Passion

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “No, dear, not this time. It’s not Markman or Sullivan. I’m on Five Mile. There was something in the road and I swerved and spun. The passenger side of the car is hanging over the ditch, and I can’t get out. I think I’m stuck on Mr. Rollin’s culvert. I called the auto club, but they won’t be here for at least two hours. Cass…”

  I closed my eyes, stomping on my directed accusation with the heel of concern. “You’re okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “I’m fine, Cass. It looked like a tree limb, or something. No blowout, but I can’t get the car back onto the road.”

  My throat tightened. What was Fate’s fucking problem with us having a date? Was it illegal after ten years of marriage?

  I nodded, understanding Daniel’s situation even while my throat tightened and tears began to simmer at the back of my eyes. “I’ll be here, Daniel.”

  “I’m sorry, Cass. Pack my bag? We can still check into the Hilton.”

  More unobserved nodding. “I’ll get it together.” With that, I hung up the phone, knowing my disappointment must have been as thick on my tongue as the frosting on a gourmet cupcake.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Who could I blame? Not Daniel, not even Markman, those fuckers who had innocently condemned me to see Bruce Springsteen by myself while Daniel saved them from a virus one of their paralegals had downloaded along with an alleged Ashton Kutcher sex video.

  Wallowing—that would have been the simplest trap to fall into. I had a good wallowing wine, too, a white with the faintest hint of pity dusting the crisp pop of spicy cynicism.

  But. But… I glanced at the clock. Even if the auto club’s estimate was off, maybe the night wasn’t a complete loss. Maybe this was a test on some cosmic level. My lips twitched at the corners, the creamy, plum lipstick a dyed conspirator. Test? Bring it on. My college roommate used to say that I was a bitch when it came to tests—they never, ever won.

  I tossed the receiver onto the table and went to the closet.

  Fuck Fate. It was my night.

  I rolled my Eos onto the barely distinguishable shoulder of Five Mile Road, the hard-packed dirt wider than some city streets. The lights of Daniel’s Acura flashed on, pinning me. He emerged from his car, squinting against my headlights. I put my car in neutral and set the parking brake before exiting. The night air whispered a kiss on my face as the dust from the road rose around the hood like silent, moody birds.

  “Cass?” Daniel inquired, his voice full of questions.

  The tie of my calf-length coat fluttered against my momentum, the buttons cool on my belly and thigh. I closed the door of my car and walked toward Daniel, the coat opening at the front, the lacy bra and garter, the sexy silk stockings held tenuously in place shining in the mellow glow of the Acura’s headlights, my trimmed pussy in a starring role. I took grateful steps on the hard-packed road, the dirt firm enough to keep my four-inch heels from turning seduction into a pratfall.

  His surprised expression flooded my soul with delight, the silky stockings and sexy underwear truly becoming part of me, the trappings of intrigue and mystery, of whispered power that reminded me with a blast of pure arousal why I loved him. The harsh light of our combined headlights gave his eyes a glisten of gold, molten and ready. His smile widened with mischief as he processed and accepted my approach.

  I let my hips swing with the surge of my lust, savored the stroke of the garter against my waist, shivered with sweet delight as the cool evening air tried to chastise the wet truth of my pussy. I stayed focused on Daniel’s face for those dozen steps, his gaze freely devouring, his slightly parted lips balm to my feminine ego as I basked in his very male appreciation.

  He leaned against the fender of his car, a puppet awaiting the twitch of my finger. I battled hard to keep my face passive even as passion and power danced a duet in my heart.

  “Oh, dear,” Daniel said in a voice dry as the rising road dust, his hands outstretched.

  I stopped just beyond his grasp, the coat open, exposing bare skin and lacy, sexy elegance. “I understand you have a flat?” The bulge in Daniel’s pants ticked like a clock hand.

  He chuckled, then ran his hand through his hair as he half folded over himself and shook his head. He righted himself and moved quickly as a cat to band my back in the steel vise of his arm. “Flat? I don’t think so.” He pressed his hips into mine, the length of his cock hard, full and hot through the material of his trousers.

  Months of frustration, the hours of preparation for my orchestrated seduction, dissolved like sugar in hot water as his hand caressed my thigh, his thumb slipping expertly under the thin strap of the garter belt.

