Rendezvous With a Stranger (3 page)

      
I’m as wet as she appears.
 
A finger inside my wetness pokes deep.
 
Drawing it out, I lick the juice, then put it back for more.
 
My center sliver is hard, as hard as Shelley’s I suspect.
 
Though I can’t see clearly how her clit’s become a tiny penis—now I imagine it in my mind.
 
She’s fingering herself just as I finger my velvet channel.

      
I think of Isaac, imagining him with his hidden camera filming me, tucked somewhere inside a closet in this apartment peeking out as I let a crescendo build and my body sweats.

      
Ah, Shelley, how delicious you’ve become!

      
She undulates before the mirror, before the femme domme with the boots and crop.
 
Pained.
 
The pins are agony.
 
Each pinch of flesh sends another pain-wave to her tortured brain.
 
Removing one, the domme makes her massage the wounded skin and a spike of distress makes her look as though she’s about to cry.
 
I remember once it happened to me and I stormed from the room away from that lover of the hour.
 
He was a sadistic ass, a menacing angel.
 

      
Shelley’s a masochist and sadist all in one guise.
 
But the roles and titles don’t seem to matter.
 
She submits. I think of the stranger doing this to me.
 
I’d probably relent, unlike the day I bolted from the pain.
 

      
With each clothespin jerked free, Shelley whimpers sadly.
 
And with the last few quickly plucked like feathers from a holiday hen, her tears run free.
 
A gasp, a sigh, another look into her mistress’s eyes, she centers on her angry pubis and rubs in earnest, throwing herself against her hand.
 
She’s tense.
 
I’m tense.
 
The two of us prevail against the horror, looking for some pleasure.

      
But then she sighs, like opening up the sky to let the sun shine down.
 

      
Falling into the mirror she reclines against the glass.
 
I see the cloud of her breath fog the mirror and watch her eyes droop low.
 
The hand at her crotch toys reluctantly.
 
The last waves of her climax are gentle ones.
 
Her lips kiss her reflection, just touching the surface as if they’re seeking skin when there is none.
 

      
I’m breathless, wishing I could climb inside her lust-filled face, or lay my hands along a smooth thigh and then taste the perspiration with my tongue.
 
All just wishes, pipe dreams to play on other days.
 
The tape turns grainy and she disappears, threads of her coming and going until the picture turns to snow.

      
In the middle of Shelley’s orgasm, I came.
 
My hand’s wet, and my body shakes, and I’m so hot, I have to strip out of my clothes.
 
I would have before all this started, but there was just no time.

      
I think I’ve given up on the stranger, like giving up meat or drink for lent.
 
I’m swearing him off, thoughts of him go unheeded—at least by my brain.
 
My body still responds, jumping at any stray remembrance of him that appears in my head.
 
But my attention is focused on Robby, so I tell myself.
 
He wants me home for the weekend, and I go expecting to love him out of lust for Chelsea—or at least tempt him to forget her for an hour.

      
The ride home is filled with honking cars and speeding trucks, the dust of an autumn day that’s far too hot for the season.
 
Someone will say it’s Indian summer, the last mellow moment before the sun finally sets on the grand old season of brilliant color and buzzing insects.
 
I say it’s far too early, this is only September and the trees are hardly half-turned, and the first real frost hasn’t stung.
 
For me, this is just another late summer afternoon in a hot and summer-weary city.

      
The country is much cooler, the air turning fresh about the time I lose sight of the city skyline in my rearview mirror.
 
Off the highway, I wind my way through a dozen streets with mansions, through a few suburban thoroughfares of brick-faced houses, and then descend into the woods to our simple A-frame sitting in the middle of two acres of trees.
 
I smile seeing Robby on the patio getting the barbecue ready.
 
Steaks.
 
We’ll have steaks and salad and red wine and long conversation about my day and my students, and my week—and his.
 
I’ll think about our making love and start to wind my foot about his leg and run my toes up to his naked thigh.
 
He wears his shorts a little too long so I can’t get inside to massage his crotch properly.
 
But he loves the gesture anyway.
 
I think with as much sexual heat as I’m feeling now—still fueled, I admit, by a stranger with long dark hair—I’ll have him seduced before we get to dessert.

      
I wonder what I’ll do with him then?
 
Fuck him nasty like my pussy wants?
 
Or satisfy myself with revenge and leave him cold?

      
I opt for sex.

      
Too many days since the stranger raped me, I want fresh cock against my cunt, hands combing my skin, masculine breath, a creative tongue, and Robby’s chest against my breast.
 
He sees me from the car and waves.
 
A flight of stairs and I’m in his arms.
 
Sensing the lust between us quickly bloom, we forget the barbecue in favor of the bedroom … fresh cock, hands, breath, tongue and colliding chests. I think of this as Carolyn’s revenge—or perhaps Ellen Laurey’s. With any name the fucking’s sweet … and thorough.
 
I’m all over the bed, legs as wide as the open ocean, deep as his cock will drive between them.
 
We’re kissing like we did two years before, like the summer before we married when our hands were new to each other’s skin and his every touch electrified my nerves, and the feeling of his fingers against my flesh was almost painful. I spasm from the beginning.
 
He’s saying,
“oh, god, I love you, Lynnie …”
using the name I love most.
 
It’s an affirmation of remembrance spoken with lips of regret and guilt.
 
I let the revenge pass, ignore the pangs of pain, let it all seem like a grand reunion, like we’re a pair of fighting lovers making up from a cruel war.
 
