Isabel didn’t see Owen often after this. Only once did they meet in his house, when his wife was away. While Isabel was there, the door to the bedroom stayed closed, and she could imagine how its dark (was it oak?) wood might have to him a vexing and mysterious power – intergalactic or timeless or whatever it had been in the film – if always in that position. They used a den but mostly stayed in the bathroom, where he washed her slowly in the shower, aroused as he always was by fulfilling a function, being employed, even if the need was one he had created in her, for she did need him now, or wanted him, had had trouble waiting for him, anyway, from the time they entered his home. Otherwise, they met in his office whenever they could, for he had obligations, and – without saying so, without saying much of anything – they both regarded their time together as a gift, could not be greedy for more, just had to be grateful.
Isabel barely spoke to Martin now. Her duties seemed less stultifying, filled as they were with subtext, the numbers on her screen changed into symbols of longing found on another planet or formed in the future and fascinating; but Martin seemed even more frustrated. Isabel could hear him sighing from where he sat, and she believed it was both for her benefit and a genuine expression of dismay. She was sorry for him but not guilty, no matter how much she thought she ought to be.
One dusk, both were alone in the elevator going down, though she usually avoided exiting the building with him. They rode in silence until, a few floors from the lobby, Martin spoke a rare completed sentence.
“I know that you go with him,” he said.
Isabel started, and the little bell rang as they hit the ground floor, seeming to underline his remark. She didn’t respond, only walked quickly ahead and away from him; but she knew that things were different, had entered a new phase, she could feel it, and he had made it happen.
The next day in the office, Martin kept on talking to her – not even whispering as others went by – in this same clear voice he had either always had or acquired for the occasion, feeling he had no alternative.
“Why don’t you tell me about doing it with him?” he said.
Isabel didn’t answer, just kept looking as if interested at her screen, though she knew it was absurd to try and fool him in this way.
“I want to hear about you and him,” he said, and his voice conveyed at once the sincere needs to please himself and punish her, which was new; before he may have been selfish but not unkind.
Isabel turned to see him, and he didn’t avoid her, kept staring at her, as he had been the whole time. Her response was reflexive, though this reflex was also new.
“I won’t,” she said, and saw him appear shocked, not because she had officially ended something between them, she didn’t think, but because he was being denied something obviously available: brand-new information that would no doubt be exciting and could have been given to him easily, as if newspapers were being thrown from a boy’s bike on to everybody’s lawn but his in the days when that’s how people got current events.
As Isabel pushed by him to leave early (being privileged by her association with Owen, she did not need to explain herself), she realized that Martin had always thought her stories were true, and this made her feel differently about him, though in what way she wasn’t sure.
For a few days, to Isabel’s relief, they sat in virtual silence. Finally, Martin addressed her on their way into a meeting, among a crowd in which it would be hard for her to reply.
“I told her,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she was made to whisper back. “Who?”
“His wife. About you and him. I left a message on their machine.”
Isabel stopped, bumped by another employee trying to get past. Waiting to be alone with him in the hall, she reached out and grabbed Martin, got hold of his shirt, which she nearly ripped and which he yanked back, annoyed, so she wouldn’t. They stood there staring at each other, Isabel nearly shaking with rage both at him and her own inarticulateness; it was as if, with a few words, he had taken everything away.
Martin didn’t look triumphant; he seemed shaken, even shocked by her reaction, then grew apologetic and stammered, reverting to his old, unsocialized self.
“I–I–I had to do something,” he said, at last: a way to explain.
This was right before the weekend. On Monday, Isabel arrived late, and Martin was already there. He sat faced away, his complexion pale, his chin in his palm, the computer screen before him blank. Was he sick again? she wondered. Or just afraid to acknowledge her?
Soon she noticed a general absence of people around. When she looked out in the hall, many doors were shut, others open to reveal no one and a briefcase or bag hastily, even indifferently tossed in a corner or on a chair. It was like a science fiction film in which a plague breaks out – or a bomb drops – that kills people but not things. She wondered if a meeting had been called without her knowing; but now that she knew Owen, she was always in the loop.
Isabel walked out and, after a few steps, began passing others. All were either heading toward Owen’s office or returning from having been there. There was a feeling of people drifting to and from a crime scene or a free outdoor concert at which some were turned away. Isabel could not remember there ever being this kind of purposeful movement in the office, such urgency, concern and curiosity. Had the company been sold? Owen been fired? One woman was in tears. Isabel heard someone say, “I can’t believe it,” and another, “They found him in his house,” and a third, somewhat snottily, “I would have thought it would have been his wife.”
Isabel began running through the hall, her feeling of fear in action, and soon was nearly flying. She knew that if Owen’s door was closed, it would be bad news – or would it be if his door was open and people were in his office crying the way she was not yet allowing herself to cry?
Now she was running faster than anyone ever should inside, with too much speed to be contained in the office, as if she were about to burst out of it at any instant, and it was true: she would be, in a way, exploded into life by death as soon as she rounded the corner at the end of the hall.
