Passion

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  He steps outside, dropping the shirt on the floor like I’d done with my clothes. I hear him take a few steps, then he’s back to slip a blindfold over my eyes. It’s padded, warm against my lids. He runs a little more hot water. The splash against my toes is louder with the blindfold on. He runs his fingers lightly between my legs, just a hint, before he walks off.

  Taste

  I wait, knowing he’ll be back soon. He’s tied me up before and walked out, just long enough to make me wonder, long enough to make me shake against my bonds, long enough for me to drip between my legs at the indignity of being spread wide open. I’m not tied up now, but I don’t peek or otherwise cheat. I sink deeper and think back on our hottest moments together: sex in the snow at a ski resort; the first time, in his car; the time he added a finger along with his cock inside me, when he let me put more than a finger or two up his butt. There have been so many special moments, but they get lost in the everyday, the morning quickies, the stolen solo affairs. It’s hard to interject a fantasy or foreplay when we are both so focused day and night on Making Something of Ourselves.

  It seems like he’s back in no time, and I shake my head to clear it as I hear him on the stairs. “Hungry?” I hear him call. Honestly, I’m not hungry by this point, not really, but Lawrence manages to rekindle an ache in my belly, aside from the one in my mouth, for his cock. I want to be hungry for whatever he has to offer.

  No smells immediately waft toward me, nothing warm, stinky, steaming. “I’m gonna feed you, Kelly. Then I’m gonna eat you.” I smile and then something cool is against my lips. I reach out my tongue and taste what can only be a Granny Smith apple. I open wider and the tart, sweet fruit is against my tongue, followed by a loud crunch. It tastes good, though I still can’t properly say I’m hungry.

  I think about how many times I’ve fed him; I usually nibble as I work all day—cheese, crackers, maybe a microwaved veggie burger. I can lose track of time and skip meals, and I don’t really mind. I like food, but my work nourishes me. When I cook—hearty stews, lasagnas, roasted chicken—it’s with Lawrence in mind. I love watching him devour what I’ve made.

  What next hits my lips is sweet, dripping, wet. Honey. I laugh at first, because honey is what he calls the liquid that pools between my legs. “Give me some of that honey,” he’ll say, and if I ever have a moment of shyness, it vanishes when I hear those words. The honey trails along my tongue, not quite fully dissolving. Next are grapes, chilled, cold against my tongue. I take bite after bite, suddenly famished. “And now, dessert.” I giggle as a heavenly bite of chocolate passes my lips, and now I’m grateful for the blindfold. Without it I’d be dying to feed him back. He lets me lick the chocolate off his fingers and then kisses me deep. I hear the rasp of his zipper and he breaks the kiss, only to climb into the tub with me, pinning me beneath him. The tub doesn’t really fit two, that would’ve been overkill, but then again, we’ve never tried anything but standing-in-the-shower sex. I like this, like his heft, his weight; like that he’s thought so much about what he wants to do to me.

  Hearing

  As if I’ve conjured it, he whispers, “I’ve been planning all day to seduce you, Kel. To get you frantic and wet and tight so I can fill you right up, everywhere.” I shiver at “everywhere”—is he going to put his cock back there? We’ve talked about it, but never actually done it; one thing I love about him is how big he is, but not for that. “Yes, baby, I am going to take you all over, and you’re going to like it. I’m going to get inside your sweet ass, and you’re going to beg for me to do it harder, beg for more, the way you do when you have it in your mouth. That’s the only way it’s going to happen.”

