Secret Desire

by Taylor, Susan D.

  There was a pause on the other end. “Why the leap?”

  “You know, I like to see new sights.”

  “If that’s your best story, maybe you better rethink the East.”

  “I don’t see any future in Seattle. Too many self-published platforms springing up. I’d like to try a stint in the old-fashioned form of publishing. You know tangibles like newspapers or maybe even writing fiction, longer pieces. I believe they’re called books.”

  “Well, you can’t fight the wave of the future. Everything will be online soon. Better get with the program or you’ll be left behind in the e-pub frenzy. Everyone wants easy access. In New York it’s all about what’s rapid and short and exciting. Like sex…you do remember sex?”

  She shuddered at Fran’s snarky advice. Claire and writing went way back. Perhaps it was a bit of a romanticized dream; still, it was her dream. Fran was so out of touch with anyone’s dreams but her own. A nagging thought pecked at Claire. Why didn’t she just do what she wanted to do? Write the stories she wanted to write and the heck with anyone’s opinion. What held her back? She no longer had the excuse of trying to live up to her parents’ expectations.

  She rolled her shoulders and then her neck, first left then right. It was no use. She was as tight as a loaded spring. She sighed. “Fine, Fran. I’ll get right on that. Do you happen to have the East Coast playbook?”

  “Funny. Hey, I don’t make the rules.”

  “Lucky me. I’m tired. This whole thing is unimaginable.” She trudged back upstairs to her bedroom. Her sister’s humor was never a comfort. Sometimes Fran completely lacked an ounce of empathy, even back when they were children.

  “I can see how being there is very, very draining. Nothing is like it was before. But we can’t change history, right? We are who we are, and now we must stand alone. But you’ve always known what you wanted. You’re so lucky with your politically correct writing and perspective.” Fran’s pronouncement wasn’t exactly complimentary. Claire could feel the same hard edge of competition that drove her sister.

  “Then why don’t I feel justified?”

  If Fran thought she was sure footed, her sister was wrong. Claire had worked her way up to editor of the school paper but had always kept of cache of stories hidden away. Love stories. She wrote about what she couldn’t or wouldn’t reveal. Those secret stories didn’t disappear.

  Only recently had her stories evolved into sensual exchanges; a playground where she acted out some of her adult fantasies. She wasn’t ready to share this other fiction, either. If she ever made that leap to unleash her secret erotic stories, there would be no turning back. One world or the other wasn’t such an unrealistic scenario. It was reality. If she chose to publish her erotic fiction, the other MFAs from her graduating class would read what she was up to in the world of writing, and they would either ignore her or snicker.

  She tried for the bright side and realized things could be worse. Being a writer working within a small, albeit recognized, publication still provided her with a sense of status. But her desire to change really had nothing to do with Mike or Seattle. Her heart wasn’t in staff writing. She’d tried to bridge the world of nonfiction with her desire to create heartfelt stories. She’d used what she witnessed as a reporter as the springboard to writing several short fiction pieces. Two of her stories were already published, and she’d recently submitted a longer piece. She’d sent out resumes and queried publishers well before becoming involved with Mike. It was the waiting, not knowing, and the desire to move on that trampled her peace of mind.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a lack of excitement. From where I stand, you live a pretty vanilla life.”

  “I’m willing to take my chances, same as you.”

  “Really? If you say so.”

  “Anyway, did you work on clearing your schedule? It’s late and you should have already made travel arrangements. Are you coming down or not?”

  Fran exhaled loudly. “No, I don’t think I can make it. I’ve got a ton of meetings, travel plans that I can’t reschedule.”

  Blood pounded in her temples. “I meant tomorrow. Are you saying not at all?” Claire began another round of deep breathing exercises. Fran’s apparent inability to deal with their parents’ death would leave her alone and responsible for handling the details. The buzzing of calamity lifted. She held back the sharp edge from her voice. “There’s no burial. They want to be cremated.”