Perfect Timing
Kristina Wright
She should have called before she drove over to the university. Charlotte tapped her nails on the steering wheel as Henry’s phone rang. She hoped he wasn’t in a meeting. Or teaching a class. She had been so preoccupied with getting her weekly reports finished and getting out of the library that the thought hadn’t crossed her mind to make sure he was available.
Finally, after four rings, he answered.
“I’m in the faculty parking lot. Last row by the trees,” she said, by way of a greeting. “Can you meet me?”
He sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’m in the middle of student advisement meetings.”
Neither his reluctance nor the overcast sky would deter her. “Can’t you take an early lunch break? Please?”
“You make it difficult for me to refuse,” he said, his voice low and intimate. She imagined him standing in his office, looking out of the window for her car. “It’s hard to think about you down there in the car wearing a dress –”
“Skirt.”
“Wearing a skirt, likely with no panties …”
“No panties,” she acknowledged.
He sighed again, the resigned sound of a man who knew a woman would not be put off. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Hurry. Otherwise, I might have to come up there and seduce you in your office.”
“Been there, done that, love,” he chuckled. “Probably not the best idea with students coming in and out today.”
“Well, then, you should get down here before I’m tempted. I have to get back to the library soon.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, obediently.
Charlotte grinned, triumphant. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
“You always do.”
Charlotte closed her phone and rested her head on the seat.
Rain threatened at any moment and the wind whipped the blossoms from the trees and shrubs that ringed the campus, scattering them on the wind like spring snowflakes. Birds chased each other from tree to tree, mating season in full swing despite the inclement weather. A fat raindrop plopped on the windshield and Charlotte glanced toward Henry’s gray building, debating whether she should pick him up at the curb. But no, that might draw attention to them and the last thing she wanted was an audience. Thankfully, it was spring break and most of the students and faculty weren’t on campus.
“April showers bring May flowers,” she whispered as she watched a bushy-tailed brown squirrel pursue another up a tree trunk as raindrops splattered across her field of vision.
She shifted impatiently and pressed the soft fabric of her skirt between her thighs. She was wet already, wet from the anticipation of making love to Henry in the parking lot. She’d had a thirty-minute drive from the library to think about what she would do to him once she got here. It had never really been a question whether he would join her; he had promised that whenever she called, he would come. Quite literally, she mused.
The control made her feel a little giddy with feminine power – but it was the anticipation of having Henry buried inside her in mere moments while the rest of the campus went on about their morning that was an arousing, panty-dampening thought. If she had been wearing panties, that is.
Even sooner than he had promised, Henry slipped into the passenger seat of her car, slightly out of breath from his mad dash through the light rain. Water spots darkened his sage green shirt and his brown hair stood up in wet spikes where he had dragged his fingers through it, accentuating the flecks of silver at his temples. “Ten o’clock in the morning is a bit early for lunch, don’t you think?”
“But if I waited until lunchtime, someone would be sure to see us.”
“Good point,” he said. He leaned over to cup her face in his damp palm and give her a kiss. “And I am getting hungry. It’s been weeks since I had your luscious body against me.”
Charlotte inched up her skirt to bare an expanse of stocking-clad thigh. “Would you like to see what’s on the menu today?”
Henry loosened his tie. “Oh, I think I’ll just have the special.”
She angled over the gearshift and into his lap. It was no small feat, given the length of her skirt and tight fit of the narrow bucket seat, but within moments she was straddling him, her skirt hiked up around her hips.
“This would be better with me on the bottom,” she said. “But I don’t think it would work.”
Henry slid his hands under her bunched skirt and fingered the lace tops of her sheer black stockings. “You could probably get me to do anything you want right now,” he said, stroking the bare skin above the lacy bands of nylon. “You look like the clichéd sexy librarian. Nice touch. Just for me?”
She leaned over and nibbled his neck above his collar, breathing in the spicy scent of his aftershave. “Of course. All for you, darling.”
He moved his hand to the juncture of her thighs. She squirmed against him, silently urging him to touch her. “This is my favorite magical spot,” he said as his fingers found her wetness. “You’re already excited, bad girl. Have you been thinking about me?”
She smirked. If only he knew. Wriggling against his rain-chilled fingers, she gasped, “I could barely keep from touching myself before you got here.”
He cupped her pussy in his hand, his thumb stroking her swollen clit in slow, lazy circles. “Really?”
She kissed him, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth. It wasn’t the most comfortable position to be in, but she was too aroused to care. “Mmm-hmm.”
His fingers delved deeper, parting her silken wetness as his thumb kept moving on her clit. “Well, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting then.”
“You’re here now,” she murmured against his mouth. “That’s all that matters to me.”
Tangling her fingers in his damp hair, she moved against his hand, showing him the rhythm. He groaned into her mouth as he played with her, driving her to the edge of any rational thought. It would be better if she came while he was inside her, but he was just too good with his hands. Now all she could think about was getting off.