  What he tells me next is what makes me crack completely open. Never mind not having any clothes on, never mind him on top of me, never mind the heat and the bubbles and being blindfolded; it’s the words he whispers in my ear and those he coaxes from my mouth that do me in. “I wish I could be in all of your holes at once,” he says, slipping two wide fingers into my mouth. They are smooth, smoother than my calloused ones, but not dainty. I suck them down and when his words get to be too much, I press my teeth into his fingers, just a little, just enough to let him know how much I want everything he’s telling me. “I want to take out my phone and turn on the video camera and tape us, tape you riding me, those breasts bouncing. I want to watch you come with me inside you, then keep that with me at all times, so when I’m on the road or just missing you I can watch those faces you make.” The head of his dick nudges my sex, but I don’t dare try to make him enter me. He lifts the blindfold and stares deep into my eyes. “I’m gonna make you scream, baby, scream for my cock, scream when you ask me to come, scream because you don’t know if you want me to stop or keep going.” A tear bubbles up to the corner of my eye, but I don’t try to stop it.

  “Yes,” I say, then pull him close and this time shove my tongue into his mouth. We kiss until the water’s cold, then he wraps me in our softest blanket and carries me to the bed, even though my ankles are still dripping, my hair wet. He grabs a towel and pats himself dry while I watch.

  Touch

  I reach for him again, but he doesn’t let me. Instead he turns me over and then moves me around, positions me like I’m just his plaything. I like being his plaything, like this, alone, in the bedroom. I like it when he makes me feel like I’m there for his pleasure, because in that moment, I am. Or rather, his pleasure is my pleasure, as retro as that may sound.

  With my head turned to the side, my eyes closed, and him sliding my legs open into a V, I get wet, so wet I’m sure he sees and smells. He holds open my pussy lips for a moment and I wait, but all I get is a brief lick of his tongue, a quick suck on my clit, before he vanishes. I could reach down myself, he hasn’t explicitly told me not to, but he doesn’t have to. I know he’s in charge now.

  Being facedown I don’t see his finger aiming before it zeros in on its target. Slick with saliva, it presses lightly against my pucker, seeking something I’m not sure I can give. I liked the idea in theory, sort of, when we were in the bath, but this is real. “Open up, Kel, let me in. You’re gonna like it, I promise,” he says. It sounds like a line, something guys say—but not my guy. I take a deep breath, smell the detergent embedded in the sheet, and soon there are fingers in both my holes. Then, something else: lube, but it feels different from the lube I’ve used on him. I bite my lip and then I make myself go limp as his finger works its way into my ass. And he’s right, I do like it. I suck him in deeper as his other hand plunges into my natural wetness. I raise my butt into the air, urging him deeper.

  I chance a peek behind me to see his face focused entirely on what he’s doing. “That’s it,” he croons softly. I lie there with my ass in the air, as exposed as when I’ve been tied up—now this would be a picture! But somewhere along the way the thoughts and fears and doubts stop playing on a loop in my head; I know he would stop if I wanted him to. In my backward glance he lets me see his cock, flashes its hardness, its heft, its desire right at me; that makes me wild with lust, always has.

  I’ve been with other guys, black or white, with big dicks, some bigger than Lawrence’s. He, though, has the perfect package and not just down there; he is tough and tender, strong and supportive. He takes care of me and lets me take care of him, and he has a beautiful cock. He fingers me for another minute or two while I ponder how lucky I am to have this man in one fine package, and all of that is what I see when I finally sit up and lean over to take the head in my mouth. He maneuvers us so I somehow can suck his dick and he can lean over me and play with me back there. We work in sync until he’s filling my mouth, not with his cream, but with his length, giving me all of it and starting to rock his hips back and forth. I ease off; he’s telling me that he could let it happen this way, he could stand and watch me get him off with my mouth.

  “No, take me there,” I tell him. “I want your cock in my ass.” And it’s true; I do want him there, for the first time ever. It’s a first for
me, a place no man has ever gone before, and that fact, as much as the ache inside, propels me. I get on all fours and I hear him rip open a condom and glide one on, then I hear lube and soon he is there.

  “Touch your clit, baby,” he whispers, and I do, while he sinks inside. It’s tight and even though he goes slowly, it’s still an unusual feeling, but I soon get caught up in it, caught up in him. His words now are gibberish, mostly, or “Yes,” “Tight,” “Baby,” but the actual words no longer matter. We’ve said everything we need to say, and I know he will still wake up with me every day after this. He has promised me so much, and this is another promise we are making to each other. He knows it’s my first time and I know he knows and my fingers work my clit as I realize I like it, I really like it.

