by Sadie Rabbit
Money was what drove Mike to work so many hours, and that’s why she knew — she absolutely knew — that he was going to take on the new account. She’d never heard him talk about office politics before, though. There’s something odd about this promotion. She also knew it meant she was going to see him even less, and that was going to put more pressure on their relationship. But, for now, there wasn’t much she could do but smile and encourage him. That’s what good wives do.
∞
Olivia wasn’t expecting sex, but Mike reached for her while she changed into her nightgown. The sex was unremarkable. It was standard missionary style — the same sort of sex they’d had thousands of times before over the past four years: Mike on top of her with his head over her shoulder, Olivia underneath staring up at the swirls on the ceiling.
She knew she was going to have to fake it tonight. And she didn’t like that.
I really need another sex whisper, she thought, something to get me worked up.
Mike didn’t have trouble, though. He rode her hard, fast and quietly. He finished in less than five minutes — something of a record for him. Afterwards, he lay naked on his back.
Olivia rested her head on his shoulder and ran her fingers through the sweaty tufts of hair on his chest.
“What would you do if we had $1 million in the bank right now?” she asked. “No, let’s say $10 million, and no job, no responsibilities.”
“Hmmm,” Mike said. “I don’t know.”
Olivia knitted her brow. “There’s got to be something you want to do.”
“Nothing I’m dying to do,” he said. “I mean, we have as much money as we need right now. Maybe I’d golf more. I’d figure out something when the time came.”
His answer needled Olivia. She needed to know there was more to him than the desire to work, make money and go out golfing and drinking with the guys.
“What would you do with $10 million?” he asked.
“I’d move onto a yacht and hire a captain to sail us around the world,” Olivia said. “We could stop everywhere, take photos and share them with the world — remind people that our lives here are pretty damn boring. Maybe I could take some photos that would actually do some good.”
Mike’s breathing was quiet and deep. He was on the verge of falling asleep.
“Would you go with me?” Olivia asked.
“Of course, I would,” he said, “of course.”
It was the tone he’d use with a kindergartner, Olivia thought. He would have said yes to anything just then, but Olivia knew deep down that her husband wasn’t the sort of husband who’d want to travel the world with her on a ship. She knew that when she married him, so why was it bothering her now?
She sighed, rolled off her husband’s chest and turned off the lamp. Mike was sound asleep. She reached down to touch herself soundlessly, the thought of Thomas at the helm of a wooden ship … just the two of them alone at sea drifting slowly toward an exotic, far-off port.
∞
The next day, Olivia woke up late troubled by dreams she couldn’t remember. She moved through her morning ritual slowly:
1) 15 minutes of stretching
2) 10 laps in the pool
3) Breakfast: yogurt with granola, blueberries and a mug of organic coffee
4) A long shower
When she got around to looking at the clock, she realized she only had 20 minutes to get to the Cannery gallery, a newish loft/art complex downtown. Her opening was in two weeks and the director wanted to go over the prints she’d chosen. Olivia was excited. This was going to be the first opening she’d done in two years. She threw her hair in a bun with a pair of wooden chopsticks, put on some lipstick and rushed out with a binder full of photos.
Klaus, the gallery director, was like a character out of an old Russian mystery novel. He wore a black suit no matter how hot it was outside. Both his knees were shot from a parachuting accident during the war. He carried a cane. When he spoke, he waved around a half-chewed, unlit cigar. They sat at a tall café table in the center of the gallery.
“So tell me please in all honesty why it is that you chose Deception as the theme of your show,” Klaus said.
“It’s what I’ve spent years trying to capture with my camera,” Olivia said. “I think deception is one of the mind’s greatest gifts. Dreams, plays, movies, books — art is beautiful because we deceive ourselves into believing it’s real.”
Even as she said the words, a part of her was lying. If Olivia really wanted to show deception, she’d take photographs of herself listening to sex whispers while she sat naked in the bathtub. She’d take photographs of her husband laying on top while she stared disinterestedly at the ceiling.
