of her tits bouncing under the tight white t-shirt.  Even in a bra, he could envision the pink nipples pointing at the ceiling.  And he knew he could bring her to instant orgasm this way.  Her feet resting on his shoulders, his palm on her clit, rubbing vigorously in a circular motion, his dick pumping into her pussy.  He could always tell when she was close:  the arched back, the beautifully pained look on her face, her fists clenching whatever they could reach, and all of her lower muscles contracted.  And when she came, he couldn't help but follow.  Just the rhythmic tightening of her pussy was enough to send him over the edge.  And when he gushed his hot cum into her, she came again.  She loved the feeling of him warming her from the inside out...little tendrils of heat moving up her belly, across her chest, around her neck, and settling in her cheeks.  That "freshly fucked" blush of utter contentment.

"Mooooooooommmmmmmmm!"


In unison, they both said, "Oh, shit!" and instantly separated, scurrying to find proper cover.  She grabbed a pair of underwear, hoping to contain the liquid trying so hard to come back out the way it went in; he ran for his robe.

Unlocking the door and peeking her head out, she yelled back down, "What do you need?!"

"James wants to know if I can go to his house for lunch!"

She didn't even think it through...."Yes!  Yes you can!"

Traipsing into the bathroom, she slipped her hands inside his robe, "Looks like we're going to get a little more time on this one..."

She dropped to one knee, without romance or a ring, and took his mostly hard penis into her mouth.

I wrote this one some time ago. It was posted

on my prior site The Lustful Literate, which is currently

in a state of ongoing deconstruction, as I build this site

up in its place.

The Tenant (fiction)

Throwback Thursday: This story was originally published several years ago on my first website. Here it is again, in case you missed it...

The Tenant

They’d been living in the same house for 67 days.  But she looked at the dog with more affection; and she spoke to herself more often.  He was immanent, however.  His circumference was widening in her space.  He was filling the air with his need for the smell of her hair, a glimpse of the garter holding her one threadbare pair of stockings in place, too low, just above her knee, to be sexy, just high enough to remain out of sight, for the most part.  They were flesh-tinted; though she’d wanted black, she could not afford color.  She could barely afford the heat it would take to warm the bathwater she was running.  He could smell the lavender and mandarin wafting on wings of steam from under the door and hear the tinny sound, echoing and muffled by the closed door, of the water hitting the porcelain.  A book of human anatomy was splayed across his lap, a glass of cheap whiskey in his hand.  His mind clouded, his vision hazed, and his breath became shallow as an tingle sprang forth, with rising insistence, like the tickle of an insect, down his neck, through the hairs on his chest, and finally landed with softness and urgency at the seat of his sex.  Instantly, he felt guilt.

This was not a woman he loved.  They’d never even touched, except casually, in the process of handing off a drink, giving and accepting rent money in the hallway.  But the aroma she left behind, even during inconsequential actions such as these, undid him.  It wasn’t the lavender, but something deeper, closer to her skin; something emitted from within.  She was sex, and she  seemed to know it.  No modesty, no decency, no seeming understanding of her effect.  Or maybe she did.  Maybe she figured any power a woman could have should be used for gain, for a place at the table, for a seat on the bus.  Maybe that’s all she was.  And maybe that’s why he couldn’t help himself, wouldn’t stop his thoughts, pressed her image onto himself in his mind, guilt growing more transparent with each inhalation of the thickening smell in the room.  He wondered which see-through nightgown she would traipse around the house in tonight.  He imagined her in burgundy, his Helen of Troy, knowingly smiling, feigning desire she could not, would not, feel anymore. 

Her faults:  those were the things one remembered about her—the things that made one crazy with need for her…the need to touch with one fingertip the tear in her stockings, to graze with one’s lips the fraying hem of her black sequined dress, to kiss with one’s tongue the chipped red polish on her nails.  From a distance:  just enough shadow to highlight the crevices and curves; just enough space to hide the scars, loose threads, and lipstick two shades too dark for her pale face.  It wasn’t even painted on straight—a slightly crooked line on the right side of her upper lip made her look reminiscent of a child playing dress up with her mother’s things.

