Message-ID: <21074asstr$942430201@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: "davinci" Subject: {ASSM} REPOST: Cary by daVinci {M/F} X-Post-Date: Sun, 10 Oct 1999 21:16:49 -0400 Lines: 1101 X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 4.72.3155.0 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V4.72.3155.0 X-To: story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us JMDigest-Score: good -11 Date: Fri, 12 Nov 1999 13:10:01 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: assm-admin Standard Disclaimer: This total work of fiction (resemblance to persons living or dead, purely coincidental) is not to be read by those who are morally or legally obligated to look the other way. This is a glimpse into the interior landscape of a fantasy world. In this fantasy world there is no communicable disease, no exploitation, no danger, and everyone ends up happy. In other words, not like real life at all. This is a repost of a story I wrote about 18 months ago. Despite the attention my story “Tricia” received (for which I am indescribably thankful), I still like this a little better. I will be posting a new story soon. All comments and criticisms enthusiastically and gratefully welcomed and appreciated. Dvflorence@excite.com Cary by daVinci You have to amuse yourself sometimes after being so serious for so long. -- Franz Joseph Haydn I can't really mention my name. It would defeat the purpose of what I've been trying to do. Not that you'd recognize it, or even care that much if you did. But it has been my ambition recently to become a recluse, and being a recluse is hard goddamned work. One must be ever vigilant. It's the little things that get you into trouble. My problem was I just got bored. Everything became so routine. I developed problems distinguishing what city I was in, what orchestra I was playing with, what piece I was performing. Most audiences never noticed the difference. Several of the critics did. When they started describing my performances as "workmanlike" and my technical components "competent" I knew it was time to stop. I cashed in royalty checks and appearance fees, and dropped off the face of the earth. I moved here, to this house. A house I bought for only two reasons: its location and its third floor. The mountains of Tibet, the jungles of Borneo, the ice tundra of northern Canada...none of these locales offers the anonymity and isolation of the affluent American suburb. My new house stood on a non-descript street, in a non-descript neighborhood, in a non-descript town. There was nothing at all to distinguish it from dozens of identical affluent suburbs. I was not in the least concealed, I was right out there in the open...which is why I was so well hidden. I looked at five houses in this vicinity before stumbling on this three story Tudor. It's third floor a massive expanse of unusable area, an immense attic masquerading as a living space. Much to the exasperation of the moving company, I had all of 63 boxes of books, 15 boxes of CD's and LP's, 8 pieces of furniture, three MIDI equipped electronic keyboards, two computers and one baby grand Steinway hauled to this cavernous crow's nest. We sometimes manage to fill even the most enormous of empty spaces. For hours each day (and night) I sat in this room reading my Kafka, listening to my Mahler, and finishing my own first symphony. How fortunate I am to be a recluse of the 20th century. Had I been writing a symphony in Berlioz's time I would have actually had to have dealt with people: conductors, musicians, publishers. Now it can be done by one cynical composer who happens to own the proper computer software and a Korg keyboard. This is a great time to be alive...where do I want to go today? Let's be completely honest here, I am not J.D. Salinger or Elvis. No one was really looking for me. I was not a fugitive, a hounded celebrity. Let's be brutally honest, there was no romantic nobility in what I was doing. Beethoven stopped performing in public because of a comical stage mishap, Rossini abandoned writing opera after turning 30, and Bartok died in exile. I was not "making a statement" or protecting my artistic sensibilities. I was simply bored, perhaps a bit "comfortably numb". I was not interested in anything, and nothing was interested in me. As I looked out of my third story's two windows and watched the street traffic, the trees sway, the house next door; I felt secure in the knowledge that no one was really challenging my reclusivity, a luxury not necessarily enjoyed by other hermitic members of my tribe. But enough about me...this is not why we are here. This is not why am I writing. This is not why you are reading. You grow impatient for the "story" and I don't blame you. You'll be pleased to find out that the "story" is easy to get to from where we are. Do you remember were we were? Before my rambling digression on reclusivity and sequencer programs, we were in my third story "workshop", my Montaigne's tower. That is why it's easy to get to where we want to go from where we are. All we have to do...is look out the window. For that is what I did. I had shut down the computers and closed the lid on the Steinway. As I wandered around the room, my head arbitrarily turned