I treasure his lips on my left breast, sucking the soft hillock so hard there will be a red spot there when he’s done. He works my body as if he’s drawing my life force into him, without diminishing any part of me, just adding the essence of Carolyn to his wordless dance.
 

      
I clutch his erection, spasm after spasm sucking his seed into me.
 
I think my cunt will erupt, but I hold back.
 
This is too perfect to quickly waste.
 
Robby rolls me over and raises my ass.
 
With a few strikes of his palm, I think of Shelley in the mirror, knowing that my ass is turning red.
 
I egg him on,
“Do it more, babe!”
 
He’s happy to answer with more of his palm, but this consumes him fast.
 
He’s too eager for the restraint the stranger would have, and I’m too willing to let him pump me hard.
 

      
He reaches around my torso and pulls me up against his chest, hanging on to breasts with both hands.
 
I gasp and he answers with his own.
 
Like a Grecian chorus we continue this dialogue.
 
Pumped, hard driven, fired.
 
Heat, the sweltering heat from an aging sun falls on our sweaty pores. It’s the fuel that drives me to the finish with a sweet song, and whimpers flowing free as shudder on shudder leaves me faint.

      
With his cock still lodged deeply, I collapse to the bed, hips raised enough so that as Robby burrows with his final thrusts, he can shoot with the full force of his body pummeling deeply.
 

      
When he’s out of me, settled on the bed at my side, I stroke the cock that stroked me well.
 
Moving down, I tongue the dripping organ and pretend I’ll try to make him hard again.

      
“Ah, Carolyn,” he moans.
 
You’d think he was in agony being loved.
 
I’ve almost forgotten about Chelsea and the stranger, but just hearing his voice it all comes back, and the mood turns bittersweet.
 
How many more times can I get my energy on for him? I wonder.
 
If this could only last.

      
Something happens between Friday night and Saturday.
 
I fall in love with him again.
 
We screw in the afternoon, lazily, while a football game goes on behind.
 
Robby doesn’t even stop to watch in the middle.
 
All eyes are on me, his hands caress me forcefully and I can feel an honest passion.
 
He licks my ear the way he used to, and I shiver as he runs his hands on my damp skin.
 
His skin clings to mine letting the elements of us ooze together.
 
I feel the rhythm of his breath tickle the skin on the back of my neck. The line he draws down my spine makes me grind my cunt into the sheets.
 
When he reaches my ass and drives a finger toward the rear door, I seethe, a meaningful,
“oh no”
, that makes him back away.
 
I want him there.
 
I want him forcing his finger beyond the barrier, demanding he enter my ass without a fight.
 
I squirm to have him return, but he moves on deeper to where my cunt is not so dangerous or so enlivened.
 
Riding his finger, I squeeze it like I’m going to cum, then Robby pulls my ass up into his face and begins to suck. We feel sticky together like this, his saliva and my juice.
 

      
I hope for his tongue in my anus but he stays clear.
 
He’s afraid of me and that little bit of sexual wrath that he can’t handle when my body’s about to detonate.
 
It’s a stunt I’ve pulled a hundred times when he’s wanted to take my ass, and he’ll remain gun-shy forever, I suppose.
 
Now though, I’m too close to cumming to care
 
With his tongue at my clitoris I sway to each delicious lick, and the spasms build.
 
He sucks my labia and eats them with nibbling teeth.
 
Then drawing my bud into his mouth, he tugs hard waiting to hear me shriek before he backs off.
 
Then with expert skill, I’ve always said he has a gift, he rubs that spot along the swollen side of my clit and I start to break free.
 
I wish I could put my hands in his brown hair and pull him tight against the place, but he’s out of reach.
 
Even pressing my groin back into his face, he keeps it agonizingly gentle.
 
I grab and grab and grab for something that’s not there, and though the cum rages on, I relax at last, even as he leaves me wanting more.

      
“You’ll have to do me again,” I tell him when we’re finally out of each other’s arms.

      
“Not enough?” he can’t believe me.

      
“I’m horny enough to for two weekends, darling.”

      
“Good,” he says.

      
I have this rare thought that I’m head over heels in love again; that love can really be this perfect and there will be no more wars between us—ever; that we’re not just two lost souls waiting for a civil way to end a mistake.
 

      
Saturday night we go dancing at a pub just a mile away.
 
The driving beat of old 60’s rock and roll pounds in my head. With Robby dancing seductively, I’m almost sure I’ll never respond to my ponytail lover again.
 
Robby has great hips and an ass that begs for my fingers inside his pants.
 
His is not as fine as my stranger’s but this one has always had its special allure when clothed in a pair of blue jeans.
 
Yeah, I think we’ll make it at least another year, and maybe after this weekend Chelsea will disappear.
 
Then I’d even consider going back to my old teaching job here in suburbs.
 
Quit the city altogether.
 
I can forget the university and all its perks, if the benefit of scaling down my aspirations is Robby’s adoration.
 
I’m so moved, it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him something stupid like I’m considering moving back home.

      
But then, by the time we get home Saturday night, we’re fighting—something to do about nothing that I can remember, though it seemed important when I was half-drunk.
 
By the time we go to bed, there’s not much love left and the lust has been abated with a healthy burst of venom.
 
We sleep on opposite sides of the bed until morning wakes us and we spend our Sunday happily in separate rooms.

      
On Monday morning, Robby will be back to Chelsea and me to my daydreams. The single thought I have the entire drive back is: will I see the stranger on the street, or will we meet next in the bar where we fucked?