She’d been in need of a boarder.  Money was tight.  More than that.  There was danger of going without.  It was an advertisement that had drawn him in.  But the crimson slickness of her smile sealed the deal.  He’d met her over lunch to quibble logistics…but there was nothing to argue.  It was a simple handshake kind of agreement.  She needed the place in the daytime.  He needed a place to study at night, a place to set his hat, lay out his clothes, prepare a meal, take a drink…sweat in peace and masturbate to a dirty magazine once in a while to ease the stress of exams.  He wasn’t to be there from 8:00 until 4:00.  They could share a few minutes in passing; but she made it clear she needed quiet, time alone, while the sun was up.  She worked at night.  He wasn’t to ask.  But he didn’t have to.  He didn’t want to.  He couldn’t tell that to his naive Midwestern parents.  He couldn’t explain that.  So she became Matt, a young medical intern at the hospital where he was observing twice a week.  She became 19, studious…there could be no calls to the house; he’d have to make the calls home.  And they didn’t ask either.  And he thought to himself that it was amazing how little asking happens when we think we know the answer already.  It’s always when one question, the right one, the only one, the obvious one, is the one that would shock us into reality…someone else’s…and show us how wrong, really, most of our suppositions are.  And yet, realities, whole lives, are based on those assumptions.  Without them, we forget how to breathe.

He’d signed on only for the summer months, hoping to find a better, less finicky situation, a more appropriate roommate.  She hoped by that time, she’d have enough money to leave town for good, head to New York where she’d find work writing for a magazine.  She was a writer; which came out sounding false, almost laughable, through her wine-stained lips as she brushed a strand of dark blond hair out of her eyes.  Everyone knew brunettes were the writers.  Blonds were good for the cover.  They were good between the sheets.  They were meant to be heard screaming your name, seen licking their lips, not asking the difficult questions or wrinkling their pretty white foreheads in consternation, sweating over a typewriter. 

But these thoughts had not melded until now.  The picture was beginning to matter to him…as he inhaled the scent of her bath water.  Why did he remember her eyes across the table during their first meeting?  Why did it matter that they were blue with her first sip of cheap Chianti?  Green when he handed her his deposit…his last ten dollars?  Grey when she came home that first morning as he passed her without comment, hardly a nod of acknowledgment, that first morning in the hall?  More importantly, why did this remembrance bring to his chest a tightness?  And why was he walking toward the bathroom door? 

It was an odd night.  Classes were canceled, something the university called “dead week”, the week before final exams when there were no classes so students could study.  He had nowhere to go really and no money to even buy a coffee to keep himself occupied and out of her way.  So they’d been stumbling around each other for a few days.

The sensual overload was almost too much for him.  The scent from under the door was suddenly overpowered, momentarily, by that coming from her bedroom as he passed it.  He couldn’t help but stop for a moment and take it all in.  And he couldn’t quite help pushing his hand against her slightly open door, exposing the shadows of its interior.  Glancing briefly, somewhat guiltily, down the hallway to make sure he was safely viewing in solitude this place which had always been closed to him—forbidden, therefore all the more desired, he stepped into the room.  With only the light from the hallway and a small lamp on her nightstand, it was difficult to be precise in his collection of information.  A simple wood-framed mirror harboring several cracks trailing from a wound in the near center (an object thrown in anger? by her? by a former tenant?) on the wall above the dresser--almost identical to the one in his own room and most likely furniture that came with the apartment—sturdy and without embellishment, in need of refinishing.  Next to the mirror, on stucco wall:  a browned photo of an older woman with the same languidly empty eyes, a similar sultry pout, looking odd and in contrast to the high lace collar and cameo brooch of a more restricted age.  Running his eyes across the dresser, he uncovered from the gray a hairbrush, thick-bristled, almost black with tarnish, a small make-up bag with expected items peeking from within: a lipstick case, a compact, a handkerchief.  His fingers itched to open the drawers; they trembled as they pulled the drawers, which stuck and squeaked slightly, making him nervous, and yet, that much more excited.  The top drawer was filled with her under things, mostly beige, mostly worn, with fraying lace and dulled satin.  He ran his fingertips across them, suddenly feeling the urge to grab a handful of them, bring them to his nose to smell, to suck in her scent.  He felt himself harden as he inhaled; but to his disappointment, every trace of her had been stolen by detergent.  Disappointed, and more stimulated, he moved on.  The next drawer held a few sweaters, some folded shirts, a brown belt and a box of dull silver- and gold-coated jewelry, several pieces encasing fake gemstones.  However, it was the bottom drawer that held what he was looking for.  A black nightgown, still fresh with her scent.  Two pairs of stockings, pairs she was unwilling to discard, but which had too many holes to wear any longer.  Garters.  He closed his eyes and imagined her wearing these things…all of them.  He could see her standing before the bed, placing her foot on the edge so she could reach underneath her thigh to attach the garter.  He could see her hair falling into her face, the cleavage of her breasts as she leaned.  He imagined her straightening up, both feet, in black heels, on the floor, arms reaching up to pull the hair out of her face and up off of her back, letting it go to fall, to shake it straight, smoothing it once more before walking toward him, splayed naked and waiting for her on the bed.  It was almost too much.