“We all believe our own lies,” Klaus said. “You’re a wise woman, I think to myself. I think to myself that you have many great talents with the camera, and many of these pieces show deception. But I think to myself, too, that you’re a very strong woman and you can handle if I say to you that not all of these pieces are showing the deception you speak of. Some are too easy, too cliché. I count all of the pieces here; you have 40. I think 25 fit in the show. Twenty-five of them are beautiful, 15 of them not so beautiful. Fifteen of them make me think maybe you are deceiving yourself about deception, if I can say such a thing? Can you take more shots for me — for the gallery? Spending a week is all I ask. Explore the theme for me. Explore it from here.” The old man balled his knotted hand into a fist and thumped his chest.
“Plumb the depths,” he said. “Keep digging until you’re in the muck — the darkest, dirtiest place — then deliver me 15 more pieces. These 15 new pieces I think to myself will be the best of the best. That’s what I think. What do you think of that challenge, young lady?”
“I think I’ll have you 15 new pieces next week,” Olivia said.
Outside the gallery, she felt good. She had a plain task in front of her, and it didn’t involve taking pictures of plants for a mail-order catalog.
Tucked inside the climate-controlled cabin of her Mercedes, she looked at the camera in the passenger seat. The car was running but she wasn’t sure where to take it.
Klaus’s words echoed in her head: Plumb the depths, he’d said. You’re deceiving yourself.
Of course, the old man was right. The largest and most obvious deception in her life was her email betrayal with Thomas, and she hadn’t even addressed it in the show. She was also deceiving herself about her marriage. Yes, Mike’s career was going great. They had an incredible home, great friends, a great lifestyle, and yet their emotional connection had fizzled out. If it weren’t for Thomas, she wouldn’t have had an orgasm with her husband in the past year.
Was that a bad thing, though? Does marital bliss require sexual satisfaction? On paper, she knew that marriage wasn’t about sex, but without great sex, it seemed like there was something missing. Or maybe it was just the fact that the lack of great sex made their missing emotional connection all the more obvious.
Plumb the depths.
She pictured Klaus hitting his chest with a gnarled fist. It was as if he could see all the emotional turmoil she’d been struggling to hide. Perhaps the trip to Hawaii, Thomas, even the gallery show itself were all distractions to help her forget her own self-deception.
But how can I capture my own deception on film? Lies about my marriage? An email affair? She couldn’t unveil photos like that at a gallery opening where her friends and family would be gathered. She wasn’t even sure what sort of photos she could take that would illustrate her life at the moment.
I have a week, though, she thought. I don’t need to figure it out now.
She flipped a switch on the dashboard, and the car’s convertible top rolled back. Sunshine flooded in, and Olivia punched the gas pedal. If nothing else, she had an email account she needed to check at home.
Chapter VII: Whisper 3: Table for Two
Thomas’s latest email had a whisper in it — exactly as he’d promised. Olivia wasted no time clicking p
lay.
I told you I wouldn’t call, but I never said I wouldn’t write, the recording begins. Thomas’s silky voice sent a chill down Olivia’s spine.
I pull a postcard from my desk, Thomas says. It’s one that I bought in Hawaii and never sent. The sun is setting over a magnificent golden beach. Turquoise water pounds the shore.
“I am nothing without you,” I write. “Can we please meet for dinner at Franco’s? If you can come, wear a skirt. I’ve reserved a booth under the name Kent. 8 p.m. tonight.”
I sign the card “Superman.”
I know your husband’s at work, so I decide to drop the postcard in your mailbox at 10 a.m. I’m afraid you might see me sneaking about in front of your house, but it’s worth the risk.
There’s no movement behind your windows. Even the wind and leaves around me are still. I drop the postcard in your mailbox and leave quickly.
I’ve reserved a very specific booth at Franco’s, and I arrive before you do, 30 minutes early in fact. The large, wraparound booth sits in a dark corner on a raised platform. A thick white tablecloth hangs to the floor.
