We attended to each other’s sex so thoroughly and so precisely that it seemed we were in a race to get each other off. I don’t remember who came first but I distinctly remember the glaze of her own cum coating her thigh. I remember too how deliberately and dramatically I kissed that glaze, lapping up every drop while she giggled and repeated, “Sugar pleasures, boy, sugar pleasures.”
Around three in the morning, we both woke up restless. She said she wanted something but she didn’t know what. She crawled on to my stomach and pressed her knees into my chest. “It’s not food I want,” she said, “that’s all I know.”
I pulled her out of bed and led her into my bathroom. It was one of my favorite rooms in my otherwise charmless prewar apartment: a cosy bathroom with those old fashioned white pentagon tiles. Like some low-rent prince, I knelt down and slipped her feet back into her navy blue heels and turned her around so she could see herself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, her full white breasts flashing in the darkness, even more white and even more full as they gleamed luminously in the glass. I ran a forefinger down her breasts and tickled her nipples. I squeezed each one between my thumb and forefinger. “Buds of some unnamed flower,” I said and she jabbed me with her elbow as reward for my waxing poetically.
I planted warm kisses on her nipples. Then I lifted my head and waved at her in the mirror. Her light blue eyes gleamed even in the dark. We both stared into the glass. She blew me a kiss. I rested my head playfully on her shoulder. She stared at my eyes in the mirror and reached back, soft-stroking my cock back to life.
Her lovely fingers hardened me and she leaned forward over the sink, and I entered her, slowly, softly, possessively, squeezing her ass cheeks as she leaned forward, her elbows resting on my porcelain sink, her head raised so she could see her own face in the mirror as I moved in her. The skin below my belly tickled against her smooth cleft.
As we fucked, she matched my motions, slow yet fast, fast and yet slow, working out some delicious dizzying tempo all our own. I ran my hands along her back, across her hips.
I teased the insides of her upper thighs, letting my fingers dance there even as we moved fast and faster, so fast, in fact, that before I could feel the surge burning in my balls she had let out another yelp of “OhJesusfuck,” loudly, in that sharp brogue of hers, and she came, flowing over me just as I erupted, erupting in thick spasms, my balls contracting with a force I’d never felt before, as if my body were willing itself to empty all of me into her.
We collapsed clumsily to the cold bathroom floor, our legs akimbo, her high heels scraping against my leg. I propped a towel for a pillow and we dozed off in my bathroom, drifting into deep sleep, waking hours later to the sharp sunlight and the nagging buzz of her cell phone ringing somewhere in my empty bedroom. “That’s the bloody Magic Kingdom calling,” she said waving her hand around her head as if trying to swat a fly.
On the phone some weeks after those long nights in my place, we finally found time to get together again for coffee in a park. I asked about “the calendar”. She said the wedding was in exactly twenty days time and she was feeling bad. “A good-bad, you know?” she said. “But like a right shit too, d’ya know what I mean, boy? Like I ought to be punished even though I know I won’t.”
At first, I was tone deaf as to her exact point. I thought she should let any guilt go; we hadn’t asked anything of each other but fun. Serious fun, but only fun. She explained that it wasn’t guilt, exactly, that she was feeling. “Maybe I’m feeling a touch too – well – like this has been very easy. Like getting away with murder, d’ya know what I mean?”
I loved how she contracted a New Yorker’s “d’ya know” with her tart accent. I told her I knew exactly what she meant. My cock hardened as I repeated that I knew exactly what she meant, as if suddenly I was not only her lover but her interpreter and protector too. I agreed she was being a bad girl and that yes, she was absolutely getting away with murder lately and that if there was no punishment for her then, “What’s to stop every drop-dead gorgeous twenty-eight year old fiancée from going out and getting it on with a hot office buddy or a handsome stranger at a bar?”
She conceded that we were setting a very bad precedent for future fiancées.
“Well, more you than me,” I said. “Though the sugar pleasures have been mutual.”
She repeated my phrase “sugar pleasures” and play-punched me and told me I ought to be poet.
