Rendezvous With a Stranger (10 page)

      
“It has been a long time.
 
I don’t want her hurt.”

      
I cringe.
 
Nothings ever changes under Robby’s sun—he just looks at things through a different shade of glasses now and then, but nothing ever changes.

      
“You know, Rob, Chelsea predates me by two years.
 
She’s been a shadow hanging over us from the beginning.
 
I know she’ll be there forever if you don’t let her go now.
 
I don’t pretend to understand it, but as long as you brought this up, I have to tell you, I’m not going to compete with her any more.
 
It’s either her or me.”
 
I pull away from him, disgusted now that I bothered to try making amends.

      
I think I’ll return to the city tonight; this is much too depressing.
 
I can’t imagine why I’ve allowed myself to get hooked into his morass another time, why my heartstrings still get tugged like a marionette jerked on cue.
 
It’s all in the remembrance, I think, all in the remembrance of what I
thought
we had together.
 
The worst of it—for all the intimacy Robby and I shared, she was never out of his mind, but remained deep in his thoughts while he took a wife.
 

      
He should have married her, but she wouldn’t have him.
 
She’s a free spirit, running around the world with her camera taking pictures of things she likes. All she ever wanted was the sex, from the time she was eighteen and they first met.
 
The rest of her life, she’s too busy to be bothered with things of the heart that I love.
 
But for all my trying, she just doesn’t shake loose from his hot britches.

g

      
I’m in the city by nightfall.
 
Nothing Robby could say kept me at home.
 
He tried, but as though a benevolent god in the universe suddenly opened heaven and dropped a message into the midst of my confusion, it all came perfectly clear.
 
It’s not going to work. We’ve said just about all the words there are left to be said.
 
I imagine a few more awkward moments together and then it will be over.
 
I know there won’t be sex again. I’d lose all self-respect giving in to a hopeless dream.
 
I’ve tried too many times; I’d start to look pathetic.

      
At home in Isaac’s apartment, it feels and smells and sounds like home.
 
There are traces of the stranger in the air, though I’m sure I’m just imagining this.

      
Funny, how I walk gingerly into my room half expecting there will be another sign of him in some covert place or in obvious view, lurking to jolt my senses.
 
I’m almost disappointed when I find nothing.
 
My heart beats sadder, my eyes almost tear—but that’s okay I remind myself—that’s really okay.
 

      
My self-talk moves along as I remember what I realized on the way back to the city.
 
Another man.
 
I’m going to find my salvation, find another man; not Robby; he’s washed up, and not the stranger.
 
I want more than crude sex.
 
Life is more important to me than a string of meaningless moments of gratification that leave me with more questions than answers.
 
I want solutions, tidy endings, sex with love and tenderness, a knowingness that the man whose bed I lie in will be there the next night, and the night after that and all nights stretching to infinity.
 
I don’t need the lust and affection to transcend time, but I’d love it if it did.
 
I’d love to think in those grand terms, to believe that I’m psychically wedded to this one person and that there is nothing in heaven or earth that can shake that love.
 
I believe in that kind of power with every romantic bone in my being.
 
I believe that in spite of Robby and the stranger.
 
Regardless of how the two abuse me in their own ways, I won’t allow them to shake my faith in the kind of mysteries that bring two people together for these cataclysmic free-for-alls of love and sex and intimacy.
 

      
There’s got to be a new man.
 
The stranger woke me to the possibility, and with that thought in mind, this vow will not be denied.

      
I’m very good at making vows I can’t keep.
 

      
In my university office at 9:00 Monday morning, there’s a package on my desk addressed to Ellen Laurey.

      
“When the hell did this come in?” I blurt out.

      
With the door open, the department secretary and several students hear my exclamation.
 

      
Secretary Jenny, with the tiny skirt and the brown mop of curls, rushes to my call.

      
“Is there something the matter?” she asks, peering over the rim of her glasses.

      
“I’m not Ellen Laurey, why’s this here?
 
Who brought it?”

      
“I’ve never seen it, Carolyn,” she replies.
 
“Would you like me to reroute it to her office?”

      
“I doubt there is an Ellen Laurey anywhere—except the dead one.”

      
“The dead one?”

      
“She’s a poet that died some years ago.”

      
She nods, not really knowing how to respond, intimidated by my stewing anger.
 
“Perhaps someone’s playing a trick on you?” she timidly ventures.

      
“Do you have any idea who brought this here?”

      
“I’ve never seen it.
 
Maybe you should look inside.”