  “All the more reason to stay put and get my work done.” Fran sounded bitter. “No burial. Let me guess. Their ashes spread over the trail. Am I correct?”

  Tinges of anger jabbed Claire at hearing the all-too-familiar sarcasm creep into her sister’s voice.

  “Yes.” Claire could hardly get the word out. Was this grief or Fran talking? “Are you telling me you’re not going to carry out our parents’ wishes?” Claire had dealt with a selfish sister for a lifetime. Sometimes it worked best to give Fran a chance to rethink. “Do you want to visit the trail with me in the fall? We can go when your schedule less hectic.”

  “I don’t see that day coming anytime soon. Really, Sis, what’s the point? I never pretended to like those plaid flannel hiking adventures. Backcountry camping. I’m more the champagne, satin, and penthouse type with C-SPAN in the background. No, thanks. You can keep the s’mores.”

  “Well, you might change your mind. I won’t be going until the weather cools, maybe October.” This was exactly why Claire wanted a change. She didn’t have the drive to chase her subjects until she obtained the makings of a story. She enjoyed the aspects of observation and relating, not trying to persuade potential sources into giving up information like a homicide detective. Unlike Fran, she absolutely sucked at bending people to her will.

  “We’ll see.”

  Claire recognized her sister’s put-off as an indirect refusal. This was a subject to be put on the shelf until later.

  “Fran, do you want anything from the house? I don’t know what to do with everything.”

  “Find a company that handles estate sales. Let them take care of the business of tying the final knots. I don’t want a thing. Keep my share to help with your move to the East Coast. I love you. Thanks for taking this on.”

  “I’ll let you know how things go. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Claire let go of the phone, sat back, and hugged her knees. She wasn’t surprised by her sister’s lack of interest or willingness to give up her portion of the sale. Fran didn’t need the money or the visit to a small town she’d long ago forgotten. One less minute back home would be something Fran would gladly forgo.

  The sound of whistling grew louder. Claire scrambled to the nightstand. She turned off the lamp and walked to the window. The moon had risen over the trees, casting a silvery hue to the yard across the white picket fence. Claire peered down and noticed a window that emitted a golden glow, most likely coming from the kitchen, if she remembered correctly.

  A shadow lengthened around the corner of the porch, and then she saw him. Dustin walked slowly and carried a tire in each hand. He’d changed from the tall, lanky boy she’d kissed and had grown up with into a man. A man with a physique that spread into broad, muscular shoulders.

  Suddenly it didn’t seem as though years had passed since they’d sat on his porch, drinking toasts to each other, preparing to go off to college. She tried to remember where he’d gone, but all of sudden her mind went blank. Her mouth was dry, and she licked her lips.

  Dustin walked toward the back of the house, following a well-lit path to the barn. Light poured out around him once he opened the door. She gasped and leaned forward, trying to get a better view of his muscled back that cut an inverted triangle into the darkness framed by the light. The way he swung the tires made ripples move along his arms.

  Her chest constricted into something that she remembered and usually desperately avoided. She clung to the window frame, unsure of what to do.

  He changed his whistle yet continued to stand in the doorway. She watche
d him. For a moment he seemed to face her window. She stepped behind the curtain, unable to move away from the window. A large dog bounded from the yard into the barn. He chuckled, releasing a rich laugh that lingered even after he disappeared inside.

  She carefully moved away from the window, aware of a sudden weakness in her knees. This was a fine mess. She was home and staring out her window at her sister’s old boyfriend.

  How pathetic.

  She grabbed her laptop case and went downstairs. She could at least get some writing done on her secret set of stories. Her lovers there were perhaps imaginary, but at least it was better than yearning for someone she could never possess. She pulled out the head chair and placed her laptop on the polished oak dining table. Her attention turned to her recent work in progress that required some fine-tuning. Late at night, she found it possible to be creative without her own personal critic sitting on her shoulder and harping too loudly.

