Carried Away

by Whitney Williams

  Remember, I thought loudly to myself, I am this woman now. I am the sexy minx a man can’t even wait to get behind closed doors. I am irresistible.

  I had decided to see how this would play out. Now I was simply going through with it. I had decided to try trusting this man, and I am not one for half-measures. Eyes still clamped, I focused on my emotional defense to calm myself: trust. I was perfectly blameless. These were his actions, not mine.

  The sound of a zipper interrupted my little pep-talk. His roller board suitcase looked large for a carry-on, but the de facto limits are different in the first class cabin. He was kneeling, where I had been before, over his suitcase, as I had been—how long ago was that? He lifted it straight up off the ground, turned and dumped its contents in a heap on top of my shoes. Then he set it back on the floor between us, turning it so the top opened back toward him.

  “In you go.”

  Again, he looked serious and possibly mad. There was no way. I humored him and rolled off the sofa, kneeling into the suitcase and crouched into a tight tuck, demonstrating that tiny though I was, I did not fit. He reached in and rotated me onto my side, then folded my head in with a hand on the back of my neck. I couldn’t believe it. It was impossibly cramped, but I was in. He asked if I was OK, then he started stuffing articles of his previously dumped clothing in wherever they could be wedged.

  It got very dark when he closed the lid and zipped it up. Very dark and very quiet. I was luggage. This interesting turn of events pushed my whole “trust him” theory to its logical extreme. I was blind, deaf and immobilized, packed for covert transport to an unknown destination. What could possibly go wrong? At least I was to be carried on rather than checked...as far as I knew.

  When my cocoon got righted, tilted, and it began to roll, I discovered that I had made a minor tactical error. I was upside down.

  --Gretchen--

  Dear Diary,

  When Henry asked if I wanted to spend the summer in New York, of course I said yes. I didn’t know he lived here! I got suspicious when I saw his unbelievable flat. I guess it’s a flat. I’m not even sure what to call it. He owns the entire top floor of this building! I asked Peggy about it while she was helping me move in. I asked her how much the rent was, and she admitted he owned it.

  There are only two apartments on the floor: his and mine. Mine, I can definitely call a flat. It’s a nice little one-bedroom affair with big, glass French doors that open out onto the same terrace as Henry’s. Everything looks new, like it was just renovated. It’s kind of weird. If he renovated it, why didn’t he just connect it to his apartment to have more space?

  Anyway, I asked Peggy what his place in London was like. She said it was smaller. The more I asked, the more evasive she got until she finally told me I should ask Henry about it. I did. He was evasive too, but he won’t lie to me. Getting the truth out of him is like playing Twenty Questions except it takes a lot more than twenty. He finally confessed that he’d lived out of a hotel all spring while I finished the school year. He also admitted he didn’t work at the London office and that he knew Father but not well. He owns the firm, and their headquarters, his headquarters, is here. He only found out about me when they tried to contact Father’s next of kin about his benefits. I was Father’s only kin. Henry sent Peggy to London immediately, then came for the funeral and never left.

  Why would he do that? I asked him. He said he promised me that he would. That doesn’t explain why he decided to make that promise, but he won’t admit the paradox. I don’t understand him. I wish I did. He is always such a gentleman. I can’t imagine why he isn’t married.

  Peggy outright refuses to talk to me about Henry’s personal life. I kind of expected she’d be eager to set him up since she tends to dote over him as if she were his mother, but she’s right professional when it comes down to it. Still, sometimes I feel like she sees me as one of her grandchildren. And it’s not just her. When we arrived, the doorman said, “Welcome to New York, Miss Gilbert” as soon as he opened the car door, before I even got out. They must have told him I would be coming. Everyone here is so nice to me, always asking me if I need anything.

  Peggy has me scheduled for all kinds of different classes and workshops, but really, I think I just want to follow her around for the most part, see what her job is like. She’s amazing. She always has everything ready, like she has this psychic power of knowing what anyone needs. I want to learn how she does it.

