by O. L. Casper
Perhaps this is too aggressive, for he backs off. Then, seeing my confusion, he moves in for another kiss. His hands touch my hips again and slowly make their way up my sides, and to my breasts. At first he runs his fingers along the outer edge of my soft bosom. Then he makes his way outward to the erect nipples, elongated like two short bullets. He lowers his head and licks them, moving his tongue toward the middle of one slowly, like his hands did. He sucks one of my bullet tips and I almost fall down in the sheer wave of pleasure this produces. I want to push his head into my breast but resist the temptation. Perhaps he doesn’t like it rough and I don’t want to force the issue early on. We’ll get to that later.
In a split second of sheer imaginative perversion I see myself looking down toward his mouth clamped onto my breast and blood starts streaming out full force around the edges, as though he is biting me like a vampire. At the thought, I make a start, jumping back.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yes, just a bit ticklish,” I lie.
“Do you want to stop?”
“No, do you?”
“Oh, definitely not.” He smiles.
I take one of his hands and pull him down to the ground. I stoop down on hands and knees as he sits with his legs spread, and insert his lengthy cock back into my mouth. I floss it around for a bit before I take it out and straddle him. I feel between my legs, I’m gushing—wet flowing down my inner thighs. A knee down on one side of his hips, I lift the other leg so the knee is in the air, foot firmly planted on the ground. I rub the tip of his member around the edges of my labia, on the clitoris, then inward. I insert the tip into my wet, soft vagina, feeling it enter and slide along the vaginal walls. I enjoy the sensation that is produced by gyrating my hips and bobbing up and down, only allowing the tip in for now. I look into his eyes. The lids are heavy. Clearly he is experiencing a form of ecstasy. This moment crystallized in my mind forever, I’ll never look at Mark Stafford the same again. From this point on, I own him. I don’t care whether he fucks other women. He’ll never fuck anyone else in the ways I am about to fuck him. I’ve taken classes taught by porn stars, I’ve studied everything from the Kama Sutra and all forms of Tantra Yoga, to all the major Western works on the subject as well as some of the more esoteric ones. And I’ve practiced on two men and a few women in my time. I had to leave them all because the sex-mind games I played resulted in pure ecstasy and total obsession. I’m dangerous, bitch. I smile to myself as think this, looking on him, throttling him, gently guiding him deeper—home. This produces waves of ecstasy, which seem to flow up from the pulsating tip, through me and outward, undulating like the sea. So much ecstasy I almost lose muscle control—almost, but not quite. Momentarily I think of something other than the sensation of the head of his cock and the waves recede, slightly but tangibly. I think about the waterfall and the trees, the ride to the lagoon. Life is like a dream now more than ever, and I get the sensation of being far from our bodies, floating up above in a light breeze like an out-of-body experience.
I pull myself back to reality. But even immersed in it, it’s hard not to slip away—my vagina fully aroused, a waterfall in its own right, just kissing it and sucking it and making my whole body loose, ready to flop over and slide around in the sand. Any sense of time is gone.
I gently slide Stafford’s penis out and turn over, on hands and knees. Stafford instinctively rises to his knees. I reach back and grab hold of his pulsating shaft, sliding it once more inside. At this point I’m so wet, it’s dripping down my inner thighs. I can feel it running down to my knees and flowing into the sand. I feel his hands grasp my hips with a certain tenderness. He slides forward gently, pulling me onto him with his hands. Then he thrusts harder. I let my head down with the flow of pleasure emanating from between my legs as he rams harder. Over the sound of the waterfall I can’t hear whether he’s breathing heavy or not, but I imagine that he is. I begin to sigh. The riding seems to go on for hours. It’s near total darkness now. If it wasn’t for the high yellow moon, I wouldn’t see anything at all. I realize he’s not wearing a condom and I’m using no form of birth control. Bad girl. But I really don’t care. I’m so far gone by the experience of all that is Mark Stafford that I don’t care if I have his baby, and I’ve never thought like this before. It’s probably all the money. I’d suck him off and spit out two gold coins. Waves of ecstasy come over me. My body starts to quake as I lose muscle control and my arms collapse, face against the ground—ass in the air. How does he go so long without cumming? I wonder. Just as I think this I feel a swelling of the cock deep inside. A crescendo of pleasure blends with a sensation of the silvery fluid pumping violently inside of me. Apparently he doesn’t care either. That or he expects me to take care of it.
He slides it forward and back, but slower now. But he’s still hard—how? The man is a Trojan horse. Perhaps Stafford was a name given to his English forebears for a literal reason.
After riding the steady pleasure waves of this post-orgasm tranquility, he eventually did limpen and withdrew. I rolled over in the sand and looked up at him. Even dangling, it was a massive shaft indeed, hanging halfway down between the hips and knees.
Stafford dove into the lagoon and swam underwater. I followed close behind. He was dressed by the time I reached the other side, and I watched him watch me as I put on my dress. He looked on with an expression of calm satisfaction. Slipping on the dress, I felt deeply content. I made a conscious effort not to smile, not wanting to give too much away.