  She scanned the dining and living rooms as the computer booted. So many memories. Fran was right. She needed help letting go of the things in her parents’ house. She needed to concentrate and focus her attention on her future. Dwelling on the past would serve no one and was of no help in achieving her goal, forging a future unfettered by past regrets.

  First, business. She opened a computer file and selected the piece she’d written for Ethos. She read each paragraph and made a few changes. The story was ready for submission tomorrow.

  She crossed her legs. Now she could get down to pleasure. She opened her personal writing file and glanced up, waiting for the document to appear. Her mother’s stained glass lamps cast a soft light and created a homey feel that she’d almost forgotten. She sat at the head of the table where her father had presided over evening meals, bravely sitting night after night with three opinionated women.

  She stopped reminiscing when traces of shared meals with Dustin invaded her head. She forced her attention to her latest manuscript. She dove into the words displayed across the laptop screen, and within moments she was swept away reading, rewriting, and editing the piece. She came to the last sentence and saved the new version of her story.

  She laughed thinking about what she’d written. The idea of being a woman in charge. Her current heroine was a power broker inside a cosmopolitan corporation and didn’t focus on a standard plot. She pushed the woman to exercise a high level of control while exploring erotica that mixed business with pleasure. The tension between her characters provided an outlet for Claire’s fantasies and gave her a very necessary escape route.

  Tonight had been more than productive, and she’d imagined all sorts of positions that a woman could take in a well-planned office. The only problem was she kept seeing images of Dustin as the alpha male hero. She imagined Dustin, his skin slick with sweat, working in the barn on his motorcycle. She clenched the muscles between her thighs. She groaned and shook her head.

  Before she’d been all the way across the country and it was easier to stop this kind of thought. Tonight, after seeing him and his broad shoulders, a fully grown man, her imagination refused to obey. Just the sound of his voice sent chills racing around her body. Her nipples tightened. She couldn’t stop the thought of his hands on her body.

  To hell with it. She didn’t have the strength to fight temptation. All she wanted was a moment of comfort and satisfaction being in his arms. Tonight she’d enjoy the fantasy once and for all, freely. She could just imagine what it would feel like to be bent over a workbench, him pushing against her bottom, hard and erect, a man intent on giving her what she wanted.

  She gulped. The mere idea of him doing things to her liquefied her body. A throbbing began between her legs. She uncrossed her thighs and lifted her nightgown to reach inside her panties, and damn if she wasn’t wet and tingling. She touched herself, releasing a skittering of pleasure. She closed her eyes, giving free flight to Dustin’s fingers. She imagined him spreading her legs, pushing her further over a motorcycle, lifting her hips. Claire bit her knuckles to keep from calling out his name.

  Desire saturated her mind and body. He was so near, just a house away. Is that why she wanted to bolt out the door and throw herself on him?

  She wanted to taste him. See what he felt like in her mouth. She rubbed her fingers against her swollen, moist skin. She bent her legs, bringing up her feet to rest on the edge of the chair. She imagined his broad shoulders and wrapping her legs up and over his muscled back. Claire stroked herself, imagining her finger was his tongue. The movement sent electrical thrills of pleasure up and down her body. She swiped her finger back and forth, swirling around her clit and then she slid her finger into her opening. This could be his fingers caressing her.

  Claire imagined taking his cock into her mouth as he stroked her. The head was engorged and dripping and velvet against her tongue and lips. It was too late to turn back from this fantasy.

  She neared the place where desire melted and ran and she was free falling, gripping the table as she orgasmed. She threw her head back, resting against the chair, her legs wide open. A fine mist of perspiration coated her skin. Between her legs she still felt a throbbing, an ache, that sparked and ignited her hunger.

  Dustin, she half moaned and half cursed him.

  She couldn’t escape the image of him without a shirt. This wasn’t lasting relief. If anything masturbation was an hors d'oeuvre, opening and whetting her appetite.

  Tears stung her eyes, from frustration and desire, braided and coiled into a force that refused to expire. She wished for the possibility of commanding Dustin’s attention, instead of secretly hiding in the dark.