Shortly before 8 p.m., I slip a note into your folded-up menu. Then, I make sure no one’s looking and I sneak under the tablecloth, hiding on my hands and knees. No one can see me. Even the waiter, I’m sure is wondering where I’ve gone.
You arrive precisely at 8. The waiter seats you, and your legs appear in front of me under the tablecloth. You’ve worn a skirt, and you don’t know that I’m there. Your voice and the waiter’s are muted through the heavy fabric.
Soon, though, you open the menu, and find my message.
Hello, beautiful,
Please don’t let this frighten you, but I’m hiding under the table. Silly, I know, but I’d like to pleasure you without anyone in the restaurant knowing. When the waiter comes back, tell him I had to leave, and you’ll be dining alone. Reach out for me if this is okay. If it isn’t, feel free to leave, and you’ll never hear from me again.
Your faithful servant,
Thomas
I bite my lower lip while I wait for you to finish the note. I’m surprised how nervous I am — hidden there under the table, your legs folded in front of me. I can smell the patent leather of your shoes. You’re wearing tights that fasten to garters halfway up your inner thigh. I imagine parting your legs, so I can touch you there. Already, a hard-on is growing in my pants.
You’re ready, too. You don’t even use your hands to find me. You simply open up your legs for me. I have to force myself to be quiet and patient, though all I can think of is pulling down your tights and plunging my tongue deep inside you. I close my eyes and count to three, then readjust my position until I’m much closer to you. I’m directly in front of your open legs. I slide my hands down your legs and slip both your feet from your shoes. I begin massaging you through your nylons. I love your delicate toes. I slide my fingertips along the underside of your calves again and again until I feel you loosening, hungry for my touch. At last, I kiss you.
First, I start with your knees. You jerk away momentarily, ticklish there. I straighten your left leg so that I can travel down it, kissing you all the way to your feet. I want to explore every part of your body. I want to smell and taste all of you. I kiss the sole of your foot, and you jerk your leg back gently. I pull it more tightly to me and kiss the top of your leg.
I realize that it’s never occurred to me to kiss a woman’s feet before. With you, I want to touch and kiss you everywhere. I want this moment to stretch out and last forever — to breathe in every part of you deeply, to explore your body in the dark of this fancy Italian restaurant — to give us a moment we’ll never forget.
The waiter comes back to the table, and you start to pull your legs away. I hold them close. Above me, I hear you tell him your date had to leave, that you’ll be dining alone. I sit incredibly still and listen while you order a rockfish sandwich, tomato bisque and a glass of wine.
When the waiter’s gone, I waste no time. I put my hands on the insides of your thighs and spread your legs apart gently. I slide my fingertips slowly up your skin to unhook your tights. Then I slip them down, kissing your skin as I go. You are warm and supple under my lips. Everything about your body is perfect.
My hard-on throbs painfully in my pants. I unbuckle my pants with one hand and slide my cock out. Then, I take your right foot and set it on top of me. Your heel rests on my balls, and you begin massaging the tip of my cock with your toes.
As you stroke me with your foot, I slide my hands up your thighs and press my thumb gently against the front of your underwear. I can feel how soft it is there beneath the cloth. I start massaging your sex. I press against you with my thumb, rolling it in small, tight circles.
I flatten my hand and slide my palm up and toward your stomach. Slowly, I increase the pressure on your sex. As I go, I notice you’ve spread your legs wider and slid forward — closer to me. I can smell your sex now, and — although I told myself I would wait — I can’t help but pull down your panties.
It’s hard to take off your panties while you’re seated, but you help me by shifting your position in your seat. In the dim light under the table, I can’t make out your sex. I want to pull out my cell phone and shine a light on it so that I might drink all of you in, remember every inch of your body.