  I can’t even explain it to myself, but now I’m the one with the dirty mouth. “Fuck my ass, Lawrence. Take it; take me.” He’s going slowly in and out, and when he gets almost all the way out I feel an emptiness that makes me claw at the sheets and buck backward to urge him in. I give up on my clit for a little while to hold on to the headboard and he drills into me, sensing what I need. “I’m gonna come soon, Kel,” he says, and that does it for me. I love how his come feels, and even if I’m not going to feel it in the usual way, I love what it represents.

  “Come inside me, give it to me, all of it.” I’m rattling the bed and his hands go up to my breasts, playing with my nipples, before they reach for my arms to pull me down and cover me. His lips are at the back of my neck, his breath hot and heavy in my ear as my husband fills my ass. He lets out a groan as he softens inside me, then lies there on top of me for a moment, sweat dripping down. When he pulls out and rolls me over to look at him, there is pure love shining from his eyes, along with some unshed tears. He gets up to wash off, and when he’s done he shuts off all the lights before settling down before me.

  Lawrence pulls me to the edge of the bed and licks me, fucking me with his tongue. I hear a noise and realize my nails have torn the sheet a little but I don’t care; I only care about wrapping my legs around his head and coming—for me, for him, for us. He doesn’t need any words now; his tongue does the talking. He holds me wide open and makes sure he does it exactly the way I like it, beating his tongue against me, the pressure of his strong fingers massaging me, then his teeth are against my clit, then I’m exploding. He hums against me and takes all that I’m giving him, my honey, but keeps going. And going and going. I don’t dare tell him it’s enough; is it ever, really? All I know is by the time he is done eating me I’m sore in a good way, my senses overloaded.

  I remember how it felt when we were first together, everything heightened. Back then I’d tell my friends that it felt like I had two pussies, six hands, three brains. Now it’s like that, too, as if everything I know about my body and being has been cleared out in favor of a new system that makes infinitely more sense.

  Five senses? Try fifty, a hundred, a thousand. But who’s counting?

  THE ARCH OF TRIUMPH

  Monica Day

  I usually ask for directions when I’m lost. But tonight, I would rather be found.

  I already figured out how to take the subway to see l’Arc de Triomphe, alone. Strolled down the Champs Elysées, alone. Got a table at a chic African restaurant, alone. All while scoping out the various possibilities for company.

  At the end of dinner, after several unsuccessful attempts at flirting with men at nearby tables, I ask the waiter to recommend a jazz bar. He hands me a napkin with the name of a club, the neighborhood it’s in…and his name and number.

  “I don’t work tomorrow night,” he says in his best English as he delivers his offer with my bill. For just a minute, I’m sorry that tomorrow night is too late.

  There are worse places than Paris to be alone. It’s my third night here, and I’ve grown bolder by the day. I hail a cab and ask for my destination—en Français.

  “La Caveau en St. Michelle, s’il vous plait?”

  “Oui, Madame.”

  It’s warmer than I expect for a September night, so I drape my sweater over my arm as I get out of the cab. The sidewalks are overflowing with people out enjoying the night—groups of men arguing and watching women walk by, lovers kissing and laughing as they stroll. Five directions to choose from with tired feet is four too many—I need someone to point the way. I pick the sweetest, most approachable boy I can find. He’s leaning on a short post on the sidewalk, also alone.

  “Como ça va La Caveau, s’il vous plait?” Oops. It happened again. The little bit of Spanish I know collides with the little bit of French I remember from high school. I think I asked him who is in the cave. I feel my cheeks turn hot and red.

  “Huh?”

  “Pardon,” I say, laughing and try again. “Ou es Le Caveau? C’est musica? Jazz?”

  “I speak English,” he confesses and we laugh. He’s French-Canadian and just arrived in Paris two days ago. It is his first time in the neighborhood, too, he tells me. He can’t help. A little embarrassed, I thank him and continue spelunking for my jazz cave.