  She imagined sliding walls where she created a soundproof version of a sex chamber. One where she was in charge. She was his succubus, haunting his sleep. The image of him drifted back and forth. She moved him aside trying to envision the details. The texture of wine-colored satin sheets, smooth and soft. She inhaled and chose a woody scent for his body. Claire heard a far-off, deep laugh that lodged in her chest. She turned up the volume of a Middle Eastern melody within her fantasy.

  This was a battle, trying to stop the trembling between her thighs. Claire reached inside her panties and rubbed the slick hood of her already engorged clit. She wanted relief, but this was torture. She slammed the door to her memory and tried to double-lock the storehouse of fantasies.

  Dustin slipped in, nevertheless. Beckoned her to come.

  She rubbed herself, trying to find relief until beads of perspiration erupted again and she gave in to the waves of pleasure. She hung over the chair, limp, having climaxed twice, but still greedy, wanting the real thing.

  Claire wished it was possible to let go of the past. Fran said it. No way to change history. She sighed. Did her own flawed personality prompt her to search for a man who ultimately took control into his own two hands? Dustin had flat-out failed to do that way back when. There was nothing that prompted her to believe anything had changed.

  The only way she’d find a satisfying ending to her story would be to start again. A new story. The writing of a story was no different than life, a balancing act in trying to create or be a woman who didn’t settle for just anybody but was pursued by Mr. Right-Who-Took-What-He-Wanted.

  She opened her notebook. She jotted down a couple of ideas for the next story. Maybe this act would keep her imagination at bay. Somewhere, her critic whispered something about getting a cat to compliment her spinster outlook. After all, here she was hiding out alone.

  She stopped writing. Alone. The word dropped like boulder.

  Hiding. Another equally weighted word that she wanted to hurl and hear crash.

  She began to shake. Uncontrollably. Something torrid crept up along her spine, scorching her neck, and warming her face. Anger fueled by her recent frustration. Each heartbeat squeezed out and released more and more foul emotions that had festered too long. She dug her feet into the floor, fighting for control.

  Being alone was her choice. She’d lived with her own version of the truth for s
o long, it was easy to believe there was no other way.

  She hated to admit, but Fran was partly correct. She couldn’t expect to be able to snap her fingers and have Prince Charming show up if she continued to hide away. And she couldn’t argue with the truth about how she dealt with her writing. Romance was a top selling category in the world of fiction. She wasn’t an author of depravity. Goodness, it was only sex. Nothing to be ashamed of, Claire Robertson. The critic was red faced and out of breath.

  Analysis paralysis. She was making this too difficult. Overthinking, as usual. Would she ever have the courage to share these stories?

  This wasn’t an ascent up Mount Everest.

  She wavered in her wish for feedback. She was accustomed to people reading her writing, but the thought of sharing these stories knotted her insides.

  “I write erotica.” She said the words as if trying on a new hat. Even her own eyebrows shot up with the announcement.

  “¡Ay, caramba!”

  She stretched her arms overhead. What would her professors at Berkeley think of Claire Robertson as an undercover writer of erotica? Might they not enjoy her stories too?

  She rolled her eyes and yawned. It was past midnight in Mill Spring, barely nine back in Seattle. She was spent from traveling and the stress of coming home. She closed her laptop and sat for a moment cradling her head in her hands. Tears stung her eyes thinking about all the Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas mornings that had come and gone.

  Her parents had been simple, quiet people. They never asked much of those around them except to try to maintain an atmosphere of tranquility.

  Claire rubbed her eyes and pushed the chair away from the table. She traipsed upstairs and dropped into her bed, giving in to exhaustion. The pillows still smelled of jasmine, reminding her of the fragrance she’d worn as a teenager.

  She started to drift off to sleep. Groggy, she opened her eyes, suddenly remembering where Dustin had gone off to school. He’d gone to MIT to study something to do with computer engineering. She settled back into the pillows and uncovered her leg, wiggling her toes in the cool nighttime breeze coming through the open window.