to the right and my vision was slapped by a flash of white. A woman in a brilliant white bathing suit walked out of her house and towards the chlorine blue water of her swimming pool. I was not terribly close, but I swore I could see her breasts sway slightly as she leaned back on one of the several pool chairs. She arched her back in recline. Her face, somewhat obscured by the sunglasses she wore, lifted towards the sun. I studied her breasts, rising and falling with each breath. I examined the flatness of her stomach and the womanly flair of her hips as exposed by the high cut of her swimwear. I stood hypnotized by how incredibly tanned, smooth, and firm her legs looked thrown out as mere appendages by their owner. I hate to use this word, I have never used it before to describe a human being, but this woman was stunning. It took me several moments to realize I was gazing lewdly upon one of my next door neighbors, Cary Salasmore. Cary and her husband, Matt, had come over to introduce themselves the weekend I moved in, and invited me over for dinner one warm June evening last month. They made an attractive couple. Matt was athletically handsome and Cary was beautiful, with dark brown shoulder length hair and a Revlon model face. Her dark complexion worked cooperatively to amplify the lightness of her eyes, or the flash of her teeth. I actually found the whole ensemble somewhat distracting while trying to talk to her. We had dinner that evening on the very patio where Cary now lay in the sun. Cary and I had shared an afternoon of conversation as I applied honey pine wood stain to lumber I was using to construct bookshelves. Last week I had observed her struggling to assemble a new gas grill, and went over to offer my assistance and power tools. Not that she couldn't have done it herself, but four hands were better than two, and I was trying to be neighborly. So you see, I had been around her and I knew Cary was beautiful in the way a Michelangelo statue is beautiful, full of finely crafted detail. I had not realized however, until that moment, that Cary was also beautiful in a Playboy Playmate of the Year, wet dream type of way. As my mind wandered in the direction Cary's body demanded it take, I began to feel a little voyeuristic. I managed to tear myself from the window, but never for very long. I kept returning. I must have watched her on and off for two hours before, much to my disappointment, she got up to go in. The last thing I saw was her incredible figure in retreat. I watched her from behind as she slid inside the house, her outrageous legs seemed to glide her forward, propelling her along some predetermined path. I reluctantly went back to work. An hour later I heard the doorbell ring. The object of my affection, my new hobby, stood outside the door. "I hope I'm not interrupting, but Matt's out of town again and I'm a little bored, how would you like to help me drink this $110 bottle of wine?" Cary asked, handing me the bottle. "I think I can work that into my schedule," I replied and invited her in. She was still wearing the white bathing suit, but had put on a pair of cutoff denim shorts. The frayed edge of the shorts threw threading against the smooth dark skin of her thighs as she sat on the couch. Another gripping image I had to tear myself away from as I went to open the wine. I returned with the Pinot Grigio on ice and two glasses. "So how's the life of leisure?" she asked when we had settled down with our accessories for conversation. I had been intentionally vague in discussing my background with Matt and Cary , saying only that some financial good fortune had allowed me to retire early from the "music industry". Remarkably, neither one of them had pursued the ambiguity and the subject was always changed. "So far, so good, though I think I watch too much CNN," I said. "A 24 hour news network...is there that much happening we have to know about?" she wondered. "Don't find a need to keep up with current events?" "I'm too busy being a stereotype," she said with obvious irony. "Poor wealthy woman, married to a busy giant of commerce. Nothing to do all day but sit by the pool and go to the health club. Occasionally I cook and clean, but most of that is done for me. I think it's important to concentrate on one thing, to specialize, to focus one's energies." "So you might say you're the 'anti-Renaissance Man', or Woman as the case my be," I said. "Absolutely. No use muddying the waters with excess interests or abilities." This was a different Cary than the one I had dined with, or manipulated hardware with. I liked this one better. This Cary was more intriguing, though she could be a bit unsettling. Which was, of course, exactly what she wanted. "I saw you watching me," she said suddenly, looking at me deeply. Talk about unsettling. "I...uh...didn't mean to....uh....intrude, I was just..." "It's all right," Cary laughed. "No need to apologize. I was flattered. Men always look at me, and I'm always flattered. I'm past the point in my life where I can feel indignant, or insulted. I don't like to admit it, but I like the attention. It makes me feel like I have something." "You're very beautiful," I stammered, raising the glass to my lips. An empty gesture