“There’s no money in poetry,” I said, “I’m moving into the nightclub business.”
“Beware, you’ll get bought out, boy,” she said.
I sensed from that conversation in the park that she was asking for a kinky and cathartic end to our brief fling so the Saturday before she was to leave for Florida, I rented us a hotel room in the city and booked a table at a fancy restaurant near the East River. Though it was a lie, I told her the place had a strict dress code. “Explain, boy.”
“Women must wear little black dresses,” I said.
“Go on.”
“Sheer black stockings and backless high heels.”
“Oh, is that spelled out on their menu, boy? I suppose ‘Lingerie required as well’?”
“It’s posted on their front door,” I said and we laughed.
She said she’d see whether she wanted to conform to the code.
“Dress codes aren’t always oppressive,” I said. “Besides you said you felt this had been all too easy. So just do it.”
“I like your tone, poet,” she said. “Keep up that tone, I just might comply.”
She showed up at the restaurant in a long black raincoat and a little black dress. Her light skin glowed under her black stockings. She wore hoop earrings and her hair was bunned up and elegantly coiffed, with tendrils spilling round her ears like wisps of red silk. She fixed my white shirt collar and ran an admiring finger down the lapel of my navy blue jacket. “Poet complied with a male dress code too, I see.” She teased me by slipping her right hand into my deep trouser pocket and as she probed her right hand around in there she flashed me her other hand, showing off her diamond engagement ring.
The stone in its setting gleamed like a strange crystal star. “So I finally meet the rock,” I said. I slung her bag over my shoulder and led her inside, to a round booth, a table draped in ivory cloth and lit by orange scented candles.
We barely poked at our appetizers, our arms snaked round each other, our bodies sparking so much heat that I was sure the tablecloth would catch.
As she stared at me and sipped her wine, I caressed her legs from her ankles and up her calves, my fingers dancing in quick skips across her thighs. I read the lace tops of her stockings as if they were written in Braille.
She held her wineglass and with her free hand compulsively zipped and unzipped and zipped my trousers as if the zipper were her own personal toy. The constant movement over my crotch made my cock stiffen. At one point she poked a finger into my open fly and teased my swelling shaft. “So, I have been reprehensible, huh?” she asked.
“By your own admission, you’ve been a disgracefully capricious fiancée,” I whispered. I reached my arm around her back and squeezed her tightly, warmly to me. The sudden tenderness of our shoulders pressed together made us both feel the moment and our erotic play gave way as we choked up. We coughed. We caught our breath. I realized she was leaving. I toasted the past weeks. “To our pink swims, to midnight coves, to botched poems, to waterfall sketches, to what we have shared.” My eyes watered up a little as I held my glass near her but seeing she was so composed pulled me together.
She tapped her glass against mine. She said, “It was what it was, right?”
I assured her that was the only reasonable way to sum it up.
After dessert she rested her head on her hands. “Now, regarding my getting away with murder. My capriciousness. What is poet-boy going to do about that?” she asked, hiding her smile behind the menu as she raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“Oh. You�
��re going to have to get a talking-to.” I squeezed her leg and she squealed. The hostess at her podium heard Shannon squeal and smiled over at us.
I slipped my hand under Shannon’s skirt and ran my index finger along the scallop-lace border between her panties and her skin. She closed her eyes and winced as I pulled back the fabric and snapped it against her skin. “I want you to put your teacup down. I want you to go to the bathroom and wait inside there for me,” I said.
She shrugged and stood up. “Teacher’s strange tonight.” She tossed her napkin on to my plate. “Well, fair enough. I have to go to the loo anyway.”
I grabbed her elbow. “Not the women’s. Go into the men’s room. Wait. In a stall. Think about how easy it’s been for you, these past few weeks with me.”
She nodded in disbelief, gave me the finger and sauntered off.
When the wait staff had all vanished from view, I snuck into the men’s room.
I stood at a urinal pretending to be going to the bathroom as I waited in the bright fluorescence as two burly men finished their business at the sinks. When the men finally left, I knocked on the last closed stall. “Poet-girl in here?”
