by Dusty Miller
The dim reflection in the glass was all she had to go on. She carefully picked up a dish, reveling in the feel of his strong middle finger in her pussy, with other fingers stroking and stimulating in the area of the clitoris…his other hand rolling her nipple as he came up close to her ear and nibbled on the lobe, hot breath making goose bumps rise all up and down her.
She put the dish in the rack.
“One down.” She fished around in the bottom of the sink under the suds and located the other dish.
There was no one at a window or out in a backyard. She watched the reflection of his dark hand on her pale breast as she lovingly washed the second plate, gasping with pleasure. With a quick rinse under the tap, she put it in place in the dish rack.
“Two down.”
She turned the plug but left it in place to strain out bits of food. The water gurgled in exit mode.
She wrung out the fuzzy green dish scrubber and put it on the special drainer thingy he had there for it as he worked his magic.
He let her go momentarily and she turned around, still pressed back by his nearness and imminent intentions. He wrapped his arms around her, and leaned in as she closed her eyes and enjoyed his attentions. The sound of a car door and dogs barking somewhere only made it the more sweet.
Her hands were strong enough, and she kept pulling on the back of his head. The kisses were everything to her just then. He dropped a hand and fingered her some more, with Heather gasping and fighting for breath against his foraging tongue, as he explored every cubic millimetre of her mouth and lips, face and neck. She loved the feel of his tongue in her ear, and groveled against the probing of his hard finger.
“Do you know what Braden’s Shock Treatment means?”
She shrugged faintly and kissed him some more.
“Who cares? It will be wonderful.” She bit her lip and they gazed at each other, the air laden with promises unspoken but about to be kept.
Loosening his grip, he straightened up, and with a quick gesture, made her move out from the sink a bit and stand up tall. Then he put his right arm under hers, and around her shoulders and then he bent. The other arm went behind her legs, as far down as he could reach, just behind the knees, and then he lifted her bodily and carried her off into the basement, with Heather gasping and giggling as she realized that there were more pleasant surprises in store.
A glimpse of the clock on the stove showed it to be six-oh-seven p.m. on an otherwise quiet Saturday night.
#
On the ground floor was a small library, with its own fireplace. All four walls were ceiling-high with bookshelves, except for a couple of tall windows and above the door.
In a nook was a desk, and Sister Heather had already noted the PC on her first tour of the place. There were a couple of laptops around as well. Someone else had already sort of made them their personal property, and there were apparently no other jacks except for those already installed in three or four rooms of the house. Here at least, she could have access to the internet, if she dared use it.
Arriving back from school early on Wednesday evening, she went straight to the reading room on an off chance. Christmas was coming and a lot of activity seemed to revolve around the kitchen and the lounge area.
A quick look confirmed the place was empty. Better, it had a lock on the inside of the door and the machine hummed softly, already turned on and with the desktop blank from being left unattended. She quietly locked the door. Shaking the mouse, the screen lit up and she sat down. She was still in her coat, which she unbuttoned, listening to the sounds of cheerful people on the other side of the rear wall.
That must be the kitchen.
With a deep breath of resolution, she began searching the internet for information. Finding what she needed with a few key words, she quickly sent some materials through to the printer. This was the danger time, but it shouldn’t take long. She stood and went over to it, checking to make sure the form was legible and not tiny on the page or anything. Her pages looked good.
Going back to the computer, the original source of all her troubles and all of her exaltation as a woman, she shut the website down, deleted the browsing history, and pondered whether to shut it off but decided not to in case someone else had a project going.
Putting the folded papers into the back of a big hardcover from the shelf by the door, one on Byzantine mosaics and other ecclesiastical art forms, she quietly left the library and headed up the back stairs to her room.
The smell of food coming up from below tormented her as she washed and freshened up in the austere fashion she had employed for over twenty years.
She had no choice but to go down for supper, and yet on the other side of that window freedom beckoned.
#
Dinner was lighter in mood, as the festive season took off and everyone had something to say except her. It didn’t help, and their apparent happiness threw her down into a well of self-pity however so briefly. She no longer felt like a part of it.
After what seemed like forever, she excused herself and went up to her room. She changed into her pajamas, and sat in a chair beside a good desk lamp. She wasn’t really fooling herself that she was reading it as she idly flipped pages. At one time the book would have fascinated her.
Now it was merely symbolic.
The papers from the back of the book were safely in her top drawer. She had plenty of time.
She kept looking at her watch…darkness came early in December. Every minute dragged.
Sister Heather got a good black pen out of her teaching bag, and put the papers on top of her small work desk.
She adjusted the hooded desk lamp. Filling out her name, age, current address, presumably this address, all that was easy enough. Signing and dating the thing took but a moment.
Hesitating over the box for ‘reason’ she wracked her brain. There was no way to tell the whole story in that little space.
Dispensation sometimes took weeks or months. There were only so many recognized grounds, bureaucracies being what they were.
Finally she wrote, ‘incompatibility.’
That would have to do, that and her absence.
Heather put an eraser and a staple remover on the paper to prevent it from blowing off. She went to the closet and pulled out some clothes from inside of the green plastic garbage there. Plain, ordinary jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and Braden’s ironic final touch, a military camouflage jacket with a black wool toque stuffed in the pocket.
She changed out of her pajamas and put on the clothes, always listening for the knock at the door.
Heather got her toothbrush, and took the house keys off a small personal keychain, which was now empty of all keys, and left them on the desk.
Her pajamas went in the bag, along with the slippers.
She sat on the chair and carefully laced up a brand-new pair of sneakers in somber greys and browns, all suede and stripes. Heather pulled the bag closer and tied a knot in the loose plastic at the top.
Heather opened the window. She chucked her few small belongings out into the night.
Taking one last look at the room, in the brush-line behind the house the lights of Braden’s vehicle waited. She could hear the motor running. She could practically see him inside, but it was pure imagination.
She crossed herself reflexively. Sticking the right leg over first, she kept a good grip on the sash and got her other foot firmly out and onto the ladder which led to a platform on the second floor.
She managed to pull the window down mostly closed and took a deep breath to calm herself.
People said not to look down, but it wasn’t so bad and she had to know where she was going.
What nerve she must have…hah!
Heather was a free woman, and she was also someone clinging to a fire escape thirty feet off the tarmac below. Her thoughts focused. She began her descent into the unknown as her heart lifted and her spirits soared.
It felt like the right thing to do, this. This was it.
They had found each other, a miracle if there ever was one.
They had the rest of their lives to figure out what it all meant.
End
About the Author
Constance ‘Dusty’ Miller has written fiction, and non-fiction for newspapers and magazines, including a brief stint as sports editor of a small-town weekly. She likes to make people laugh as well as think. Her erotica has strong qualities of romance. Out of work and recovering from a life-threatening illness, someone suggested writing erotica. Love makes the world go around, and Dusty can no longer deny its pull. Dusty squeezes a little writing in between raising a daughter and building up her business.