The Sex Whisperer: Book 1 in the Whisperer Trilogy

by Sadie Rabbit

  She attached the Word doc to her email, took a deep breath and sent her answers into cyberspace.

  ∞

  Two days later, Armando sat two cups of tomato soup and two steaming plates of lamb and rosemary rice in front of Mike and Olivia. He departed without a word.

  Olivia had wine coursing through her veins, and she moved her chair closer to Mike, laying a hand on his thigh.

  “Are you buttering me up for something?” he asked.

  “I might be.”

  “Everything comes at a cost,” Mike said. “That’s Business 101.”

  “Not everything,” Olivia said, “but I was at yoga earlier and Charlotte came up with a crazy idea. What if I go to Hawaii with them? Maybe a shorter trip, just a quick getaway.”

  Mike snorted. “Get away from what?” he asked, spreading his arms around the dining room. “This is your personal Mar-a-Lago. It’s got everything except the masseuse.”

  “It’s got everything but people in it,” Olivia said. “I’m starting to feel like a great-grandmother doddering around a nursing home.”

  “Poor baby,” Mike said quietly. “Your life’s so rough.”

  That drop in his voice scared Olivia. In only happened when Mike was on the verge of exploding. When he acted like a cynical smartass, there wasn’t much to worry about. If he got quiet, he was angry — and fighting hard to keep his composure.

  “It’s nothing we need to decide right now,” she said.

  “What’s there to decide?” Mike asked. “I work 60 hours a week to pay for this mansion, and my wife’s asking to go to Hawaii on her own; not for work, not for a conference, but to go drink, lay out on the beach and do a whole hell of a lot of God knows what without me. I’ve already got my answer.”

  He pushed his cup of tomato soup away, splashing an oozing red pool on the tablecloth. Then, he stood and flung his napkin in the corner. “I’ve lost my appetite,” he said.

  He walked off without another word. Olivia sat there silently. She heard the whine of the garage door opening, and then the sound of Mike’s car pulling away. She fought it for a moment, but when the house fell silent, she began to cry.

  ∞

  With a tissue in one hand and her cell phone in the other, Olivia called Charlotte.

  “I didn’t realize things had gotten so bad,” Charlotte said. “How long have you been having trouble?”

  Olivia shrugged, knowing her friend couldn’t see it on the other end of the line. “I don’t know. I didn’t realize things had gotten bad.”

  “How long’s it been since you had sex?” Charlotte asked.

  “At least four weeks,” Olivia said.

  “Ouch,” Charlotte said. “I haven’t gone that long since junior high.”

  Olivia laughed despite herself. “That’s part of the reason I was so excited about this trip,” she said. “I thought he’d be able to unwind, enjoy himself and start thinking about us more.”

  “Did you tell him that?” Charlotte asked.

  “He’s a bull,” Olivia said. “I can’t tell him something like that. But should I have to? Do I need to put together reasons why I want to go on vacation with my husband?”

  “That’s a big fat ‘no,’” Charlotte said. “But your husband can be pretty dense. At least that’s what Kenneth says.”

  Olivia sniffled. “What do I do now?” she asked.

  “You want to know what I’d do or what I think you’re going to do?” Charlotte asked. “Actually, I’ll tell you what I’d do anyway: I think you need to pack a bag and come stay at our house for a few days. Let Mike realize how badly he’s neglecting his wife. Life’s too short to be unhappy, and it might be enough to jolt some life into your relationship.”

  “Or it could be the first step in my divorce,” Olivia said.

  “Riiiiiight,” Charlotte said. “You’re not going to get a divorce because you asked to go to Hawaii with your best friend. Anyway, I know you’re not coming over. I think what you’re really going to do is go up to bed and wait for your husband to come home. I wouldn’t be surprised if he does and you break your two-week dry spell.”

  Olivia smiled. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Of course I am,” Charlotte said. “I’m guessing there won’t even be any talking, just a bunch of carnal sex like it’s your wedding night.”

