Total Exposure

by Huss, JA

  I am nothing but power when I play. I am who I am. Completely whole. Thoroughly complete. Absolutely, conclusively filled up.

  All the years between then and now melt away. None of them matter anymore.

  There is no fear of watchful eyes. There is no sadness of dreams never realized. There is no remorse, or regrets, or shame, or guilt.

  There is only us. Here. Now. Together.

  Me, and my music.

  I stop that thought as soon as I have it.

  Because that was my problem in the first place. The possession the music holds over me. The enchantment I have with myself.

  I am singular when I play. A small girl who rules the entire world. I am nothing but one and I don’t want to be one anymore, I want to be two.

  He did that for me.

  He gave me back my life.

  He made me see that I am not alone, I am not the center of the universe, I am not the culmination of millions of lives, lived over thousands of years.

  I am just one soul in a sea of souls, all looking for their purpose.

  And it’s not fair that I was born with mine. It’s not fair.

  I know that. Have always known it. But I didn’t care.

  And I was used, and I was cheated, and I was nothing but my parents’ golden opportunity.

  But I let them do that.

  I liked it.

  And there’s always a little more responsibility one can take, even if they are eight. Or ten. Or fifteen. Or immortal, like me. Because even after I die, I will live on.

  It’s not the world’s fault I am who I am.

  It’s mine.

  I can either learn to live with the responsibility or suck people dry with my expectations.

  I don’t want to be a taker. I don’t want to exsanguinate the world with my power. I don’t want to die alone, lonely, and leave the world nothing but the memory of music.

  I want to share my gift with him forever.

  So I force myself to slow down. The improvised powerful scale that fills the room to capacity turns into a sweet, soft melody that begs to be heard.

  I make myself small. I make myself part of the world around me instead of overtaking it. I meld into something altogether new as my bow now caresses the strings like a long-lost lover.

  Ix lets out a breath. Like he was holding it in. Like the music I make was forcing him to do that. The power of my talent holding him captive.

  But he’s free now.

  Practice does make perfect.

  His hands wander to my breasts, which wiggle slightly with the swaying motion of my body as I play. He pinches my nipple and I can feel his excitement growing against my bare thigh.

  I stay slow and small. Let him become big and hard. Let him fill up the room with his masculine strength.

  Draw from it.

  Smile.

  “Yes,” I say. “Touch me everywhere. Take anything you want.”

  “You don’t want to give me that power,” he says. His voice is low, like the notes coming from my fingers.

  “I really do,” I whisper back.

  I slip into Ave Maria, my favorite song as a child. The first one I ever played on stage when I was four.

  Ix’s hands stop everything and the room, though filled with music, goes still. I close my eyes as my body moves, and he begins again, the song powerful, but what’s happening between us even more so.

  His fingertips slide up and down my ribs. Soft, sweeping motions that send a chill up my neck and come out in the notes that float in the air.

  “God,” he whispers, his touch wandering down to the curve of my hips. My legs part, like he commanded them to. But really, it’s nothing more than my own invitation.

  Which he accepts by parting the lips of my pussy, finding the wetness accumulating just for him, and begins to play me like I’m playing the violin.

  Chapter Forty-Two - Ixion

  I can’t stop myself. The beauty in this room is overwhelming. Not just the song she’s playing. It’s not just Ave Maria coming from the soul of one of the world’s most talented violinists, it’s her too. Her sweet face, her innocence, her large, soft breasts, the shape of her waist and hips and the tickling touches of her long hair as it brushes across my arms as she gives me what I wanted since the first time I met her—I just didn’t realize it.

  Herself. With no expectations. Blind and willing.

  Her pussy is wet, her clit swelling under my touch the same way my cock is now filled with longing.

  Her legs open wider, the weight of her body on my legs silently driving me wild.

  I can’t wait any longer.

  Reluctantly, I take my touch from her to me. Open my belt, open my pants, and fist my cock as I pull it out.

  She shivers. Like she knows what I’m doing even though she’s blind. “Yes,” she murmurs.

  I don’t need her encouragement, but I do like it. Leaning back into the cushions to get a better view forces her to shift her weight. I pump one hand up and down my cock as the other returns to her open and exposed pussy. If she could only see herself. How beautiful she is. How perfect. If ever there was a moment that needed to be caught on film, this is it.

  But a wave of regret washes over me. Because no latent image could ever capture the stunning brilliance of her in real time.

  She turns her back to me, but not in a dismissive way. Because she edges her ass up my lap until my cock is between her legs. She lifts her hips, her fingers still playing the soundtrack to the lust building inside us.

  She hovers over me, her pussy rubbing against the tip of my cock.

  I can’t wait any longer. She is urging me to take her and I just want to please in this moment. I want nothing more than to give her what she wants.

  My cock slips inside her, but she pulls back, looking over her shoulder, and stops playing. “No,” she whispers. “I’ve had that before. Take me in a new way, Ix. Be the first ever to take me in that way.”

  I have to blink, several times, as the realization of what she’s asking for manifests.

  Her ass. She wants me to fuck her in the ass.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, my voice thick with husk and growl, betraying the hunger inside me.