  Three brave but fruitless efforts later, I hear a voice behind me: “Have you found it yet?”

  I spin around and there he is, grinning. I smile broadly back. We are old friends now, based on the length of time either of us has spent with anyone in this city.

  “No,” I tell him.

  “Let me help you look.”

  We wander just a block before we find it. He asks if he can come with me. The man in the ticket window shifts his eyes from him to me and back again, no doubt trying to discern our story. He’s in shorts, flip-flops, a T-shirt—obviously a student and a young one at that. I am in my best Paris chic…pressed slacks, strappy black heels, red halter with the requisite plunging V-neck. I figure I’ve got about fifteen years on him, give or take.

  While the ticket-taker vacillates between accusation and admiration, I ask for two tickets and put my money under the half-moon opening in the Plexiglas. As my new friend reaches for his wallet, I quietly turn away his arm and tell him he can buy me a drink.

  The man hands me the tickets but speaks to my new companion in French. For a sickening moment, I think he is saying he can’t come in. I imagine there is a dress code or some other problem, maybe even an age requirement that my new friend might not meet. I briefly entertain the thought that I could end up in jail on my last night in Paris, and I wonder who I would call to come get me out.

  “The band is on a break,” he translates. “He says we can walk and come back if we’d prefer. It will be about a half hour.”

  A half-hour stroll through the winding streets of St. Michelle and two hours of jazz later, he is not just a boy on the street. His name is Eric. He is a baroque harpsichordist, here on a full scholarship for a year—all expenses paid—to study with one of the best teachers in the world.

  “Do you want to know the best part of being here, though?” he asks.

  “Of course I do.”

  “It is looking out my window every day.” He goes on to describe in great detail the spires of Notre Dame…how the light changes at different times of the day and at dusk…how he can hear the people below, catch fragments of their conversations as they stroll past his window.

  “It’s incredible,” he concludes. “I could spend the entire year looking at it every day and not get tired or bored.”

  “Lucky for me you decided to leave your room,” I joke, as we both laugh at the unapologetic romantic dissertation that Paris seems to inspire, even in the best cynic.

  “Yes, it is good to be out…and nice to talk to you.”

  I decide that when a forty-year-old woman attracts the undivided attention of a twenty-five-year-old man in Paris, she should remain mysterious, anonymous even. The less information shared about sticky things back home—like a recent separation that is careening into a divorce or the two little girls there who are missing me this week—the better.

  Instead, I tell him of my great love for jazz, which he knows
nothing about. I tell him why scat singing is so hard and how a great jazz classic is a lot like the classical pieces he plays. How each person who plays it puts their mark on it—how the music changes even as it stays the same. And we agree that improvisation is one of the highest forms of art and speculate whether heroin makes it easier to release into the unknown, even though neither of us knows the answer firsthand.

  During all this chattering and listening, nothing more than the tops of our arms touch. He is attentive and polite. He watches my drink and refreshes it, thoughtful about our drinks-for-ticket agreement at the door. And I decide that perhaps the age difference has ruled out any attraction for him, but I am grateful for the company nonetheless.

  As the musicians launch into their last song of the night, my glass is empty. But this time, I decline another. It’s late, and I have half of Paris between me and my hotel.

  Then, without touching me, without testing the waters or looking for signs of reassurance, he turns to me and says, “I would like to show you Notre Dame…outside my window.”

  I have just been handled by a twenty-five-year-old in shorts and flip-flops…and I didn’t even see it coming.

  “I would like that.”

  A happy silence descends between us, as we walk the four blocks to his apartment. He has been charming. I have been charmed. The surprise of it is enough for us both for now.

  “We must be quiet,” he explains. Oh, my. It is practically a college dormitory. There are rules against this kind of thing, consequences if he gets caught. But he is not concerned. He takes my hand and leads me through the hallway maze to this room. We giggle a little after we pass someone in the hall who politely averts his eyes as we pass.