      
“Not if it’s not for me.”

      
“I’ll take it then,” she reaches out her hand.

      
“No.
 
No,” I interrupt.
 
I’m starting to calm, realizing how silly I must look.
 
“Listen, I had some association with Ellen Laurey; I’ll look into it myself.”

      
“You’re sure?”

      
“Yes.”

      
She shrugs.

      
Alone in my office, I finger the envelope for some time.
 
It’s the stranger’s work, that’s obvious, but if I’m serious about swearing off the man, I need to get this out of my sight unopened.
 
But how?
 
I have little will with him and the package is a merciless taunt.
 
I can already feel the grip of him returning to me.
 
My pussy’s wet, and my heart throbs hard between my breasts.
 
It’s a good thing he’s not in the room right now because I’d be stripping for him, I’m sure.
 

      
How does he know me?
 
How does he know my name and where I work and where I live, and all the secret things he’s reasoned about my sleeping sexual self?
 
Where does his power to woo me come from?
 
How did this even begin?

      
I ignore the envelope for an entire morning—I have to.
 
Three conferences scheduled and a class, I have no time to consider what’s inside, innocuous or threatening.
 

      
When I return from lunch the envelope’s still sitting where I left it.
 
I suppose I thought the same bird that deposited it on my desk might fly by and pluck it away.
 
But it remains.

      
I stare at it for some time more. The vow, I remind myself.
 
The vow was made in earnest. I have to get serious about it, or I’ll while away another few years, all wasted on a man who only wants half of who I am. I think this with all my might.
 
It’s sound advice that any sane person would give me, but still, my whole sexual being is on fire, the flames bursting wildly all morning with every thought and memory of my man of mystery.

      
Finally grabbing the envelope, I rip it open, faced with another shock.

      
It’s all there, so black and white and stark.
 
Photographs of me.
 

      
The basement, the fence, the bondage, the stranger with me.
 
Pressed against the metal … tied at my limbs … spread-eagle on the wires—I look serene and content.
 
I remember that moment and the other moments someone has captured in these subtle shades. These dozen still shots capture the essence of the night.
 
I see myself walking cautiously through the abandoned basement, naked in the shadows, bound, teased, whipped, my mind lured by the sound of his voice.

      
These are the very pictures I’ve pondered in my own mind for two weeks since that night. They’ve become familiar friends.
 
But there’s suddenly the startling realization after minutes of studying each simple shadow and form that these weren’t taken by the stranger.
 
He’s in many of the pictures, like me, the center of attention. Unless he’s captured them with an automatic camera, there was an accomplice in the basement with us that night, silently witnessing my torture.

      
My mute body is speaking, encouraging feelings of desire.
 
I’m so hot my hand is in my crotch playing long before my mind can register the disgust and fear and abuse this heaps on me.
 
I feel as if I’m nothing but a toy at his mercy, and now at the mercy of some other man, too.
 
One inventive lover was acceptable for a few brief encounters, but now I wonder how many others have witnessed the degrading scene at the fence.

      
Fear joins my desire, the concoction very weird.
 
So obsessed with the pictures, my eyes refuse to divert their inspection.
 
I can’t stop my fingers from finding avenues of pulsing blood and slick wet residue.
 
I pinch my clit and welcome the pain.
 
Seeing the pictures of him punishing my ass, I want to be punished now—punished because I’ve become this reckless creature.
 
Pinching harder, I gasp so loudly I’m afraid that Jenny will hear on the other side of my unlocked office.

      
Scurrying quickly to the door, I turn the lock and retreat to the pictures and the warm seat of my chair.
 
I can imagine him here with me in the office, my reluctant fearful eyes staring up at his callous expression as he orders me to my next humiliation.

      
Hearing his voice clearly in my head, I go to my knees as a penitent submissive, bowing for the man that commands me.
 
As I listen to him ordering my obedience, I remain bowed, then reach around with one hand and press my fingers into my smoldering opening.
 
The juice pours out until my fingers and cunt are one slippery, unified mass of flesh, pounding together.
 
I know he’s above me, now taking my chair, sneering at me as he looks on my show.
 
Better yet, he might even view me with that blank, impassive expression of authority.
 
I don’t bother looking into his eyes; I know what’s there, what has me seized and in this sorry state of utter humility.
 
I can smell his boots, the leather and dust, and even the traces of his bike—the rubber and oil—that add to his unique perfume.
 
His eyes bore into me, resting on the pussyhole I’m tampering with.
 