I heard a muffled giggle and, through the rank odor, I could smell Shannon’s lavender perfume. Her talc.
The latch of the last stall clicked and the door creaked open on as if on its own.
Shannon was crouched on the closed toilet seat, squatted uncomfortably in her shiny black heels with an expression on her face like a cat trapped in a tree. She had one hand over her mouth and was trying to keep from laughing as she held her nose with the other hand. She stepped down off the toilet and straightened her dress, holding her nose again. “This is one stinky joint.”
“It’s like a confessional,” I said rapping my fist against the metal wall. “Now you can rest easy knowing you paid some price for all our fun.” I snaked my arm around her and kissed her. I kept an arm secured behind her back, kissing her ear. She teased me by zipping and unzipping my fly again and I reached under her skirt and teased her through her lace panties, feeling her heat build as I ran swift butterfly kisses up and down the nape of her neck. She wriggled and tried to pull my arm away but when I kissed her chin her resistance melted.
She closed her eyes and smiled. She repeated again and again how insane this was. I drew back her panties and let my finger sink into her sex.
“You are a mean teacher,” she said. “M-e-a-n.”
I unzipped my pants and let my cock out, crudely, like a gesture in some second-rate porno film. She stepped back and stared. “Is that a blowjob request? I don’t take requests,” she said, staring down at my cock as if she could take it or leave it. “You know me, boy, I prefer life on Easy Street. Giving head is hard work.” She chuckled and winked and then shook her head dismissively. Then she grabbed my cock and as she held it she playfully bit my earlobe.
As she kept her hold on me, I lowered myself on to the closed toilet lid and asked her to kneel in front of me.
“Boy, I am not kneeling on this filthy floor.” I pulled out sanitary seat liners and strew them in layers on the floor by my feet.
Slowly, moving like a suspicious traveler settling into a strange hotel room, she knelt down on the lined papers on the floor. Holding my cock, she poked out her tongue, looking lost in thought as if she were trying to recall a name. “I’m thinking ‘Devil Redhead in the Men’s Lod’.” she said, “Should I write it as a sonnet?” she asked, speaking into my cock, giggling as she squeezed me harder. Then she licked and lapped my crown, at first gingerly and then aggressively, long licks up my shaft, patiently, thoroughly, a random pace of licks all her own, the way a cat cleans itself at its own pace, in its own sweet time.
Seeing her pink painted fingernails and white fingers cupping my balls nearly made me cum. I held fast to the sides of the bowl and gazed at her, her black high heeled feet tearing at the paper lining on the floor, the almost imperceptible breeze of the paper blowing dust and pubic hairs around in the tile and grouting.
I was sure the loud watery, pocking sound of her tongue lapping as it ran upwards again along my cock could be heard by anyone who came into the bathroom. And the noisy suckling too as she took me in whole, the tearing noise, heels ripping the paper to shreds. As she drew her tight lips upwards, so slowly I felt she’d never let go, I exploded into her warm mouth.
She suckled me until I went soft and then she dribbled, letting my own wad ooze down over my cock.
She stared at my sex intently, only once looking up at my eyes.
Then she stood up, wiped her hands and fingers with tissue paper, fixed her skirt, patted my head.
“Not the cleanest of places. No picnic. But I think I’ve paid some price, poet-boy, being lured in here.”
And then she checked to see that the coast was clear and left me alone in the stall where I lingered, gathering myself together, wondering how she’d gotten the upper hand yet again.
That night, like most of our affair, felt like a surreal, hardcore fairy tale.
After the restaurant, back at the hotel, I gave her a farewell bouquet of lilacs.
The clock was literally ticking over our heads. We didn’t talk much. We lay on the bed, hand in hand, surfing TV channels. She nuzzled against my chest and I stroked her hair. She said she was going to miss only one thing about New York.
“The poetry workshop?” I asked.
“Not bloody likely,” she said. “Maybe just one meanie of a poet.”