  “That night’s long gone,” Olivia said, but she did feel better when she hung up the phone.

  ∞

  Three hours later, nightfall had settled, and there was no sign of Mike. The house felt even emptier than it did by day. Cricket chirps wafted in through the open windows, and the cloth Anthropologie curtains hammocked back and forth like waves.

  Olivia turned on the TV, flipped through all 214 channels, found nothing she wanted to watch and turned the TV off again.

  I might as well check my email, she thought. Perhaps Mr. Thomas has a recording for me.

  She grimaced when she saw the address she’d set up: hawaiiboundgirlxoxo@hotmail.com. Looks like I’m not going to make it to Hawaii after all.

  Still, she couldn’t deny her excitement when she opened her inbox. It had only been two days since she’d sent Thomas her questionnaire, but maybe he’d gotten the recording done earlier than he thought.

  And indeed, there was a brand new shiny message sitting there with an innocuously-named recording attached: Whisper1.mp3.

  “Your recording,” the subject line said.

  Olivia clicked the message.

  Dear Hawaii Girl,

  Thanks again for reaching out to me. I’ve attached your first Whisper, and I really hope you enjoy it. I had a wonderful time creating it. In the interest of anonymity, I ask that you refrain from sharing it. In any event, I created it especially for you. I’d also love to create more for you in the future. Please email me if you’d like to talk further.

  Your faithful servant,

  Thomas

  Olivia was giddy. At least I can still have some fun. She grabbed a pair of earbuds from her desk drawer, plugged them into her laptop and clicked play.

  Chapter II: Whisper 1: Love at First Sight

  I can’t stop staring at you, the recording begins. Thomas’s voice is soft but honeyed and articulate. He sounds intelligent.

  I don’t know you, the recording goes on. I can’t possibly know you because if I’d seen you before, I wouldn’t have forgotten.

  You have dark, straight hair that rests on your shoulders like strands of silk. Your auburn eyes are my harbor, and I’m a ship pulling into them. More than once, I lose my place in my book. I’m giving a public reading at Books & Company. I’m supposed to be bolstering sales of my novel. Instead, I’m flustered over the appearance of a woman in the audience whose name I don’t know.

  I can tell you’re studying me. I feel your eyes on my face, taking in my afternoon stubble, studying my taut chest under my shirt.

  I pause during my reading and smile almost imperceptibly at you. Your face brightens. You start to look away but your gaze stays locked on me. I’m filled with something I thought I’d buried long ago: pure, unadulterated desire. You’re the sort of woman I could never trust myself to be alone with — ever — because I’d grab you and pull you to me…

  Sometimes, two people cross paths, and they just know, I think to myself. There’s some force greater than us urging us together. It doesn’t matter how happy we are in our relationships. It doesn’t matter that we’re married, have kids, and genuinely love our spouses. That can’t change the fact that there exists a form of desire that goes so deep nothing else matters. It defies logic. It defies reason. It shouldn’t happen, and yet it does.

  When I finish my reading, I work my way to the signing table. I look behind me to make sure you don’t leave. I catch a glimpse of your breasts pressing against the thin fabric of your sundress. I see your smile when you catch me looking. I need to talk to you. I need to know beyond the shadow of a doubt that you feel whatever it is I’m feeling. And I need to know
it today. The thought that I might leave this place without ever sharing a word with you is agony.

  Of course, there isn’t much I can do beyond share a word with you. I’m married, and I’m not so far gone to have overlooked the large wedding ring on your left hand.

  Seated at the signing table, I see you get in line with a copy of my book pressed to your chest. You’re 20 people back. I scarcely realize what I’m doing as I sign the books in front of me. I only notice that you’re getting closer and closer. And I’m trying frantically to think of something to say, some way of communicating what I feel about you; some way of telling you that if life had worked out differently and we were both single, I would marry you without knowing your name. Is that insane? I’d make love to you, take care of you and protect you always from the ills of the world. I would shelter you. I would pull you desperately against me and…

  Before I realize it, you’re standing at the front of the line looking down at me. You look as confused as I feel, a mixture of nervousness, desire, helplessness and excitement.