I hear him tell me more, and cringe, knowing I’m moving another step into this blind love.
 

      
He has me lubricate my asshole with slick fingers, first with a single one, then two, then three.
 
He’d have my whole hand in there if it could fit, but he settles for less, for three in my ass and a single one playing with my clit.
 
I can hear him removing his belt.
 
And hearing it swish through the air, I feel it striking my bare thighs and my butt where there’s a space to strike.
 
I jerk on the penetrations and do my damnedest to drive them harder.
 
I spread my ass opening wide so it feels rent and molested—ready for him.
 
I try to mute my whimpers under my breath, realizing that I must remain quiet.

      
As I fuck myself, my mind takes fantasy turns, thinking there are ears pressed against my office door listening to the crude moans of a women on her knees.
 
Another journey and my mind is back to my rooted man whose dominion over me is more complete with every second I remain on my knees before his imaginary image.
 
I cringe, spasm, and shake hard.
 
My thighs weaken from the position so I can hardly hold myself in place.
 
I’m spurred by the illusion of the belt’s sting on my ass.
 
I feel as though I’m on orders to remain in place until he gives his word.
 
Seeing his cock hard and waiting for me, I rise after the climax, almost surprised to see that the stranger’s not really there.
 
This has just been me and the pictures of him and the thousands of memories that are flourishing happily without the resistance I gave them all morning.
 

      
For a moment, I’m too flustered to move, the erotic climax still having me within its lazy, lusty grasp. I see the pictures strewn about my desk, and stuff them back into the envelope.
 
They hit the bottom drawer of my desk behind a lock that keeps them safe.
 
With the phone ringing a half dozen times, I’m finally poised enough to answer.

      
Robby.

      
I pale at the sound of his voice, making his way back into my consciousness as if he’s an image of sanity.
 
He’s had second thoughts—or maybe it was just a fight with Chelsea.
 
But he sounds sincere and asks if I’ll come home for the weekend.
 
I tell him I’m not sure, finding his intrusion into my dream-state unwelcome.
 
My vows are falling around me right and left.
 
Is there nothing in me that I can call sacred—except this sex?
 
Am I that weak, my resolve so fragile?

g

      
At home, the night is long and I lie awake until well after two o’clock. Some time after, between the lost hours of the night and dawn, I awaken with the breeze of the air stirring my cheek, and then a rush of warmth. Something floods me like an ocean of tropical liquid. Arms take me inside the broad scope of their hugeness. His, the stranger’s, chest presses against my back, his groin against my ass, his face against the back of my head.
 
I sense his breath fluttering about my ear.
 
He cups my pubis with one hand, then works his finger between the soft folds of labia, oozing his way into where it’s wet.
 
As he draws his finger in and out I hear the slippery sounds.
 
Moving into his motions, I reach for more with my pussy arching its way into his hand.
 
His other hand cups a breast, lifting it tenderly as though he’s plucking a fresh peach from a tree.
 
I rock on the warmth of him and feel the pulse of his penis, like a steel rod pressing at my ass.
 
Hardly awake enough to understand what he’s doing, I finally feel him enter my ass—his access to that back door steady and without pause until his prick lodges firmly in place.
 

      
I remain silent though everything in my body screams.
 
I wriggle into him crazily, unable to stop what moves in me.
 
I think I’ll break free of him but he has me immobilized within his limbs.
 
I am contained by him, fighting with fire, but content to be submerged by the awesome power of his confining arms. I jerk as he moves inside my ass and he pounds me as hard as I desire. But I’m uneasy with him inside me so securely, every second afraid that he’ll be tearing me apart and I’ll come up wounded.

      
Every second in his grasp I’m more yielding.
 
Then the fear of his sudden invasion of my bed subsides.
 
He plays with me as we move in unison, and I hold my hands before me as though they are locked in handcuffs.
 
I’m unable to touch him in this position.
 

      
All struggle gives way to passion.
 
Even when he pinches my labia and forces fingers into my cunt, I relent. When he squeezes a nipple, the sensation is like a long thin thread of pain that reaches from the punished flesh to my fondled cunt.
 
His cock pulses as though his body reacts to my torture gleefully.
 
I feel his groin more fused to mine than ever.
 
Riding me, his dick pursues its end.
 
The closer he comes to that end, the more torture he lays on in pinches and squeezes that send their shards of pleasure into veins like icicles melting in the sunshine.
 
When I hear the mellifluous sounds of those dying moments uttered on his breath, and feel the potency of his seed flood me, I shudder as though I’ve cum myself.