by E V King
Me: No.
Strictly speaking, that wasn’t true, but that part of my life was not the kind of information I wanted to share. It was none of his business. Even more so, excessive curiosity was not something I cared for and certainly not in people who were just friends by proxy. If Milo wanted him to know, he would share those details with his friend. It wasn’t my place to kiss and tell.
James: Oh, that’s just sad. Guess I will need to hug you instead. This weekend I have a family dinner not far from your town. Care to meet up for a drink? xxx
Me: No need. I’m fine the way it is.
Apparently, James was not one to waste time. The silliness of his proposal made me chuckle, but the notion that he thought I was that woman—the kind that would jump on any occasion for male attention—filled me with disgust. I wasn’t angry; after all, James didn’t know me that well, but I didn’t want this trivial situation to ruin what I had with Milo. It had occurred to me that in turning down James for a drink I had opened the door for petty repercussions from that angle. I decided to inform Milo. Vile versions of this strand of communication would only derive their capacity for instilling doubt about me in Milo’s mind from his ignorance. Manipulation is most powerful when laced with the effect of surprise. I copied the entire conversation and forwarded it.
Milo: Seriously???
Me: Just happened.
Milo: That bastard. Trying to get with you behind my back.
Me: No worries. He never stands a chance. Let alone, against you darling.
Milo’s replies were reassuring. In the end, I didn’t know James all that well, and I had no idea how he would handle my rejection. I had done right by getting the sting out of a fiction James might try to convince him of.
Days had passed, both of us looking forward to this moment. A precious one, in which we found ourselves sheltered from earthly matters and their boredoms. I realize I have been skipping huge chunks of the in-betweens here, but that’s because to me those moments are irrelevant. I just leave it out, cut it out, for the rest is real and registered already, whereas the romance behind the scenes is not, however much it deserves to be. If this is all it can be, if these pages are its only earthly momentum, then that is where the focus should be.
“It’s been a long time. Two weeks,” Milo said as his hand slipped through my hair.
I smiled. I smiled because it hadn’t actually been that long; his words were simple, almost generic, hardly important, and yet they were. They carried the same loving emptiness on their curves, like the one chipping away inside of me when Milo was not around.
“Darling, it has only been six days,” I answered as my head leaned into his caress.
“It just seemed like forever to me.” His eyes smiled back, and there I was, drowning once more. Milo pushed me back.
“Let me see if you followed my orders,” he barked.
I had. I was standing in the middle of the room, my golden hair waving down over the back of my trench coat. He leaned back on the dresser as my fingers untied the knot in my belt. Button by button, I became undone, and stood there, under his watchful eyes, as my coat hit the floor, revealing me, leaving me exposed, wearing nothing but my black-lace garter belt, stockings, and high-heeled, leather thigh boots.
“Even better than I imagined,” he sighed, “by far my favorite outfit.”
He came to stand right in front of me. His look lingered one minute longer on my body, while his hand crawled up my back to grasp my hair as he sucked me into a passionate kiss. With a gentle pull, he forced me to look at him as he whispered his next command.
“Lie down and give me those stockings of yours.” µ
The determined tone in his voice was all I needed to obey instantly. I complied, slowly presenting him my legs, one by one, for him to take off my boots. In the dim afternoon, light creeping through the drapes, it looked like Milo could almost taste the tension, something divinely palatable. My red-painted nails patiently unhooked the flint layers of black nylon before slipping under the edge and pushing the stocking down my leg, my eyes feasting on his relish, not letting go, handing the stocking over before I repeated the action once more. I felt powerful in my surrender, creating this, our very own passionate adagio.