Knowing that I can’t do that, I move so I’m sitting Indian style. Then, I take your feet and wrap them around myself, so my cock sticks up throbbing between your feet. I grab your ankles and begin moving them up and down so that I can feel you stroking me as I stroke you. I close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the deep and intense pleasure.
I lift my hands off your ankles, and you continue to stroke me with your feet. I concentrate on the feel of your skin beneath my fingers, sliding my hand up your leg. I lean in to kiss you, softly at first. Then, I shift forward and run my tongue up the insides of your thighs. I move higher and higher until I’ve reached your sex.
There, I pause. I lick you above your sex, beside it, even in that narrow space below it. I can smell your musk, warm and inviting. Your feet feel so good on my cock that I have to force myself not to think about it, so I don’t finish.
When I finally taste you, it’s tinged with sweetness and something heavier, something metallic. I kiss the bottom of your sex and move slowly to the top. Then, I repeat the process. After I’ve done this several times, I feel you reach your hand under the tablecloth and grab a handful of my hair. You pull on it sharply, pressing my face against your body. I move my tongue faster and faster against your sex.
All the while your feet stroke my hard-on.
I pull your hand from my hair and kiss your palm. I suck on it, then I put each of your fingers in my mouth and suck on them one at a time, too. Before long, I’m back between your legs. I lick you from bottom to top. Then, I stop and concentrate on the heart of your sex, the point where it opens up. I straighten my tongue and push it inside you. Your feet stop stroking my cock, and I slide my tongue even further in. I run my right hand up above your sex and use my moist thumb to massage your clit.
I can feel your thighs tighten on the side of my head, and I know that you’re enjoying it. I’m overwhelmed by your taste, by the secrecy and thrill of being with you in the presence of others. I start moving my hips, thrusting my cock into that hollow between your feet. As I do, you stroke me faster — more urgently.
I’m about to come, so I sit up, grab your ankles and squeeze your feet together even harder against the base of my cock. As I look down, I’m amazed by how thick I am. Even in the dim light, I can see my cock throbbing for you.
I thrust my hips up one last time. As I do, I grab your feet and wrap them tightly around my swollen head. Then, I shut my eyes and finish. My whole body spasms with the first gush. I’m holding my breath now, and I keep holding it through the second and third waves. My hands are wrapped tightly around the tops of your feet, and I can feel them grow slick and moist.
I look down and
see that there’s come on my stomach and a mess of it in my pubic hair. You’re massaging my balls with your toes. Then, suddenly, you stop.
Above, I hear the waiter set a plate on the table. His voice comes to me muted, asking if you’d like anything else. I pull a handkerchief from my jacket. Carefully, I wipe off your feet and set them back on the floor. Then, I wipe myself clean and pull up my pants.
It’s you I’m focused on now. I waste no time. I push your thighs apart roughly, and begin kissing and sucking on your clit. You clamp your legs against the side of my head and reach both hands under the table. You grab two fistfuls of my hair and use them to force me harder against your sex.
You slide your hips further down the chair, and I press my tongue hard inside you. I’m listening as I do, nervous that others patrons will hear any noises you might make. I know it’s torture for you to stay quiet. I guide my tongue in and out of you faster. Then, I use both of my thumbs to massage you. I circle around your clit with my right thumb and I press my left thumb inside your sex, opening you up further for my tongue.
I speed up. One thumb thrumming against your clit, the other gliding in and out of your sex. Faster and faster. You’re pulling my hair so hard now, I’m afraid you’re going to rip it out.
It doesn’t last long, though. Suddenly, your whole body grows still. I keep moving my hands and tongue against you. Then, you’re shuddering violently. You release the fistfuls of hair. Glancing up, I can see you grab and squeeze the table. I keep licking you, tasting you, loving you as you tremble beneath me.
Eventually, your legs stop shuddering, and you lower yourself back onto your seat. Very gently, I kiss your clit. I slide my tongue over all your sex trying to memorize all of you, your scent, your shape, the powerful and all-consuming way you come.