The ride along Public Highway in the Mucielago was similarly without verbal communication. Somewhat more comfortable with Stafford, I didn’t look at him, but instead gazed out the windows at the passing countryside. He didn’t drive as fast back to the barn as he drove from it. Parking next to the older Porsche, he asked me, “See you back at the villa?”
I nodded with a smile and got in the 911 Turbo. Before I could even start it the Murcielago had left behind a trail of dust.
I was so relaxed, my mind in such a daze, the whole way back I didn’t think of anything. I didn’t even wonder what was going on between Stafford and me. That’s quite clear, isn’t it? Quite simply, I was one move nearer my objective and I could see all the moves ahead clearly like in a game of checkers.
Thunder cracked and lightning struck sending an immediate bright flash through the gray of my room, as I lay on the bed with the MacBook propped open in front of me. I surfed aimlessly on the tides of cyberspace. First skipping listlessly through Stumbleupon—the discovery of a another dwarf planet in our solar system, governments admit aliens are real, twisting architecture with Mathematica—then the news on Twitter. I saw some articles about flooding in North Florida. I checked the specific parts that had flooded. They are to the north and west of where my family and friends are in Gainesville. Archer, Live Oak, and Branford were hit the hardest. The thought that I ought to call my parents and Julie flashed through my mind, but I felt too lazy and content to do so. My dad might think I was stoned, Julie would know I got laid and neither would be too happy with me. My next thoughts made me curious and pulled me somewhat out of my contented stupor: I wondered how the event at the falls affected my future at the workplace. I began to feel uneasy and even to worry, though I can’t pinpoint the reason behind it. All I know is my content gave way to a general malaise, and a gloom settled around me that I couldn’t shake for days. Perhaps I was, on some unconscious level, falling in love with Stafford and realized it was a hopeless situation. I almost laughed out loud at the thought. Then I wondered if it was because Stafford made me miss Julie in some odd way. No, the thought had less veracity than the idea of being in love with Stafford, which really wasn’t true at all either. Perhaps I sensed the impending chaos with a sixth sense I was as yet unaware of. Inevitably, there would be a falling out with Stafford. There always is in these highly charged relationships, especially in ones where one of the partners is married to someone else. The more I thought about the situation, the more I reali
zed how much I felt contempt for Isabella. Looking deeper still, I realized how I envied her and wished I was married to Stafford myself. Even if it was a loveless relationship, I would have security and more importantly than anything else, Savannah would be my own.
I proceeded to think what I considered to be thoughts that could only be described as deeply evil and worked hard to shake them from my head. I put the MacBook away and concentrated on thoughts of that little baby. I realize up to this point I have not adequately described my boundless love for that beautiful baby in this diary. Savannah is the one and only thing that has made my heart sing utterly and purely since I came onboard with the Staffords. I feel somewhat mad admitting to such an inordinate amount of affection, bordering on obsession, for a little person that can’t even talk yet, and writing about it feels false. It feels as though I’m describing something that is really an out-and-out lie, but it is not. Perhaps it seems that way because in writing it I’m not able to give a satisfactory explanation as to the cause of these amorous feelings, so it feels faked because it’s unexplained. All I can say is that I had then (as I have even more so now) tremendous, larger-than-life feelings for Savannah. No, it doesn’t make sense. Yes, it borders on obsession. But as often happens in life, the reasoning behind an individual’s motivation in any given act is not always clear.
July 22, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas
I sat with Anna on one of the unnamed pink beaches on the East Coast of Eleuthera. This was some days after the incident at the falls with Stafford, after which I hadn’t seen him. The days passed pretty ordinarily, mostly with little Savannah; feeding her or carrying her off to sleep or just sitting with her, entertaining her. Watching cinema, surfing the net, or reading in my spare time, I didn’t even think about what happened at the falls other than occasionally at night as I was drifting off to sleep and couldn’t really control my thoughts. It began to feel like a strange dream I couldn’t place, or even like it never happened, and I dismissed it eventually as a fluke. I didn’t socialize with any of the maids or porters or anyone else, and I hadn’t seen Anna much at all since I skipped out on meeting her in favor of the rendezvous with Stafford.
Anna rolled a joint comprised mostly of the AK-47 strain while I looked at the pink sand below the small cliff of white rock on which we sat, then out to that brilliant turquoise sea that faded into a darker blue beyond. Over the horizon hung a few wispy clouds. I looked at the pink sand again, wondering what caused the unusual coloration. There was a light wind that turned strong, creeping up on us, causing Anna difficulty in lighting the joint and both of us difficulty in keeping our hair out of our faces. We both wore large, polarized sunglasses that gave the view an unnatural clarity. The surreal appearance of things was exponentially increased by the AK-47. I felt in special need of the soothing effects of the AK-47 given the turbulent emotional life I was now living. I didn’t really even know where half the feelings I had came from. I snapped at the slightest things I would never have given any notice before. Example: one of the other nannies passed Savannah off to me at the end of her shift without a pacifier. Instead of going to find one, as I normally would have, I went off into a tirade that I never before could have imagined coming from me. Another example: my room is regularly cleaned by maids and one of them, I don’t know who, shifted my Macbook from one bedside table to the other when she tidied my room. I don’t know why she did it, I knew even less why I flipped out and went off the handle at the incident, cursing a blue streak aloud in my room to no one but my four walls.