  Henry wants me to make friends. I guess I will just to make him happy, but I can’t relate to girls my age. They’re all so oblivious. They complain about the stupidest things, like boys and school and whatnot, and act like everything is the end of the world. I’ve been to the end of the world. They have no idea.

  - gg

  Chapter Two – Shipping and Receiving

  --Sally--

  When one is in a suitcase, one tends to lose track of time. I rolled along the floor for a while, stopped, rolled more, stopped, rolled again. It would be unfair to call it disorienting because I knew my orientation within the suitcase with uncomfortable precision, and I could not reasonably expect to guess at the orientation of the suitcase itself.

  I was on my side again when the plane took off, only my second flight. Takeoff and landing were my least favorite parts of the first one anyway. When he opened the bag, I couldn’t move. I reached up toward him, dislodging some rolled socks. Taking hold of my wrist, he pulled me out slowly, gently, and set me at his feet. That made sense, I suppose. Most people would have remained painfully and irreversibly contorted after that ride. I did not.

  I knew becoming an invincible seductress took more than a pretty face. I stayed in good shape. Not being one for field sports, I did a lot of yoga, getting quite limber along the way. I got a book from the library and learned the poses. Now I know I had been doing a few of the asanas wrong, but it was close enough to be effective.

  He didn’t know that yet, though, so he left me on the floor to decompress. I put his displaced clothing back in the suitcase, zipped it up and stowed it. Looking around, I could hardly believe we were on an airplane. It had more the feel of an antique Pullman coach but without the hand-carved, wooden trim. We had our own tiny room; you might call it a booth with its low ceiling. The chair was huge and plush and could recline all the way to fully horizontal, making almost a small bed, with its footrest extended. The walls were an aggressively plain gray, and the one with the windows curved slightly. Opposite that hung a curtain, isolating us from the aisle. Seated at his feet, I could see a lightweight blanket (which I noticed because the air was a bit chilly) and some other sundries stowed next to his chair.

  I had never contemplated that situation before, so I started wondering what to do. First of all, I was a mess. My hair was everywhere, so I raked it back with both hands as if to put it in a ponytail. I didn’t have a tie and didn’t think I should braid it, so I held it together with one hand and used the other to sweep the length of it out into a single column before letting it fall into a pile behind me. Next I straightened my mostly unbuttoned blouse. I started to button it, but then realized he might have enjoyed the view, so I left it. Rising to my knees, I twisted my skirt back into the proper orientation and smoothed it down. That was better.

  “Do you suppose there is a washroom I might use?”

  He pointed to the curtain, so I stood and poked my head into the aisle. I saw the lavatory, and no one was coming. With that thought, I realized I had stowed away. Which was worse, I wondered, being luggage or being a stowaway? I had gotten that far by pretending I belonged where I wanted to be, so I calmly stepped out and walked down to the lavatory in my stockinged feet.

  Beauty is a relentless labor. I freshened up as best I could under the circumstances and returned to his seat. Pulling out the blanket, I draped it over my shoulders, wrapping it around myself. Unsure what should happen next, I turned toward him.

  What would Madame de Pompadour do? I opened the blanked and descended on him, flo
ating down like a bird on soft, felt wings. Receiving me, his hands slid around my hips then up my back, underneath my blouse. I raised my arms so he could take it off easily, which he did, pulling my hair up out of the blanket and over his shoulder in the process. He reclined partly and raised the footrest. Yes, a half-naked woman seemed a smart accessory for the well-heeled, gentleman traveler.

  I had finally gained entry into my fantasy world! I was giddy with excitement, and, as it was a decidedly sexual fantasy, I began to slide down his torso, holding the blanket still to his shoulders, pushing the footrest back down. The gentle drag of his hands and clothing against my flesh proved every bit as erotic as I had imagined. His fingertips rested lightly on my neck and shoulders when I started sliding my hands down his chest, down to where I could use them to undo his zipper. I could tell he was starting to become erect, and it was hard for me to keep my movements slow and steady.