  You hand me a copy of my book.

  “Can I make it out to anyone?” I ask.

  You shake your head.

  “Your signature is more than enough,” you say.

  I melt into your smile. I know it’s impossible, but I want to take you by the hand and run out of the bookstore. I want to find some isolated field and lay with you for hours, touching every part of you on a blanket. I want to ask you questions: What was your childhood like? Are you happy with how your life turned out? What’s your dream travel destination? Then, I want to buy plane tickets and take you there.

  Instead, I stare down at a blank page of my book and start scribbling. I scarcely think about what I’m writing, but this comes out: “Meet me, please, after the signing, at the fountain behind the store.”

  I sign the book, “Your Faithful Servant, Thomas.”

  You walk away and I follow you with my eyes, hoping desperately you’ll open the book and read what I wrote. Instead, you slip out of sight behind a shelf full of Dr. Seuss books.

  Twenty agonizing minutes later, the last book’s been signed. The signing table’s back in the employee break room, and there I am shaking hands with the store manager, saying “Thank you” and “Goodbye.”

  I leave the bookstore in a hurry, and I’m almost running to the fountain when I see you waiting on a nearby bench. My book is propped up on your knees. I slow my pace feeling as if all the air’s been sucked from my chest.

  “You got my message?” I ask.

  “Which message?” you ask.

  “The one I wrote inside your book.”

  “Oh, I haven’t looked yet,” you say.

  I bite my lower lip, and you immediately start laughing.

  “Of course I got your message,” you say. “Although I must admit I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here.”

  Your voice is lyrical, magical in my ears. It’s as if God set out to mold a woman specifically for me, and he’s placed you there in front of me on the fountain like an angel. I want to taste you.

  “I’m not sure why I asked you here,” I say. “But I wanted to see you. I wanted to learn about you.”

  “That sounds creepy,” you say. Then, after a pause, “but I’m glad you asked.”

  I smile and we’re both quiet for a moment.

  “Do you want to do something?” I ask. “Play a game with me?”

  “So long as it’s not doctor,” you say, your eyes glimmering in the light reflected off the fountain.

  “How about we pretend we’re not married?” I say. “Let’s imagine we’re in college with nowhere to go, no one to answer to and no bills to worry about.”

  “We can pretend we’re entirely different people," you say.

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “And what would be the advantage of that?” you ask.

  “I suppose we could flirt,” I say.

  You smile. “Then, my answer’s ‘yes.’”

  I stand up and hold out my hand, “Come with me.”

  You stand, grasping my hand. We walk outside across the pavers and open grass, a fountain shooting water twelve feet in the air behind us.

  Your hand feels soft and warm in mine, and it’s all that I can think about — the touch of your skin. I enjoy the moment, walking casually to my car.

  “Where are we going?” you ask.

  “Let’s just pick the first place that looks interesting,” I say.

  “I guess I don’t have anywhere else to be,” you say, smiling. “I’ll just skip my geology class.”

  “We should study anatomy together,” I say, reaching across the car to place a hand on your thigh. It’s a simple act, but there’s a shock of intimacy in it. Our game has changed into a powerful form of desire. You set your hand on top of mine and drag it slowly up your thigh. Not too far, but it’s enough to bunch up the cloth of your skirt. I can feel the excitement rising between my legs, and I look for a place to stop.

  “I want to kiss you,” I say.

  “Mmmm,” you say. “That thought hadn’t occurred to me.”

  I smile. “There’s a park.” I point out the passenger window. We both look. A small cluster of skateboarders are mulling about some ramps. Behind them, the park gives way to wilderness. I pull in, and soon we’re walking hand-in-hand down a gravel path. Trees close in around us, and the sounds of the city and the skateboarders recede.