considering the glass was empty. "Yes, I know," she smiled. "Tragically, that's all I am. I don't have a job, I don't have children, I don't have any amusing, mind-numbing hobbies, I have no strong convictions. I don't worry about the environment, I'm not incensed over the death penalty, abortion, or NAFTA. I eat veal. I guess I'm not 'deep' enough." "You have a successful husband," I offered, refilling our wine glasses. "Yes, I do have that. Sure he fucks around, but he's my husband...another thing I don't have the energy to be upset about." She lay her head back, resting it against the couch. I couldn't help but notice even her throat was alluring. I had never thought of a throat or a neck as being 'sexy' before. But that was Cary. The most mundane, common gestures made one think of the prurient possibilities. "I'm either a pathetically passive kept woman, or a Zen master. I don't know which," she sighed. "It sounds like you think about this a lot." "Only in my free time," she answered, "but since I only have free time, it adds up." "I think you're lying" I said, "if you were so accepting of your situation you wouldn't think about it as much as you do. You wouldn't be here talking about it. It wouldn't occur to you." She turned to look at me, a smile approaching a smirk crossed her lips. "Well, aren't we the penetrating judge of human character. Am I supposed to be turned on by that genuineness, that honesty?" "Feel free." I smiled. "Yet another man who wants to tumble with me. I somehow expected something different from you Mr. Virtuoso, Mr. Second Coming of Mozart." I must have looked startled, and she must have picked up on it. "Oh yes, I know who you are. I know all about you. I bought three of your CD's last week when I was in the city." "Which ones?" I asked casually, trying to downplay the ridiculous hint of anxiety I felt, face to face with the one woman who has finally realized no one ever sees Bruce Wayne and Batman at the same time. "The Schumann, the Beethoven Piano Concerto, and one other, I can't remember." "I've never been totally pleased with the Schumann, but what did you think?" "It seemed fine to me, but I know nothing about music. The liner notes said you were a genius." "Oh good, I'd hate to think the liner notes said 'he sucks, but we didn't realize it until after we had pressed the CD'." She laughed, flashing white teeth and pink tongue. "So tell me," she asked, "do classical pianists have groupies" "Actually, this may surprise you, but yes. However they're all 65 year old symphony patrons, or 19 year old students. I stay away from the 60 year old symphony patrons." "How are the 19 year old students?" she asked "Eager...but still learning," I answered. She smiled again. "You interest me," she remarked. "How so?" "You're not as obvious as everyone else I know." "Why thank you...I guess. You interest me too," I said "How so?" she asked, pulling her legs up on the couch and tucking them beneath her hips somewhat flirtatiously. "In several different ways," I said "You're attracted to me, aren't you?" When I didn't say anything in response she got up off the couch and walked towards me. She stood in front of me, staring into my eyes. "How did you ever end up here?" she asked. "I might ask you the same thing." I paused, then placed my hand on the side of her leg. "I want to kiss you," she said. "Go ahead. I want you to kiss me." She paused before bending forward, bringing her lips to mine. Her ambition was tempered by her reserve, the kiss was light, feathery, temporary, non-binding. Her tongue darted out occasionally to swipe at my lips, never lingering for long. "You want to fuck me, don't you?" she whispered, backing away from me. "The thought has crossed my mind, but I don't know. You may actually be too perfect to fuck." She looked at me quizzically before responding. "I'm not sure how to take that. Do I blush with awkward embarrassment like I do when the men say 'No one looks better in a tennis skirt than you Car'; or do I flash you my disapproving glare like when they try to grab my ass while dancing at the country club?" "This happens often, does it?" I asked, sounding more curious than flip, unfortunately. "Quite frequently, yes," she responded. She reached across me to pull a piece of melting ice from the bucket I had used for the wine. As she spoke she began to rub the ice over her neck, and along the side of her face. She bent forward and placed the ice on my earlobe. I recoiled from the sensation. "But you see," she continued, "it's all just fun and games. These men wouldn't really know what to do if a woman grabbed their ass back. They're in it for the flirtation and the fantasy. Not my husband of course, he's quite proficient and prolific at 'following through', so to speak." She started passing the ice cube over her breasts through the material of her white swimsuit. Her nipples hardened, and the water made the fabric virtually transparent. She threw her head back, eyes closed as the ice moved over her. I could see the darkness of her erect nipple and the full shape of her breast. I tried to regain my composure, tried to regain my passive acceptance of her presence, her desirability. All right...say something now, I thought to myself. Be careful