  “Auto club will be here soon,” he breathed onto my throat before his lips sealed the pulsing vein there.

  “Soon is not now, Danny boy,” I whispered against his ear as I unzipped and freed his wonderful cock.

  “Cass…” he groaned against my lips and then kissed me, his hands hot and possessive against my stomach, my hips. Exhilaration surged through me. Flesh and soul, two lives melded into one; reduced down to now, this heat, this flash, this eternal bond of body and mind.

  His teeth sank into the juncture of my throat and shoulder, and I threw back my head, eyes closed against the glare of my headlights. My fingers tightened around his rigid cock, the veins and silky skin deliciously familiar to me. I knew this flesh, I’d dined on it; had it pressed against my thighs, my ass and my pussy. And inside, dear god in heaven, inside me. It throbbed in my hand, the silky pearl at the head inspiring my mouth to water. I knew his taste, had savored his cock in my mouth, but now was not the time. No, auto club be damned, I was going to do nothing less than fuck my husband.

  Daniel growled—growled! And I flooded, the sound so primal, so focused. He wanted, and he wanted me.

  He gripped my arms, pulling them over my head, pushing me back against the hood of his Acura, my coat riding up, the warm metal pleasant on my bare ass. He clasped my wrists in his hand, tight, bruising, his weight pinning me against the waxed metal of his car. He kicked my legs apart, the action rough and thrilling, and then he dropped his trousers and boxers. Yes, I could have freed myself, I could have struggled and gotten away, but that wasn’t what I wanted. No, I wanted what Daniel wanted; I wanted his fierce, noncomputerized, instinct-ruled body and brain directing his hands, engorging his cock, closing his teeth into my neck, kissing me breathless.

  “Cassie,” he groaned against my throat as he reached down, stroked my pussy lips and circled my clit, his sharp intake of breath a song of advent.

  “Wicked woman,” he chuckled as I drenched his fingers, the creamy slickness built from the anticipation of our forfeited date night and even more from the imminence of this moment, wanton, raw, wild and exposed. Daniel, my wonderful, computer-geek husband, was going to fuck me on the hood of his car on a public road.

  Wet truly didn’t begin to describe the condition of my pussy.

  There was no ceremony, no tender gropes or simpering words. He forced my thighs apart with his free hand, stroked my slit with the head of his cock once—for orientation if I had to guess—and slid hard, fast and thick into my hole.

  The shock loosed a gasp from my throat, the delicious bolt of the invasion nearly bringing me to orgasm. Yes, yes, yes! Finally! Five months of nothing and then this…

  He thrust, jarringly, deep, the second push into me almost painful with its force, but it was also amazingly erotic, wholly selfish and, paradoxically, the purest expression of unconditional love I had ever felt. He fucked me. This wasn’t sweet or even seduction, it was crazed, animalistic and wholly about need—his need, my need, his cock spitting me; pounding into me, hot, wet; a pointed purpose that he and I both demanded. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him into me. One hand gripping my wrists, my knuckles grazing the arm of the windshield wipers, he used his other to tear my bra aside so he could expose my nipples to the cool air and to his mouth.

  Teeth and tongue assaulted, his greedy suckling a pe
rfect counterrhythm to his demanding thrust and I quickly, eagerly found myself on the short, steep climb to orgasm. My body craved his weight, cherished his nearly violent thrusts, his taking, taking, taking, my nipples aching, the wet, hard heat of his cock driving me to come.

  Three, two, instinct recognized the sharp, hard slam into me, the slap of his balls against my ass. The clarion call rang in my ears as I panted, arched, challenged the night, dared Fate to deny this moment. One, one majestic perfect slide of flesh, of desire, of glorious, wanton lust, and I flew beyond the earth, the moon, floated a moment suspended on the whim of the universe before the shattering, glorious explosion of sense, sensibility, rhyme and vision. I came in a brilliant flash, more powerfully than I could ever remember coming before, and Daniel’s howling cries and spasming final thrusts redoubled the ecstasy of the moment.

  Panting, dripping, Daniel’s weight pressing me into the hood of his car, I stared beyond the crest of his head now nestled at my neck. Stars, bright pinpoints, shimmered in the cooling night. I shivered as Daniel released my wrists and kissed me tenderly, lovingly.