  I had studied the theory. I had daydreamed and strategized. I felt drawn as by a magnet held low enough to lift with invisible strings. I burrowed through layers of fabric, as yet ignorant that a proper treatment required better access than that would gain me. I found the shaft, slipped it out, and he continued to swell. It soon became clear that practicing with popsicles down my throat might have left me underprepared. Frighteningly underprepared. There was nothing for it, though, and I was not about to let on that I doubted my own abilities.

  I leaned farther back on an odd seesaw of power and control: I was the seductress, and I had caught him. I was the predator, not the prey. I thought back to his matter-of-fact tone, holding his suitcase open for me. In you go.

  I started by plumbing the full depth, checking my own limits. It was tight, but I could do it. Then I swept my arms back, gathering thick streams of hair to lay in his hands, which I then pulled up to the back of my head. Feeling quite pleased with myself, I pushed my face hard into his crotch and wagged my hips to gloat. I moved out slowly, smoothly, until I could push the tip with my tongue, grinding it against my soft palette. I heard a favorable groan as he adjusted his posture slightly. My head still moved freely, but I felt his grip tighten in my hair. I had listened to other girls gossip about what they did to their boyfriends, but it was always the same suck-and-stroke routine. I tried to think more creatively, and it seemed to be paying off. I was quite pleased with myself indeed.

  I moved in and out, pivoting my head around him. I held it in and undulated my tongue. I ground him into the roof of my mouth again and swished my fingers up and down the rest of his shaft as quickly as I could. I felt his arms tensing, but he wouldn’t take control no matter what I did. I was the irresistible seductress, and I was going to make him admit it.

  I drew my head all the way back, holding the tip of his penis on the outstretched tip of my tongue like a carpenter holds a nail, breathing heavily onto him in a regular cadence: out-in, wait, out-in, wait. I formed an innocent lilt for a question, then I used it without words: “Hnnn?”

  I waited, breathed, waited, breathed, waited, tongue in and out just a hair’s breadth. Come on. Do it.

  He started pulling me in slowly, and I moved my hands back in front of his knees to pull myself faster when he decided to lead me out. I tickled him with my tongue all the way and drew in a deep breath at the last moment. He kept drawing me slowly, as if he was afraid to hurt me. Had I not demonstrated that I could take it? When he stopped short, I lunged forward, smashing into him, then pulled back quickly. When he started in again, I lunged again, pulling my hair hard through his startled fingers, then withdrew. He got the message: “I’m giving you head; take it.”

  Continuous improvement is the key to mastery of any endeavor; complacency is the key to mediocrity. I’m always looking for anything new I can use to improve my skills, always chatting up self-sexualized women, trying to learn their secrets. Not but a few weeks later, I met a courtesan in Milan, shopping in Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. We sat down for espresso and talked all afternoon. She was gorgeous and elegant, dashing and classy. She had been everywhere, seen everything. I was star-struck. I asked her for any sexual advice she could give me. She told me that fellatio was important and she asked me how I did it. When I told her, she actually blushed. We still keep in touch.

  He was on his feet, standing over me when he ejaculated. I held him in and swallowed hard as many times as I could. When he finished, I backed away enough to take a quick breath and swept back my hair, a few strands of which were well down my throat, having tumbled down his chest when he stood up. I made a mental note to figure out something to do about that for next time then quickly caught up as he started to move back into his chair. I chased him all the way into his seat and then stayed there, holding my breath, waiting for his erection to subside.

  Once he was flaccid enough, I put everything back how I had found it and looked up at him, pretending to feign my insecurity, silently asking with my eyes whether it was good for him. Rolling his head back, he laughed, then looked at me askance and pretended to feign his surprise. “Who ARE you?”

  Beginner’s luck? Never! I grinned so hard I lost control of a cough I wanted to delay, like I’d just had my first shot of whiskey or drag from a cigarette.

  After crawling back up his torso, I answered in a breathy whisper to his ear, “Who do you want me to be?”

  Crossing the date line makes counting days confusing. I don’t know when it became the fourth day since I had left home. When the stewardess came in to serve dinner, I was still sitting on his lap, lapping up the ambiance of the world into which I had successfully stowed away. There I was: pure sex and loving it, a moving hard-on in heels!