And then he heard the water splash in the bathroom and was shocked grudgingly awake from his mental meandering, pushed the drawer closed too quickly, making a noise he hadn’t wanted to make.  He stood up from the bed, mussing the covers where he had left a slight imprint, and his heat.  His last glance of the room, as he quickly exited, was of her pillow, the curve made by her head still in the center.

He didn’t knock.  He simply placed hand to doorknob and twisted his wrist.  It didn’t surprise him to find it unlocked.  She wasn’t trying to draw him; he knew that.  It was only the way she was.  Immodest.  Dangerous in her inattentiveness.  Unguarded.  She never tried to draw the attention of men; but maybe that’s exactly why they were always looking and always following her home.  It made the young man nervous.  He feared her, but the fact that he feared her made her seem strong enough, in his perception, to take care of herself.

She looked up at him from the claw foot tub.  A lady would have tried to cover herself, would have at least feigned surprise, mock humiliation.  A woman pretending modesty would have at least widened her eyes, opened her mouth to protest.  But she simply looked at him as if she were fully clothed, comfortable to meet with a stranger in this way.

“I just want to look at you.”  He spoke without fear of rejection.  Because he knew she’d let him sit next to her, touch the water, in silence. 

She said nothing, just continued with the business of grooming, sliding the razor down her cream-lathered leg, extended over the edge of the tub.  Moving slowly, methodically, as if creating a work of art, sculpting her own smoothness.  For the first time in his life he wasn’t worried about what to do next.  He didn’t even care if this was it: the last time he’d ever see a naked woman.  Somehow she had that power.  It was her seeming confidence.  Her carelessness with him.  She wasn’t asking for anything, wanted nothing from him.  Lying there in the water – engulfed in steam – she seemed cruel and enticingly exotic with mascara melted in half-moons beneath each eye, her cheeks rouged heavily with heat.  She seemed ripe for the touching, soft and slightly swollen from the steam.

“Do you want to touch me?” She didn’t look at him as she asked the question; but she sounded sad somehow, and he thought to himself, that in other circumstances, he would be trembling.  He knew he could have her here and now on the bathroom tile.  He knew she wouldn’t resist.  And maybe that’s why he walked away.

Half an hour later she emerged from the bathroom in a faded peach silk kimono – her hair piled on top of her head, wet only at the tips, creating a frame for her glowing face.  Her bare feet, toenails painted red and chipped, made a little puckering noise on the wood floor in the hallway, then turned to a padded whisper once she reached the ancient Persian floor rug (too old for the colors to be deciphered) covering the most worn, and possibly water-stained, section of the living room floor.  She poured herself gin, straight, in a chipped glass.  On the front of it was etched the emblem of some hotel on 5th Street that had closed down years before during the Depression.  She’d probably picked up a whole set for free when the business (and the owner) collapsed.  He watched her from behind his evening paper.  Floating to the record player, she put on some obscure Italian opera and slouched into the graying ivory armchair opposite him, swung her head back, letting the last sip of her drink trickle down her throat, and let her left leg hang over the threadbare arm of the chair.  The pose forced her kimono to slip open across her upper thigh; and with each metered swing of her leg, it opened a little bit more.  But her head was still laid back.  Her eyes were closed and her lips silently mouthed the sad story coming from the speaker.  He put down his paper, set it on the table beside him, stood, and walked toward her.  He took the glass from her and turned to refill her drink, when she grabbed his hand.  His back was to her, and he stopped his next step.  She caressed his fingers, leaned forward and took his index finger in her mouth, letting her tongue mingle with the salt of his skin.  He remained a statue, unsure in his immobility.  She sucked the finger to the tip, her lips releasing him before her tongue, and then fell into her previous pose, yet this time – due to her sudden movement – her kimono lay completely open from the waist, exposing the soft down that hid her innermost workings.  This he didn’t see as he continued his route to the bar, struggling to control his composure, his desire to turn to her and take her into his arms.  He would not let her unnerve him, use him like another of her witless toys.  She would be the death of him.  Her indifference would kill him, if he let himself feel anything for her.  And he knew he could never really have her…really – like a lover.  He could only have her like a whore, empty inside.  Too many others.  And now she was mad, and there was a certain power in her coldness and distance.  Once, she must have been amazing, vivacious, the kind of woman men clamor around, like moths to a burning flame, knowing but not caring that she would ruin them.  As far as he could tell, she was just a beautiful shell now.  Something someone puts on a shelf to admire and takes down once in a while to hear the ocean again, remembering more pleasing times.