My stockings in his hands, he slowly walked over to the side of the bed. “Time for total surrender, darling.” He spoke softly, yet resolutely, as he leaned over to wrap my wrist with the delicate, black-lace-trimmed nylon, tying it to the bedframe, topping it off with an exquisite-looking bow as if I were a Christmas gift. Devoted to his mission, he strode to the other side to finish me off with the folding of a second bow. I took a deep breath while subtly biting my lip as I watched him undress; this was all I could manage right now. All I needed, anyhow. His dotted shirt slipped along the arch of his back, falling to the floor with the same dull thump as his pants. His form had changed a little over the years, although even way back when, he always had this cozy kind of upper body. His chest was now slightly convex, something that occupied his mind from time to time, causing him to stray into some adoringly shy, if not entirely unnecessary, moods. I was never quite able to convince him that, to me, these so-called imperfections of age could not have been more inviting, more cuddle-worthy, and nothing short of sheer perfection. He still had that air about him, that ease to charm I adored so much. With his still wonderful-looking legs, he walked toward my beauty case, digging into it with patience, and came back with my Mason Pearson hairbrush.
Milo sank into the duvet, carefully pushing his body up against mine, just enough, so the devil inside me woke to his heat and would be left wanting. His right index finger delicately traced the line of my jawbone, gently strolling along the dimple in my chin to slide down my neck and farther down over my sternum. I sighed. I couldn’t help it. His little promenade on my skin, just that kind of simple gesture, made me squeeze my legs together to counter the pressure building up between them. Not a single word was uttered. We just looked at each other, sampling the yearning that was staring back at us. There was not even a kiss. Not just yet. Milo stretched it out even longer, brushing my golden strands of hair and guiding them over my chest. Stroke by stroke, I felt the bristles pressing deeper into my flesh, eventually chafing my nipples each time his hand passed them by. His face came to hover over mine, drumming up my undeniable desire to kiss him and bite his face, but his stare silently commanded me to not move an inch. That didn’t change much; it only made me want him more.
With that last motion, Milo rose to his elbow, keeping his eyes on the brush now as it scraped its way down over my stomach. I twisted my legs together, bending my knees, pulling them up out of pure craving, my mouth letting a single moan betray the silenced passion. He got up on his knees, looking at me slightly bewildered, lifting the hairbrush up only to bring it back, to whack the top of my thigh back into submission.
“Just let it happen,” he said in that soft, oddly determined tone of his.
And so I lay there, legs spread wide, with Milo sitting in between, his eyes roaming along with the brush, taking in the splendor of the moment, ever so patiently traveling down until the handle dipped into me. My head involuntarily pushed back into the plumpness of the pillow below, my entire being gasping for air as the cold black plastic systematically dove back in. The gold-lettered inscription disappeared in me again and again, tensing me up to the point of barricading its way in. Or was that the result of my desire to keep the elliptical object inside, lock it in there because its motion felt so divine from my place of subordination?
Milo folded on top of me, pushing my face to the side with one of his rugged hands. The other remained below my waist, while his teeth gently nibbled away at my ear. His arousal pressed into my thighs like a silent omen. I ached for more, harder, all of this, but worse, better. And he would certainly agree with that thinking—that it is always by way of pain that we arrive at the sublime pleasure of the uninhib
ited. He withdrew, and I perceived a sudden decisiveness in his glare, a silent portrayal of his ruling, and wondered for a split second what I was about to undergo. I wanted to taste his grace in any form, known or unknown, for I was convinced, always have been, that whatever was coming, moments like this would always bring about unprecedented passion.
“Darling, just look at me,” he whispered as his hand guided my head, as if I had no strength, no will left, to do this without him.
Again, I obeyed, my long, black-painted eyelashes nearly stroking my eyebrows as I looked up, craving to receive whatever Milo had in mind. He stared at me, wide-eyed like me, seemingly taking in every feature and every expression, however microscopic, on my face, and not wanting to miss a thing. The waiting was already making my tongue flick along the rim of my lip, my subservient position causing every muscle to tighten. Although I couldn’t exactly see myself, I was quite certain that my eyes were filled with an undeniable glow of pleasurable despair, from this feeling he was denying me—just temporarily, I hoped—as he commenced dipping into me himself and moved the hairbrush farther down, penetrating the darkness below. I had no choice but to try to gulp in some air, but it proved to be hard to obey the rules—that is, keep my eyes open and breathe at the same time. Underneath me, I could detect the cotton starting to dampen and cling to my skin. My ability to think was once again impaired, beyond Milo, beyond me, it seemed like everything had ceased to exist. That was what made him so different. He could fuck my overbearing mind into oblivion, which is precisely the secret of his enchantment.