  The path’s mostly deserted. I pull you off the trail, through some brush and into a clearing. There’s a small patch of grass there, and I lay you down. I kick off my shoes. You slide out of yours. Even your small pale feet look like works of art to me. I find myself massaging them.

  “I don’t know what we’re doing,” you say.

  “I don’t either,” I say, but I reach out to grasp your hand.

  “You do this at every book signing, don’t you?” you ask.

  “Of course not,” I say. “My hands were shaking when I wrote that message in your book.”

  “I’ve only ever been with my husband,” you say.

  “Shhhhh,” I say. “We’re not married, remember?”

  I’m kissing your neck now, and you exhale sharply, then close your eyes. Everything seems to melt away into the distance: the park, the book-signing, my family. I can see and think of only you.

  Still kissing you softly on the ear, I slide my fingertips down your legs. I start again at your ankles, sliding slowly up your calves. I touch you under your knees. Then, I start up the back of your thigh.

  Soon, I’m using more than my fingertips. I slide my whole hand over your legs. I squeeze and marvel at the touch. Your legs are firm, the muscles taut. I want to bury my face in them, kiss every square inch of your body.

  Now, I’m touching your inner thigh, that spot where your skin is softest and most tender. I can hear your breath quicken.

  Our first kiss seals our pasts in a tomb and locks up our futures. My home life, my writing, the interminable book signings, dishes, cooking, shopping, everything that’s real and concrete in the world loses tangibility. I am here right now with you and nowhere else.

  We open our eyes and look directly at one another. I feel as if I’ve known you since we were children. This is truly an act of the creator, I think. There’s no other woman on the face of the earth for me but you. I want to remember your face forever, exactly how it is. Then, I want to take you home and make babies with you. I want to grow old with you, be with you through sickness and health.

  We’re kissing much harder now. There’s a force of desire in me that’s stronger than anything I’ve ever felt. I sit up and run both hands to your face. I cup your cheeks while we kiss. Both of us are breathing hard, and both of us know we’ve crossed a line.

  I run my left hand up your skirt. You give the briefest hesitation before shifting your position and opening your legs wider so I can touch you. My hands are on you quickly, rubbing generously against your panties.

  You reach
down to my pants to do the same, to feel me and explore me through my pants. When your hand settles on my manhood, I hear you gasp. I’m fully erect, harder than I have been in years, I think. My hardness is much more intense than your husband’s. And my manhood is longer and thicker. It stands up beyond my waistline, up at least to my belly button, and you begin rubbing the head quickly through my polo shirt.

  Without thinking, you lift my shirt and wrap your hand around my cock — or rather, you try. You find your hand is too small, and you break away from kissing me to look between my legs.

  I don’t mind. I want to show you every inch of my body. I have no self-consciousness around you. It’s as if my body were created for you. I start kissing your neck and caressing your breasts through your shirt.

  Your breasts are tender and supple. I want to see them. I want to kiss them. I pull hard at your shirt. A button breaks, but we don’t stop. We just maneuver so we can get your shirt off. Then, off with your bra. I’m grabbing both of your breasts at the same time, squeezing hard while your hand works my manhood between my legs. I’m squeezing your chest so hard, it almost hurts you, but I can’t help it. I want everything. I want your body completely and entirely.

  I start kissing and sucking on your pale pink nipples while my other hand pushes your underwear aside so I can feel what’s underneath.

  You don’t realize how much you needed to be touched — touched by someone who truly desires you, by someone you truly desire. You feel awakened. All of your senses are throbbing, and you pull me on top of you, then struggle to yank down my pants.

  Even through your underwear, you can feel my manhood throbbing between your legs. Fluid has started coming out the tip, and it gets your stomach wet. You grab hold of my cock and start to squeeze. I moan, and you keep going, squeezing and tugging. Then, you work your way down to the base of my manhood and grasp what hangs below. Again, you marvel at the size and weight.