She closed her eyes again as he handed her another drink.  He didn’t stare at her from his chair like an animal.  That’s what she loved about him.  He tried so hard to avoid being like the others.  She found it charming, and it made her feel less mean…somehow less numb.  But with this, came the fear.  The smile left her lips.  She opened her eyes and looked directly at him, hiding from her, even out in the open as he was.  He was looking out the window, his back to her.  She’d seen him do this a dozen times before; he was trying to gain control the only way he knew how: to avoid her eyes, as if she were Medusa and might turn him to stone if he looked into them…as if to look at her were to communicate something deeper than either of them were ready for.  But her gaze bore in between his shoulder blades.  She traced the suspenders down his back and took inventory of his countenance – as if to memorize: white dress shirt, cuffs rolled to the elbows, thick, strong neck jutting from an unbuttoned collar, brown curls, soft cherubic lips – almost feminine in their curve.  His grey wool pants hung from his hips as if tailored.  Bare feet made him look like a child.  She brought a finger to her lips as she noticed the light brown hair on his right foot.  He curled his toes under, an absent-minded movement someone does without thinking.  But he was feeling the heat of her observation, knew he was being watched, and the movement was one of discomfort and anxiety.  He felt cemented to the floor, wanting so badly to move anywhere – to just walk around the room.  But he couldn’t will his feet to do anything more than curl his toes back and forth.

Her audible sigh breathed air into his lungs, and he turned toward her boldly.

“What do you dream about?”

She looked at him, a reluctant smile playing at the corners of her overplayed pout.  Pupils widening, eyebrows lifting slightly, her reserve seemed almost imperceptibly more shallow, penetrable even, for a moment.

“Why?”

He took a few steps toward her as he spoke.

“Because a person’s dreams tell much more about them than the life they actually lead.”

“And why should I tell you, then?  Why should you know more than what you see everyday?  More than anyone else?”

“I suppose I can’t answer that.  I simply wonder.  It’s like you’re oblivious to how you must appear to me.”

He couldn’t tell if she meant it, was being evasive, or had become suddenly irritated.  He didn’t want her apology either way.  He walked over to a stack of records, next to the player, rifled through them, turned a few over in his hands to examine the lists of songs on the backs.  He chose one, and replacing the opera with Beethoven, turned up the volume and turned again to face her.

“Will you dance?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too intimate.”

He snorted under his breath in sarcastic disbelief.

“Closeness scares you?  You walk around here with the confidence of a damn courtesan.”

She scowled at him and looked down at her hands.

“I’m not a whore.  I know you think I am.”

“I don’t.  I don’t know what you do with your time, and I don’t question it.  But you damn near bleed sexuality everywhere you step.”

He paused and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt.

“I don’t believe you’re a stranger to desire, at least.”

“Desire is entirely different from intimacy.”

She stopped, forehead wrinkled in consternation, trying to figure out the right words to explain what made so much sense in her mind but so little now that her mouth must be the vehicle for its arrival.

“Desire is what comes before obtaining the object of that desire.  It’s still innocent – maybe not in thought, but in its inaction; it is not the sin itself.  Desire is clean.  And no, I am no stranger to it.”

She was gaining momentum as her thoughts were finding new life through her words; it encouraged her confidence to blossom in to a rising wave of indignation.

“Neither, sir, do I fear intimacy, as you have so boldly assumed.  However, just because I allow you look at my naked body, and just because I walk around this house with nothing under my robe does not mean that I am necessarily seeking your attention.”

“But how can I ignore it?  And why should I?”

“I don’t want to dance.”  She closed her eyes again, looking exhausted and beaten.