Nine weeks was an eternity in detoxification terms. It had been that long since I had last felt Milo. I could breathe through this situation, exist through it, although feeling alive was never a true option. What happened? Life did. Its wheels turned. Work. Obligations. Responsibilities. All the forgettable things: the ones not worth writing about, and certainly not worth reading about. It wasn’t that we hadn’t tried. We made plans, but something always turned up to ruin them. Life just happening had made me calmer, though. The waiting became less tortuous; after all, I had been used to this particular abstinence before. At first, though, it was hardly bearable; upon embarking on this adventure of the like-minded, memory had played a part. Out of sight, out of mind, out of heart—things became watered down, quite easy to handle. Distance in time helps the mind a great deal, but only until you are stupid enough to refresh your recollection, rekindle your fire. After that, new memories are harder to push back into a corner, any corner. But now, the dust had settled and the waiting, the patience, had become nothing more than a state of mind that befell me, an unwanted but inevitable stranger claiming its part in our allegiance.
At the last cancellation, Milo had called his work a dreadful son of a bitch. He shouldn’t have. If it weren’t for that job of his, with its irregular, unpredictable schedule and the traveling, a lot of recent events would never have been possible. So, although I hated the last-minute delays just as vehemently as he did, I still felt blessed, realizing that the chaos, the haphazardness, had been our ally all along. Not every day. Not every week. Hell, not even every month. But it was still enough for us to indulge in the wicked liberties we shared. The contingency it brought to our devil’s play worked for us, enhanced it all, made it all the more memorable, pleasurable, delightful, whenever and wherever we got a chance to make our dark sides collide.
I had learned not to expect too much, to be patient, and most of all not to give in to the greediness that seemed to plague humanity on all levels and with people everywhere. It is a modern disease, you know, this inability to be happy. Glad I got this marvelous cure for it. Maybe Milo was right, in some sense, when he subtly hinted that ours must be real love. He had repeated that a few times during our early encounters, but I always refrained from replying. How was I to know? Maybe it was. Or maybe this, too, would pass at some point. But these quaint little insights of his made me smile on the inside, filling me up with an outlandish sense of happiness; I found it hard to imagine anything to surpass our winks of passion; and eventually I thought maybe there was some sort of truth to his words.
When another surprise threatened to postpone our latest rendezvous, Milo did something I never expected: he pulled the overtime card. Apparently, he decided that fate could use a push every now and then. Still, I sat baffled behind my desk when he told me. I felt a little indebted, perhaps, even undeserving of this tiny bit of luck since, after all, I was merely an outsider, an unofficial presence, just me. However, keeping in mind the important stuff—our reunion, that is—saved me from wasting much time brooding on the details.
The salty shore winds wafted through my loose hair, turning it into an untamed golden mess. The sound of my heels echoed through another set of unknown streets, on my way to yet another encounter of rationally despicable, yet passionately delicious, devilishness. I followed Milo’s cue from a distance. He made desperate attempts at secretiveness. His looking over his shoulder and keeping a safe lead were obvious necessities, given his window-filled neighborhood and the real possibility of prying eyes hiding behind the curtains of the nearby condo complex.
“You shouldn’t expect much of it,” he noted, as if I would care about my whereabouts for the next few hours.