She slid up on his lap a couple of inches to give him some more room, enough so that the top of her head was now above him and her breasts were in his face. With his free hand, he undid the ties of her pale yellow wrap blouse. His mouth found one of her hard nipples through the fabric of her bra and he sucked the tender bit of flesh in the same rhythm he stroked her clit. Charlotte pressed her breast to his mouth, every muscle taut as she clutched the car seat behind his head.
“Oh, oh yes,” she moaned as he moved his mouth to the other nipple. He suckled it hard through the fabric until it stood in rigid attention against the fabric. Her bra was wet now with his sucking, but she didn’t care. “I can feel that in my pussy.”
He murmured his pleasure as he slid a finger inside her. Her skin had warmed his fingers and she moaned softly, eyes closed, giving herself over to the feeling. Her nostrils flared, smelling not only Henry’s aftershave now, but also her own arousal. It was an intoxicating scent and, as he pushed a second finger inside her, she felt her body tighten. He slid his fingers in deep, then slowly withdrew them to her opening before pushing inside her once more. He curved them forward, finding her G-spot, and did it again.
The feeling was so intense she nearly told him to stop. But she knew if she could just take it for a few more strokes, he would make her come. So instead of pulling back, she made little thrusting motions with her hips, giving him what he was after. She bit her bottom lip, feeling her orgasm like a knot inside her, slowly loosening. Warmth coursed through her, starting low in her belly and spreading outward.
“Oh god,” she whimpered, tightening her pussy around his fingers.
Henry kept up his steady rhythm, using his fingers to coax her toward that elusive orgasm. She went still on him, straining toward inevitable release. As if sensing how close she was, Henry rolled her clit under his thumb as he stroked her sweet spot. She cried out, oblivious to her surroundings, feeling a gush of liquid as her orgasm washed over her.
“Yes, that’s it,” he murmured against the swell of her breast. “Come for me.”
And she did. Wet heat radiated outward from her swollen clit, drowning her in sensations as she rocked her hips on Henry’s fingers. She bent her head over him, pressing his hand between their bodies as her body throbbed with her release.
“Yes, yes,” Henry whispered. “You are so beautiful when you come.”
“Inside me,” she managed to gasp as she struggled to undo his belt in the tight confines of the car seat. “I want you inside me. Now!”
Henry withdrew his fingers from her still throbbing pussy and assisted her in her quest. He winced as she dragged his zipper down. “Damn, love, try not to rip it off or it won’t be any use to either of us.”
A fit of giggles struck her then, the incongruity of the situation striking her as funny. “Oh, don’t worry, I always have a spare handy.”
“What?”
“Just a joke,” she said. “Fuck me.”
Aftershocks of her orgasm still rippled through her as Henry finally freed his erection from his trousers and angled it inside her. Suddenly, there was nothing humorous at all about her situation. She gasped, instinctively tilting her hips to accommodate his length. He was all the way inside her and there was no need to go slow because she was already so very wet.
“Oh god,” he groaned, giving a short quick thrust. “You feel so damned good.”
She pushed back against him, feeling his cock go so deep it almost hurt. She felt full and swollen, as wet as she had ever been. Being on top gave her the control of their rhythm and she went slowly, enjoying the fullness and how she could feel every inch of him gliding inside her. She leaned back in his lap, letting him slide out a bit, then forward, pressing her breasts to his face. He clutched at her hip
s like a man overboard, seeking solid land.
“Oh, love,” he moaned against her breasts. “You’re driving me out of my mind.”
She’d already had one orgasm, but she could feel a second one building. His fingers had felt nice, but this sensation of engorgement couldn’t be caused by anything but his cock. She thrust a little harder against him, her clit rubbing against his pelvic bone. She was so wet and her range of motion was limited, it didn’t seem as if there could be enough friction for Henry to reach orgasm. But a few more thrusts and he was gripping her ass in his hands, guiding her faster on his rigid length. She tightened her pussy around him and he sucked in his breath, his cock twitching in instant response.
“Come inside me,” she whispered in his ear. “I want to feel you coming deep inside me.”
His cock felt impossibly large as she thrust down on him. She could tell he was close to finishing by the way he went still against her. She rotated her hips on him and he all but roared as he started to come, jerking against her so hard she bumped her head on the roof of the car.
She had been so caught up in making him come that she hadn’t realized just how close she was to her own orgasm. She kept up those little thrusting motions, dragging her aroused clit over the patch of hair above his cock until she was pushed over the edge into her own climax. She rode him like that until her sensitive clit couldn’t take any more.
Collapsing on top of him, her arms hanging down the back of the seat, she gasped and giggled as her pussy clenched around his slowly shrinking erection.
“Holy hell,” she whimpered. “Who would have thought doing it in the car would be so hot?”
Her breasts muffled his reply. “No kidding.”
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