“Alright.”  He felt as if he’d overstepped some boundary.  She’d never spoken so many words to him in all the time he’d know her.  And in her words he saw something he hadn’t expected: vulnerability.  She had become defensive.  She wanted to think herself clean.  And he knew she was now.  Somehow, knowing this gave him courage.  He felt like he’d won some little battle with her and with himself.  He’d been afraid of what he thought she was: impure, imperfect.  She was creeping into his veins, slowly, warmly, and he sighed with the release of his own silent admission of her.

“I’m tired.  I think I’ll turn in.”  She took her glass with her as she glided into the darkness of the hallway and into her bedroom.  He heard the click of the latch on her door.  She’d never locked it before, and he was struck by the sound.  Was she afraid of him?  Or was she making a point?

Suddenly he felt angry.  How could she assume that he would do anything warranting a locked door?  He was a good man.  He’d never hurt anyone in his life.  Had he?  He sat on the couch and put his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees.  Was it something he had said?

“Stupid!”  He said under his breath.  He pounded his knee with his fist in scolding.  He’d compared her to a whore.  Somehow, in his observation of her, he’d stripped the humanity from her and plastered her with a hideous label to explain his own fear of her.  He’d found it so natural a comparison that he assumed  her to be like his impression of her:  heartless.  And now he realized his error.  He also realized the problem – her problem.  If he – this nice, kind, unassuming fellow – could think this of her, then imagine the creeps who followed her home every night.  Lecherous men with wives and old enough to be her father.

It was her burden.  Men looked at her and didn’t see pure, natural, innocent beauty; they saw sex – a whore to be bought and fondled and left.  He began to feel the irony of it all as the light from under her door disappeared and he heard the springs bound in her bed as she sat down.  She was as pure as they came.  Maybe, somehow, purer.  She was like faith, which cannot exist unless it is tested.

He lay down on his bed, fully clothed – his mind unsettled and restless.  He couldn’t put his finger on it, couldn’t make sense of his sudden need for her.  It was like she’d just come to life for him, just become human, and she was expansive – taking up his every breath and each incandescent thought.  She was seeping through his pores.  She was on his breath.  Her essence was in his blood, and he was hot with her presence; it was practically burning his skin, making his thighs itch and his chest sweat.  His temples pulsed.  He made fists of his hands as he remembered the feel of her lips around his finger—her tongue sliding along the underside from the base to the tip; not difficult to transfer the sensation to another more expectant part of his body.  Raising his hands to cover the throbbing movements, make them cease, he groaned deep in his throat.  It felt like she was on top of him, straddling, riding him.  He could almost hear her soft moans, the little cries, the soft quick breaths that mimicked her touch.  Her fingertips…he felt them tracing lightly the soft brown hairs that began at the V of his collar bone and led to his sex.  Her lips…he saw them wet and glistening as she arched her head back, moving rhythmically over him. 

She wasn’t really there.  But it didn’t matter: he felt her.  This was desire.  And he was content to drown in its complexity.  This…this feeling was what he saw in her eyes.  He’d seen it the first time he met her at the pub.  In the darkness of the bar: desire – not for him – maybe for life…the sky…the bombs going off overhead in the distance.  It filled her to the brim and overflowed, spilling onto the floor.  That’s what all those men followed.  And he’d just slipped and fallen face first into its sweet density.

Whenever had he wanted a woman this badly?  Not her succulent thighs or thick, dirty blond hair – but the hidden depths?  He thirsted to be let into the shadows inside her.  He wanted into those eyes so badly his chest ached.  He made fists of his hands and pounded the mattress on either side of his reclined body.  He felt he could actually die of this feeling.  He pressed his open palm down on his erection, willing it to subside, forcing it, as much as he could without truly paining himself.

And then there was a “click” from the hallway.  Her door.  Was she coming out?  Another drink?  A cigarette?  He couldn’t hear her in the hall.  He moved slowly to his own door and peered out toward her room.  The door was still closed.  He furrowed his brow as if to question her gesture.  Had she unlocked her door to emerge and then changed her mind, forgetting to re-lock?  He stood in front of her door and looked down.  No light emerged from beneath.  He put his hand around the door knob; it felt hot.  He pulled away quickly as if he’d been burned.  He looked at his palm in the darkness, opening his mouth to let escape a silent breath of painful yearning.  Confused, he tried again.  Turning the knob, slowly, as to not alarm her, he felt an icy chill up his forearm; it continued in a lightning jet of pain to his shoulder.  Once again, he let go of the knob.  But having turned it somewhat already, the door creaked open an inch. 