She told me she couldn’t believe that tawdry encounter in the john was all her punishment for having had “this little illicit madness”.
I asked her if she was ready for one last chance to save her soul.
She said in 29 hours she’d be on a plane to Orlando. “If I’m not ready now, when will I be?” I went to the fridge and brought out a bottle of Prosecco and a small white cake I’d bought at the fancy Polish bakery. She asked me what this was. “Your just desserts,” I said.
She sat up and beamed. We sat Indian-style on the bed, feeling like kids at a kinky pajama party. I drew a fork out and she asked me where mine was. I informed her that she was eating all this whole cake. “Solo.”
“And be a blimp on Monday? Float down the aisle like a bridezilla?” she asked. “I don’t think so. Not after tonight’s crème brûlée.”
I convinced her that as punishments go, a sugary sweet is hardly cruel and unusual and fed her a forkful, watching the icing drip and then plop on to her black skirt, smudging the corners of her lips.
Cake crumbs soon dotted the coverlet around us.
After the second slice she hugged her tummy and said, “No mas, boy.”
I cut a third slice and held a forkful near her lips. “Did you give a blowjob in a men’s room or was I dreaming that?” I asked, and when she cracked a smile I slipped the cake into her mouth. As I fed her – and overfed her – I felt paternal, fatherly, sadistic. My cock was hard again.
She chewed and giggled and nodded. “I’m going to retch,” she said. She chewed, mumbling obscenities and giving me the finger as she ate. “Disgusting.”
I removed the cake from the box and kicked the box off the bed, placing the remaining cake near our pillows. I helped her strip down to her bra and stockings.
She slipped my belt off my trousers and wrapped it around her fist and play-punched me in my stomach. Then she fit my belt around her small waist, the buckle dangling. As I lifted her by her haunches she tried to kick free. I lowered her down on the cake and she squirmed, closing her eyes and grinning as her ass crushed the cake. “Boy the icing is bloody cold!”
I told her not to worry. “Help is on the way.”
I lay myself down stomach-down on the bed, my head directly in front of her sex. I licked her inner thighs, licking up the flakes of cake and icing, and swirled my sweetened tongue along her sex, flicking my tongue on her cunt until she was wet, warm, wiggling. The icing melted on her skin as I kissed her thighs and dragged the tip of my tongue up h
er sex and down, in, down, down and then up again, quick strokes with my tongue till her sweetness wet my lips.
I pulled myself up and we lay down in the missionary position, eye to eye, nose to nose, like a couple about to consummate vows.
I entered her slowly, and stayed still inside her, swollen, hot, rigid.
We remained motionless like that, face to face, our hands locked together tenderly savoring something we knew was ending. Ending, that is, until it started, first with her hips moving and then mine, my mouth on her right breast, lapping her nipple, nibbling, lolling my tongue at the soft under-skin of her breasts as my hands cupped her.
She swirled her tongue in my ear and ran her fingers through my hair. I buried my fingers in her mass of red hair, massaging her scalp. I pulled the pins from her hair and let her red hair spill over the pillow and her cheeks. Her hair framed her face so wonderfully she looked like a movie star posed on the cover of Vanity Fair.
I told her so and kissed her and lowered my face and kissed her nipples. I nibbled. I dragged the tip of my tongue from her neckline down to the space between her breasts, slathering each nipple again, lifting myself up just enough so that my cock stayed locked in place while I kissed her stomach, my tongue swirling on her warm skin as we rocked like that for what felt like an hour, an hour that ended faster than a millisecond as the two of us came crashing down on each other – into each other – muffling our cries in a kiss, kissing and then licking our chins as we fell, rose and fell and rose again only to fall finally waist deep into the hot running currents between our legs.
The next morning she let me shampoo her hair and I enjoyed lathering the bubbles through her thick wet tresses. We played the Sketches of Spain CD loudly and made friendly jokes about our bathroom escapade in the restaurant the night before. Shannon said the night before had definitely not been a case of getting off easily. “I paid the piper in that smelly awful place,” she said, shoving me playfully. “And I do feel better now.”
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