  “Yes,” she says. “Yes.”

  “Then stand up,” I say.

  She obeys, resumes playing the soft, slow song as she rises off my lap. I kick her legs wide, her bow still sliding across the strings, and then sink to my knees, pull her ass cheeks apart, and lick her. My fingers drag the now pooling readiness from her pussy to her asshole, and I slowly stick my finger in.

  She never stops playing. But she whines, and grunts, and when my finger is all the way inside her, she whimpers, “More.”

  She is so wet now, so eager for what’s coming next, that her asshole is well primed when I sit back in the chair, place her on my lap, and press my cock up against her tight muscles.

  Her music turns wild and frantic, her bow skipping across the strings, her fingers jumping on the neck.

  And then I enter her.

  She moans. A whimpering moan that’s equal parts pain and pleasure. I hike her legs open, totally exposing her, and pull her back into my chest, my hands cupping her perfect, round breasts, and squeeze them, just as she clenches her muscles and squeezes me back.

  Dying. I am dying of pleasure.

  I close my eyes, let my hands wander back between her legs, strumming her clit, as she becomes more comfortable with my cock inside her ass, and begins to move—just a little, just enough to drive me crazy.

  One hand goes to her hip, urging her to fuck me harder. Urging her to let me even deeper inside her, while my fingers push up inside her pussy, stretching her wide from both ends.

  “Oh, my God,” she moans.

  And she never.

  Stops.

  Playing.

  “I want to see you,” I say, urging her to turn around. “And I want you to see me. Take off the fucking blindfold.”

  “No,” she says, he
r song slow again. “No. Not yet.”

  So I have to settle. I have to settle for fucking her in the ass, her back to me, her song filling my ears, her long hair teasing my chest as it lightly crashes onto my skin like feathers in a wind storm.

  But there are worse ways to settle.

  “Come,” I say, my thumb finding her slit as I push my fingers deeper. “Come on my fingers right now.”

  She lets out one long breath, her body stiff for a moment, her bow stuck mid-air, her fingers still… and then she melts into me. Gushing relief spills out of her, coats my fingers, spilling past them, and drips down onto my cock.

  I have to bite my fucking lip to stop my own climax.

  She falls forward, drops the violin on the floor, and places her hands on my knees as she pants through the waves of pleasure that overtake her body.

  I make myself wait. It can’t end yet. I’m not ready.

  She takes all the decisions away from me when she stands up, my cock slipping out of her ass, and then turns around, gets on her knees between my legs, takes my cock in her hand, and lowers her mouth to it.

  No hesitation. No overthinking. No resistance at all. Willing to lose herself in the moment. Willing to do anything and everything to keep this dream going.

  I die.

  I die over and over again as she licks my tip, wraps her lips around my swollen head, and then pushes my cock deep into her throat.

  There is no way I can’t come. No chance I won’t explode.

  I grab her hair, guiding her mouth, pushing her down onto my cock until her nose is almost flat against my stomach. She gags, gasps for breath, and then tilts her head up like she’s looking me in the eyes.

  I want to rip that blindfold off and see her. Really fucking see her.

  But she’s reading my mind, or maybe she’s telling me no, she can’t continue like this, I’m suffocating her with my cock, because she shakes her head.

  I lift her face off me and come all over her mouth.

  Her hands crash onto my chest, pulling at my t-shirt, clawing her way up my body until she’s sitting in my lap again, her legs straddling mine, and she kisses me on the mouth.

  I kiss her back. Long, and hard, and desperate. I hold her face and she says, “Not yet,” when I think, Take off that fucking blindfold. “Not yet.”

  “If not tonight? If not now… then when?” I say. “When?”

  She just shakes her head again, her body becoming soft, and then slips off to the side, pulling me over with her, until we’re nestled up to each other, her ass pushing against my cock, her back pushing into my chest, like we’re a couple.

  I smile.

  Because tonight, we are.

  We sleep. I’m not sure how long, because it’s still dark outside when I pick her up in my arms and carry her up to her bedroom. She moans, and even though that stupid blindfold slips off her eyes, she never opens them. It’s like she’s afraid to see me.

  Which is perfect, right? Just fucking perfect. Because I am desperate for her to see me. I am desperate to be seen. And she wants to keep me invisible.

  Once she’s settled in bed, I kiss her on the lips. She wakes just long enough to kiss me back, her fingertips threading into my hair, grabbing me, making me feel wanted, and then lets go, rolls over, and sleeps.

  I reluctantly leave her. Go downstairs, find our book and begin to write the end I started and couldn’t finish.

  Because this is it. Our stories have been told, her fear has been banished, and my job here is done.

  I leave our book on the kitchen counter where she expects it to be, then take myself back downstairs, enter the secret room, and stare at the ceiling until the sun comes up.

  Chapter Forty-Three - Evangeline

  I wake up smiling even before I remember why I’m smiling. How have I only been here six days? This feels like my life now. Like everything I was doing before I came to this house with Ix—God, I’m still getting used to that—was fake. A dream. Or some kind of alternate reality. And now this is reality. I’m awake and I might even be… happy.