He peered through the crack, a stab of guilt slicing through his thoughts, like a child seeing something beyond his years, something he should not see but cannot look away from.  Wanting the view all the more because it seemed wrong, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness within.  Searching the bed for the curve of her form, he could not see well enough.  He glanced away, back into the hall.  He hadn’t seen anything, but the desire to had set the vision hard in his mind, as if the lights were bright on her body, highlighting its contours, its shadows.  The imagining gave rise to his manhood. The cotton and wool could not hold him in.  Quickly, he shuffled back to his room, bare feet sliding almost silently on the wood floor, angry with his own anatomy.  He simply couldn’t go to her like this, like some inexperienced school boy looking up to woman of knowing.  He had to offer her more.  She’d been propositioned too many times to be impressed by this.  He could see her reaction—rolled eyes, a sigh, a demeanor of pity.  She would be disappointed because that’s what she’d expect: his erection, his pleading eyes.  It’s what he felt but could not show.  She wouldn’t be able to see what was silently waiting behind the veil of the biological reactions of his body…that this was not about that.  He didn’t have to fuck her.  Indeed, his body craved her in the most primal sense, but his mind railed against it; intellectually, he could rise above simply wanting her, but his animal instinct was strong.  She’d hear it as a lie if he tried to explain.  Others had probably tried it as a method for sounding trustworthy or sensitive.  He didn’t have any reason to be either.  She wouldn’t respect those qualities anyway.  But she wouldn’t respect an erection staring her in the face on its knees pleading for her touch, either.

He sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for it to subside.  He drained the last few drops of whiskey and returned to her door.  It was open wide.  He looked behind him, back down the hall toward the living room, then stared again into the darkness of her room.  He reached back down and briefly attempted to tame himself, pressing the base of the shaft toward his left thigh.

“What do you want?”

Her words made him jerk and take in a startled, sharp gasp of breath.  A drop of sweat floated down his left cheek.  He said nothing.  What could he have said?  How could he tell her?  He had to touch her skin and smell her.  Walking to the foot of her bed, his silhouette was framed by the glow of the drapes.  He couldn’t hear her move.  She remained still and silent.  Placing his right knee on the bed, he let his weight fall forward on to his hands.  Knee over knee…hand over hand, he crawled to her side, spun sideways, and lay next to her.  He inhaled slowly and deliberately, taking in her musky aroma.  It burned his nose and made his throat constrict.  He closed his eyes tightly and fumbled for her hand.  She made no effort to close her fingers around his.  Like a dead body, she let him take her hand, but didn’t respond to him.  Her warmth, though, radiated into his palm.  She was so hot.  But she was dry.  How could her palm be so dry---not perspiring in such heat?  He held her fingers in his hand tightly, willing his words into her skin without speaking.

“It’s alright,” she whispered.

He could feel her looking at him, the heat of her eyes on his cheek…could almost hear the single tear sliding down her own.

Her body turned toward his.  His breath stopped, his heartbeat quickening.  Fear.  She placed her hand on his chest, traced her fingernail to his shoulder and down his arm to the hand that was still holding hers.  She picked up his arm, stretched it straight across her pillow and lay her head on his shoulder. 

He lay awake for several hours in that position, not knowing if she slept.  It didn’t matter.  He was holding her, holding the essence of desire in his arms.  He let it wash over him like the sweetest shower, saturating his skin.  He was cool now.  She wasn’t burning him anymore.  He’d survived somehow, and now here he was, relaxing in its wake, the softness of its contentment.  He’d never again know desire like this, like an electrical storm, all-consuming.  And all at once he understood that to bully the current or force it into submission would be futile.  Men had been trying for thousands of years to bridle the power of these waves.  But it was not until this moment that he realized simply giving in was far more satisfying.  He knew there was no battle to win but within himself.  She was not an enemy to be conquered, a book to be read, a project to study.  She was not to be simply enjoyed or entertained.  Or feared.  She needed to connect: only connect…the most basic of human requirements.  And this moment, a moment that could not be recaptured, was the only thing he wanted of her.  A kiss, or more, would be a knife in the back of this feeling.

In the morning, he would pack his things and go.