  Actually, I lost track of my shoes at the airport. Whatever.

  The stewardess was visibly surprised to see me, probably assuming I had come up from coach. Fortunately I had the blanket up over my shoulders. If she had seen me half-naked, she probably would have dropped the tray. Isn’t airline food supposed to be inedible? Maybe that’s just in coach with the riffraff. Ha!

  When I asked for a glass of water, I was unprepared for her response. How is “sparkling” a question and what does it have to do with water?

  He answered for me, “Still, with ice.” Interesting. It’s these little details that movies and magazines don’t teach you.

  When it came, he immediately guzzled it and set the glass down. That surprised me a bit; mostly it was confusing. Why? I thought I had my answer when he pulled one of the two lonely ice cubes from the glass and held it between his fingers in front of me. It was a game, then. I pronated onto his chest, held his shoulders with my hands, and idly kicked my feet behind me. I reached for the ice cube with my tongue, with my lips. I playfully pulled myself up and down his torso as if climbing up to reach it and then slipping back down. I held my mouth open and cooed like a hatchling.

  It was fun. He ordered more water and fed me two more cubes.

  It was fun, but I was thirsty. After finishing the last one and sucking his fingers dry, I tried cooing for more. “All done,” he said.

  I wanted more water, but I didn’t want to stop the game to ask for it. I cooed again, tried the eyelash bat. Nothing. Laying my head on his chest, I sighed inadvertently. His enclosing arms felt good, pressing the texture of the blanket into my bare back. It would have felt better if I’d had a glass of water.

  That was somewhat annoying but a curious intellectual exercise. Why didn’t he give me what I wanted? Instead, he withheld it, teased me with it. The ice cube game was cute and innocent, but I contorted it into something I could worry about. What if I had fallen in with a man who got his jollies discomforting women? That thought itself wasn’t so bad, but it inconspicuously plugged a fountain of abject terror. I tried to leave it alone.

  But what if? Eeek! Had I inherited whatever cognitive facility made Eve eat the apple, made Pandora open the box? There was no use worrying about it. I could run. I could scream. Then what? At best I would end up back where I started. Why would I run?

  I decided
to take this chance. Why try to pull back my chips while the wheel still spun? I’d either get smacked by the croupier or I’d regret it when my number came up. Logically, it made sense to stick it out, see how things went. But what if?

  My mind ran a highlight reel of every horror movie I’d ever seen with myself superimposed on the hapless victim. I could not stop worrying. Every time I climbed out of that morass, I inevitably slid back down into it. What if? If I was going to run, this was not the time. When would it be: before getting into the panel van, before driving out to the remote cabin, before going in the cellar?

  Seriously, though, he was traveling; his suitcase smelled clean; we’d be in a hotel.

  “Was it terrible being in the suitcase for so long?” he asked. I shook my head honestly. “How long do you think you would be OK in there?” I’ll never even see the outside of the cabin!

  Once again, I found myself pushed to the most remote extremity of my rationalizations. That symmetry to my earlier trepidation oddly bolstered my confidence, and I latched onto it desperately. Every step of my journey had been an enormous risk. I took a tiger by the tail to have it pull me out of the quicksand into which I was born. Well, now I was out of that pit and bounding away from it awfully fast. I had read Hamlet, but I didn’t get it. “To be or not to be?” What kind of question is that? Would you really rather bear those ills you have than fly off to others you knew not of?

  That was where he lost me. I would not bear those ills I had. That much I knew with conviction. I remembered my mother, remembered the moment I chose, when she said she was sorry, and I saw myself superimposed on the hapless victim. Nothing could be worse. Nothing.

  I answered, “As long as it takes.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We’ve begun our final descent into Tokyo…” So that’s where we’re going. It was time. I eased myself down to the floor. Thinking it usually best to be fully clothed when emerging from a suitcase, I looked for my blouse. After a few moments of futile searching while sitting topless in the scant privacy of our little curtained cell, I folded up the blanket to find it. I did need some help fitting myself back into such close confinement, but I made sure I would be right side up that time.