In some ways, I did care about his whereabouts colliding instantly with mine, but hardly about its attendant luxuries or the lack thereof. Throughout the years, I had remained the simple girl I had always been. I had my fair share of bells and whistles, but never valued material trappings, though they did at times provide some ease and comfort. They did not bring me, however, serenity of mind; from that perspective, materialistic silliness never quite mattered to me.
Milo guided me into his beach house, which was quite reflective of his personality. Although he was easily able, he never went overboard on the latest and greatest trinkets. I liked that about him. He remained who he was, despite it all, the name, the fame, and all that superficial crap that came along with it. It was cozy and homey, not the stereotypical alpha-male pad one might expect from a man in his position. It’s true that his personality might have come across that way; I would likely have made the same assumption if I didn’t have an inside track. The truth was, though, he was more caring than he would ever dare admit. He was not a romantic in the least, at least not in the obvious ways, but he had a natural flair, instantly making you feel at ease. In his presence, I somehow felt like I belonged. And this place reflected in its homeliness all of that effortless simplicity.
His nerves were turning tricks on him again, though. As long as I could remember, he always wanted me to have a drink—as if he still needed to woo me, to lull me into his web of debauchery—never quite grasping the fact I had long since outgrown that phase. The only thing on my mind for weeks and months now had been to get him close to me, to kiss him, to feel him in some way or another inside of me. Still, I played along, accepting a glass of chardonnay; it was merely another one of those things that didn’t matter. Milo seemed a little agitated, but I guess that was normal considering the circumstances. The walls around us carried piercing reminders of his registered life. This time I was not only a thief of time, but also an intruder, breaking and entering into the dreadful contentment of a home. I didn’t feel uneasy about it, though I was supposed to. It seemed, in a weird way, like the natural course of events, risky perhaps, yet I had my real home sitting next to me, fidgeting with his wine. I put my glass down, stood up, and let my coat drop onto the carpet.
“You asked for this. Lady in red, right?”
He scanned my barely covered body from head to toe, tracing the swirly pattern of the lingerie, leaned out of his cozy place of cushioned comfort to put down his drink, and immediately grasped my hips.
“You drove all the way out here dressed like this?” he inquired.
“Of course. Glad I didn’t get pulled over for speeding—that cop would’ve had quite the day…” I smiled. He smiled back at me and
grabbed my hand to guide me back next to him. He pushed me to lie down, only to climb between my legs for the type of hot-tempered kisses encountered in fever dreams.
“Maybe we should continue this elsewhere.” He spoke softly, as if he was worried the walls would betray him.
I followed him to his bedroom—her bedroom as well—where he started to undress, my longing body cornering him against the mirrored wardrobe door. He nearly lost his balance in the process, something I instinctively knew would make him want to control me, grasp me, and throw me down. And so he did. I landed on the bed, the tips of my hair stroking the floor over the side; his hand pushed my red lace panties to the side, and he dove right into the depths of passion. In that instant I felt a convulsive sense of release soaring up my body. He squinted his eyes, clenched his teeth, not holding back, going hard while I was getting closer to getting my fix.
A fiery struggle ensued, as usual, and Milo’s sweaty skin shimmered in the angles of the afternoon sunlight, filtering through the room. I was sitting on top of him, taking it all in. That vision of him under me, between my legs, his hands roaming across my stomach, the shimmer and scent of perspiration, undeniably aroused me further. I bent forward, stroking my face across his chest, and then up his neck and cheek, continuing on the other side and traveling back down to his chest.
“I am so loving this,” I said, half moaning, “soaking myself with you.” The sweat pearling down his face and chest drenched my hair and skin, which was shimmering in much the same way, and quenched my lust, if only just a little.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me one bit?” He chuckled.
We got dressed and grabbed a bite in comfortable quietness, while watching the news on television. I curled up next to him, softly resting my head on his chest.
“You must be cold,” he said, waving a huge plaid blanket over me before wrapping his arm back around me on top of it. It must have taken me less than a minute to fall asleep right there, on his couch, in his arms, curled up under his blanket.