The wind receded enough for Anna to light the joint. The smell of cannabis soothed my nerves and I looked forward to sucking down the pleasant curls of blue smoke. After a few long draws Anna handed the football-shaped white stick to me. I blazed the AK-47, feeling the cool sensation and hunger-inducing awareness of my lips, tongue, and throat. My vision of the cliff, beach, sea, sky and clouds seemed instantly heightened, more real and three-dimensional as the psychotropic effects of the blue curls set in. This was good shit. I remembered reading somewhere that delta-9-THC had psychotropic effects and reckoned the football must have contained some. Probably the reason AK-47 got its name; it came at you like the sometimes wildly inaccurate, reality-distorting three-round bursts fired from the machinegun of some hopeless sand dab in the Iraqi desert. That or because it’s trusted in the way your average Taliban soldier trusts the reliability of an AK-47 to almost never jam, unlike most things he knows in life—or both. For a brief moment I mused on the disparate lives I had just imagined in my stoned metaphor. Then Anna’s voice assailed me like an avenging angel diving in from some far off cloud.
“This is the same thing we had in the closet in St. Augustine your first day on the job,” she said in a tone that sounded sad.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It seems like a long time ago. That’s all. When the truth is, I know you for a a short time only. But it seems longer, like a lifetime.”
Was the hint of sorrow about a feeling of what could never be between us? Or was it because these feelings she expressed were painful since she perceived them as too beautiful for this world—a feeling reserved mostly for poets?
I was in this dramatic way mostly due to the intoxication. It didn’t seem to soothe my emotional nature at all. Rather it heightened it. Perhaps she knew about what happened with Stafford and this had something to do with that.
All of these thoughts had flashed before my mind’s eye in a split-second before she continued.
“I sometimes wish we spend more time together. You know, there is no one else here to talk to like you. Someone who actually thinks of more things than only the usual day-to-day grind.”
“I’d love to spend more time together. Here I was thinking I’d scared you away.”
“No, if I was afraid, it was only because of how much we are the same. I mean, I am from Cuba and not good in English. English is very difficult. But I think we have…ah, understanding—more than words.”
She flashed those black, soul-absorbing eyes.
“I feel it too. It’s indescribable, but very real.”
I gazed at her for an extended period, wondering what she was feeling.
She kissed me on the cheek affectionately.
I turned and kissed her, a short peck on the lips.
Then we both looked back at the view in silence for a few moments.
“Mr. Stafford favors you in a special way. All the women talk about it. He holds you in special regard.”
She said it as if she was testing my reaction.
“Where did you hear that? Who said it?” I asked, though I probably wouldn’t know who any of the women were if she mentioned them by name.
“They all do.”
“What is it to me? He’s a married man. I respect him and his wife and respectfully keep my distance.” I never took my eyes off the sea as I said this. “I haven’t even seen him for…I don’t know how many days.”
I knew how many days, it had been five since our tryst.
“He’s been away.”
I looked at her perhaps in a way that gave away my feelings.
“No one knows where. He’s coming back this evening.”
“He didn’t even tell anyone why he was going?”
“Business, of course. What else? It’s all the man understands.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
I looked at her again, what was that supposed to mean?
“I think so,” I said.
“Something happened with you two, I know.”
Anna’s manner was so matter-of-fact I found it incredibly annoying, and I felt myself turn red immediately.
“And now you are bright red like…a tomato.”
She smiled.
I thought for a moment, trying to decide whether to tell her, to brush it off, or to punch her in the face. Obviously I couldn’t brush it off, I’d just turned tomato-like as she so kindly informed me. Telling her anything would be to b
reak a tacit agreement I imagined had formed between Stafford and me. It might also interrupt my plan.
I lunged at her, knocking her back to the white rock. I was smiling, still somewhat embarrassed, and she laughed as I pinned her down against the cliff edge.
“Don’t tell anyone anything we discuss. Do you understand?” I said as firmly as I possibly could.
“Yes. Sophia, I don’t. I will not deceive you. You’re my…friend.”
I loosened my grip.
“Something did happen between Mr. Stafford and me. I don’t know whether it’s what you’re thinking it is or not. But that doesn’t matter because I don’t know what I’m able to discuss now and what I can’t. Perhaps in the future I’ll be able to say more, but right now I can’t. Understand?”
“Yes. Of course I do. Crazy mujer. Tu eres loca.”
“I am crazy. Or at least I’ve been feeling a little crazy lately.” I helped her up and we sat facing one another.
“You fucked him, I can tell,” she said with an irritating smile.
I bumped her with one of my knees.
“You don’t deny it. It’s okay. He gets around. A real eye for the ladies.”
I wanted to throw her off the cliff. Immediately I had visions of being arrested for the murder of Anna Seoane. Paranoid, I looked around for cops.
“You slept with him?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.