  I get up, throw on my nightgown and robe, run down the stairs, and I’m just about to walk into the kitchen to get our book when a loud chime fills the house.

  I whirl around and stare at the hallway leading to the grand foyer.

  It’s the doorbell, I realize.

  I travel the hallway on tiptoe—which is stupid because I’m barefoot and still in my nightgown—and peek around the corner like a child who is supposed to be in bed. There’s someone on the other side of the wavy, leaded glass in the front door.

  The bell rings again, so I tiptoe closer.

  I’m almost certain whoever is on the other side can see me, so I take a deep breath, clutch my silk robe around my body, and open it.

  “Evangeline Rolaine?” the man asks. He’s wearing the tidy blue uniform suit of a well-known local delivery service.

  “That’s me,” I say, surprised I have a voice. Surprised I even opened the door, now that I think about it. I’m very exposed. No scarf, no gloves, no hat, no sunglasses.

  “Sign here, please,” he says, thrusting a tablet at me. I sign with my finger, then hand it back as another man comes up the front walkway with several large packages.

  “Would you like us to bring them inside?” the first man asks.

  I nod, trying to understand what’s happening, and then move out of the way so they can enter the foyer. “Here is fine,” I say, pointing to the exquisitely upholstered bench under the mirror. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t have my purse—“

  “No need,” the second man says, arranging the packages neatly on and around the bench. He smiles at me. “The tip has already been taken care of.”

  “Who’s this from?” I ask.

  The first man says, “There’s a card, ma’am. Do you need anything from us?”

  “What would I need?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “We were instructed to ask if you required anything, ma’am.”

  “No, thank you,” I say. “I’m good.”

  They both bow their heads at me as they back out, closing the front door behind them.

  How strange.

  I walk over to the packages. There’s about half a dozen, each with a small card attached to the bow, and each card has a number on it. One through six.

  They are all different sizes. One is the size of a large shoebox, three are the size of my hand, one is very large—at least three feet long and very wide—like it contains a whole other world under that paper and ribbon. The last one is very thin and flat. And they are all wrapped up in matte black paper, adorned with yards of golden fabric ribbon, and each has an elaborate golden bow.

  One—the largest box—has a regular-sized card attached to it as well as the smaller one with the number.

  I pluck the card off the paper—it comes off easily, like special care was taken so the paper wouldn’t rip—and open it up.

  Dear Evangeline,

  Today is the day you break free. Don’t be afraid of going after what you want. You deserve the world and the world deserves you.

  Unwrap the packages numbered one through four. Don’t open the last two. Those are for later.

  I won’t be watching today. A car will come to collect you at exactly eleven thirty. You will be dropped off, you will go inside and satisfy your curiosity however you see fit, and then you will return home in the same car.

  Ix

  I’m holding my breath. I don’t realize it until I let it out in a gush of air and feel a little dizzy.

  Alone. I am to go out today alone. Is it much different than yesterday when I left here without instructions?

  Yes, it’s very different. I don’t know why, but it is. And for a few seconds I allow my heart to beat fast. I allow the sweat to form on my brow. I allow my hands to shake and my legs to tremble.

  And then I look up at the chandelier and say, “OK.”

  I walk over to the gifts, lay the box marked One down onto
the foyer rug, and kneel. My fingers can’t help but feel the rich, golden ribbon. It’s not smooth satin, but has a raised damask pattern woven into the silk. Very special, I realize. And very expensive.

  I pull on it, expecting it to resist, but it doesn’t. The knot falls apart easily, like it was meant to do that, and soon it’s just a puddle of gold near my knees.

  The box has a lid meant to lift off. Again, without resistance. And when I lift it, there is a swoosh of air which makes the black and gold tissue paper inside puff up with a display of splendorous pageantry.

  My fingers are eager now, pulling the delicate paper aside to reveal a dress.

  “Oh, my,” I sigh, lifting the dress out of the paper so I can hold it up to the light filtering in from the high, arched windows above the door.

  It’s white. Winter white, not summer wedding-dress white. Almost cream. And it’s clearly cashmere, because it’s so soft, my fingertips want to pet it. I stand up, holding it against my body. It’s been tailored to my shape, because even though the skirt is long, it’s not too long.

  I shrug off my robe, slip out of my silk nightgown, and step into it, just to make sure.

  And even though the bodice is low-cut, it’s not too low-cut. My breasts fill up the cups on either side of the v down the middle, and make a spectacular show of cleavage. The a-line waist hits me just above my hips, and the hem swings just above my calves.

  The intercom crackles just once, letting me know he’s watching.

  I twirl for him, laughing, feeling like a child again. I had so many pretty, pretty dresses as a child. I wore them to spectacular places.

  For a moment I’m disappointed that my destination today is the coffee house. This dress… this dress was meant to take me somewhere spectacular. The halls of a palace, or the desert gardens of a sheikh in winter.

  But I remember there’s more inside the box. So I rush over and pull out a winter coat. Tan, the perfect color to compliment the winter-white dress. Double-breasted with large black buttons, a wide belt, and brown faux-fur trim on the hood and cuffs. It’s A-line, like the dress, with a long loose ruffle just above the waist for added flair.