  The rumble of a truck reached us over our ragged breathing. “That’s probably the auto club,” Daniel said, his hands sliding over my ass, squeezing as he thrust into me, his cock softer but still eager.

  I nipped the pulse of his throat as my ass slipped in the sweat and juices we’d generated. I grinned, then chuckled and squeezed my legs around Daniel. “Yes, it probably is. You should make sure you have your story straight.” I tightened my pussy muscles and thoroughly enjoyed the deep resonance of his snarl.

  He pinned my arms at my side and with effort withdrew, even as he bit my nipple and toyed with it like a terrier. New desire whipped inside me, and I knew without a doubt that the Hilton on the lake was in for a loud, boisterous occupancy.

  “No story at all,” Daniel said as he tucked his cock back into his trousers. “I’ll just tell them of the dear I saw in my headlights. I’m sure they’ve heard that one before.”

  I slid off the hood of his car, the shiny smear of our passion like an ornament or a trophy for all to see. I grinned and closed my coat as the tow truck chugged into position.

  “Your dear,” I told Daniel. “Tonight and forever. Meet you at the Hilton.”

  I walked back to my car while he talked to the tow truck driver, and just before I climbed in, when I was sure only Daniel was looking, I opened my coat again just for a moment.

  I saw his face, beautiful in his love and lust, and then I climbed behind the wheel, executed a tight turn and headed for town.

  As I drove, I couldn’t stop grinning as the memory of what we’d just done replayed in my brain. I felt strong, alive, loved and desired. The separations from Daniel were awful, but the true test of our love was what we did with the moments Fate gave us.

  Or the ones we fight for tooth and nail, because sometimes Fate needs a little kick in the balls.

  THE CHERRY ORCHARD

  Wickham Boyle

  This story needs no introduction. An introduction could only be a melancholy look at leaving a beloved home, an opening akin to Chekhov’s heroine touching walls and furniture, extolling the virtues of her cherry orchard and bidding adieu to life, love and happiness. Instead, when I left my home, I carefully made love in every room.

  Begin at the bath. I lay and relaxed in bubbles of pear breath, while outside my windows the blossoms promising actual fruit and the coming of spring ripened. I lay in the tub so long that I began to feel an ancient longing well up from my toes and finish as a sharp metallic taste on the tip of my tongue. It is sex: the taste of bullets and speed, of crushing and embracing. It calls to me from tip to toe and I know its rhythms.

  I conjure my man from the nursery where he is entrancing our children in low tones with dreams of flying dogs and colored water. He glues the children’s eyes to the kingdom of Morpheus and flings opens the door to my world. Silently I draw up around his neck while bubbles slide down my arms and decorate his skin like the laurels of a conquering hero. A sweet, deep kiss comes rushing out of me, finding the back of his throat almost through to the bubbles on the other side of his neck. His face is a hedgehog of prickles, and each red poke wakes me to urgency beyond tenderness.

  My hot breasts press to the cold tub, my nipples rise against the porcelain, and my hands grasp his warm back. Tiny calls emanate from next door. Babies rising from the tucks and folds of sleep, but not quite strong enough to find consciousness; they drift back to sleep. We laugh because the children have not found us this time. We continue to explore and run our hands over terrain that somehow always feels new. My man’s body is so precious to me: hot with muscle, sinew and passion. We are pushed against each other, chaperoned by a tub that segregates the deep pull of legs and groin, and thus separated we return to kissing. Our tongues are slow and sure, fish on a path to spawning. The hunt, the swim and the leap are well known to us and always exciting.

  With each kiss I am melting in the low bubbles, and I rise from the tub slippery in my lover’s arms. Bright fire of fur lights his forearms as they circle me, and he draws me into the light. My left leg is on the lip of the bath and draws my labia apart to ache and drool onto the unfeeling ceramic edge. His right hand is around me and rolls down to my butt and into the opening folds. Fingers find their way through moist forest and hanging moss. A knowledgeable explorer with true aim, he finds my center and pushes it to volcanic. My standing leg is quivering as his swift digits jump in and out of the volcanic core, and explorers march to the rim of the cone. Tramping and touching, they leave no path untrod in the quest for the core. I am crazed, head thrown back, roiling with palpitations. I scream, “You know I can’t come standing up, I can’t. I’ll die here!” We both laugh and he wraps my robe around me. “Get dressed, then I can have you and dinner together.”

  He descends to light the candles, and I emerge soft, hot and dressed. Black lacy bra, small panties already finding their way into butt and cunt to snuggle near the vibrations. With each step I feel the lacy material climb inside me, and the crenulated edges urge me on. I am tantalized at every step. My sea green silk shirt floats around me, the color of my love’s eyes. The shirt’s touch echoes the caress I feel buzzing from him. I am cocooned.

  We drink champagne from singing crystal glasses, and each clink proclaims our love and gratitude for sleeping babies, long friendships, big dicks and sucking cunts. We gorge on food whose slippery countenance mirrors my own slip and slide. The salmon is like slices of cool sex, squeezed between our fingers and popped into each other’s gullets. The butter, sweet and creamy, tops bread that follows the orange fish down to our molten centers. More bubbles, more kisses, and the room revolves with candlelight and sweet confusion. Nothing is cleared and the whipped cream appears with strawberries quick on its heels. The cream is heaped in peaks in a wide-mouthed bowl, and we suck and dip from finger to mouth. Yes, a cliché meal, but one fit for a final night in a treasured house. I am now so ready for my gob to be crammed with the solid force of a dick that will not melt and disappear.

  I kiss my fine red-haired man, using the kissing to push him into a chair. I trail down his face and chest and pause to nibble his nipples, sucking them into tiny points, pencils sharpened finely by a simple tool. The tips glisten now and I continue my pursuit hotly until he tosses his head and moans, supine in the chair. My victim is pinned by lust in my lair, a willing subject waiting my ministrations, an imagined member of my seraglio coming to be serviced by the great sultana. I will oblige because without me he will ignite. And I take pity as his bright orange hair and fur shoot out from his body and remind me of the flames between us.

  I roll his cock quickly into my mouth and open my throat wide, measuring my breath to take him fully down to my sweet center. I close my lips, suck and lick and roll about at ease. I am full from teasing his pink and rigid cock, which rests inside my lips and throat. I bob my head and push into his chest. I finger his nipples again and ignore his groans
and pleas for speed. I am in full control. The heat and friction increase internally, and I feel a boiling in his loins. I am cooking a thick pudding, bringing a sweet dessert to a rolling boil, and I see that he cannot sustain the heat much longer. “I must pull all this fire into me; now is my time,” I muse.

  My hand is wrapped around the base of his cock, grasping like that of a soldier with a prized flag. I hold my mouth open and caress him, then close on his member with tongue and breath. As he gasps, my free arm flings across his chest, and I reach across his torso to dip my hand into the butter and in one move find his anus. My fingertip is barely inside when he comes, filling my mouth. He fills me with the cream from his jumping fish, and his rectum pulls me inside with each crushing contraction. I free him from my mouth and hand and rise to kiss him back into the present. Lost still to another world, he croons and strokes me as if I am a seer and have foretold great fortunes.

  “What room next?” he buzzes in my ear. We kiss with the taste of him coating every crevice in my mouth. I love a mouth that tastes of my lover, and I imagine that he and every amorous traveler yearns for virtual experience of entering his or her own body through the portals of taste. Taste buds entwined, we move up the back staircase. My shirt trails behind me like a diaphanous banner, and his T-shirt is slung over his shoulder like a fresh kill. The hunter and the temptress traipse to bed.

  Covers, pillows, fresh sheets are rejected as we sprawl across the end of the bed in a simple embrace. And here I lose memory, sight and aural ability; I taste him and feel me as I twirl inside him. I am lost, reduced to a tiny diver immersed in a sensational wet world. I almost don’t notice his hand as it slips under my bottom, cupping me and darting in and out like a demented honeybee in a favorite garden. Swooning, I press myself to be present; I do not want to drown in sensations so sharp. I push him away and exhale. It’s the fight of the orgasm: I know it wants me to submit and go with it. It wants me to ride it like a wave carrying me in the undertow. It wants me to trust it as it pops me to the surface and drags me down again and again. It will finally spit me out on the sandy shore, and I will be spent and unable to swim farther. Tonight I want the control.