of the voice. Make sure she doesn't hear anything she's not supposed to hear. "I find it hard to believe," I croaked out, "that you don't inspire lustful bravado in at least several of the more cowardly, domesticated husbands of this hamlet; that you don't get serious offers." The ice had evaporated in her hand, there was now nothing left in the grip of her moist palm. She came towards me again, for another kiss, for another declaration. She licked briefly at the ear where she had placed the ice. Then she backed away again. "It's irrelevant," she said. "My job is to sacrifice what I want. I have to be the good wife. I have to be loyal. I guess I do have at least one mind-numbing hobby. We all have roles, we all have poses." With that she started walking towards the door. I watched her mouth-watering ass sway as she left me, and though my cock throbbed at the sight, I was somehow not surprised it had ended like this. "I have a friend for you," she said when she reached the door, "you might like her...I'll work on it." She opened the door to walk out, then turned to me. "I'll be thinking of you tonight...if that's any consolation," she said. "I'm flattered, women rarely think of me, but when they do I'm always flattered" I said. She smiled and left. I rubbed my own cock later thinking about Cary's body, thinking about Cary, thinking about Cary thinking about me. As I shot off over my chest and stomach I moaned her name. I wonder if she heard me. Did I want her to hear me? Cary was back at poolside several days later. I had heard the laughing and moved quickly to the window, perhaps a bit too quickly. Cary had company. They lay side by side together there on the patio, drinking, sunning and laughing. One could tell, even in their reclined position, that the other woman was much shorter than Cary. She looked younger as well, from what I could gather. Despite the distance, I could see that she was impressively built. She wore a yellow two piece bathing suit that did more to augment than conceal what we mean by "voluptuous". I watched them talking and laughing for several minutes, trying to keep myself concealed, lest Cary detect my presence again. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the other woman kept shaking her head and laughing. Cary was trying to talk her into something, something she was hesitant to do. I was stunned to see Cary pull at the shoulder straps of her bathing suit, lowering it to her waist, exposing her breasts, which of course looked fantastic. Cary then proceeded to rub suntan oil onto her chest as her friend looked on with schoolgirl embarrassment and shock. But soon, she too, became subservient to Cary's considerable influence and, after a furtive look around, reached behind her to untie the top of her own suit. The endeavor revealed an awe inspiring sight. Her breasts bobbed slightly on her chest as she lay back. Cary playfully poured a little too much oil over her friends chest, eliciting a short scream of surprise and delight. Where had I ended up? I once shook the King of Denmark's hand, I sat at a banquet table with Leonard Bernstein and President George Bush. Now I was a verified peeping tom, watching two oiled women sunbathe topless. From the Atlantic Monthly to Penthouse Forum; "I never believed the letters I read here were true until this happened to me..." I should respect their privacy, I should walk away from the window and go downstairs, I should leave them alone...yeah, whatever. "Please come for dinner tomorrow night," Cary said, "we're giving a dinner party, and I'd like to have you there. I'm asking Kristen to come too." she smiled mischievously. We were standing in our respective driveways. "Who's that?" I asked. "She's the vacuous, long haired young travel agent with the big tits you watched me with yesterday," she replied, the smile still on her lips. I could do nothing but smile back. How could she be certain I had been watching? "The display yesterday was supposed to tempt me?" "Yes. Were you tempted?" "Yes...but not by your friend." "Oh...so sweet, another compliment. C'mon, what do you say?" she asked. "Why the set up Cary?" "I have a myriad of reasons," she said with mock mysteriousness "Aren't we the enigma." "Yes...we are...will you be there?" "Will you be there?" I asked "Of course," she replied. "Then how can I refuse." I said. "Great, see you at 7:00." Cary greeted me at the door. She wore a red cotton knit dress with a scooped neck and a slit that ran up the side of one dangerous leg. It was the left leg. The other dangerous leg was put away for the evening, I supposed. In my former line of work, one saw a lot of women dressed in glamorous formal wear. But I have to admit that seeing Cary in this simple outfit made my teeth hurt. There must have been about fifteen people there. No one asked me what it was like to play with the London Philharmonic, or whether I knew any of the Three Tenors, or asked my opinion of the movie "Shine". Which I took to mean the Cary had not told anyone anything. I began to relax, Bruce Wayne gets to be another run of the mill millionaire for another anonymous day. Cary threw Kristen and me together immediately, seating us together at dinner, playing the matchmaker all evening, ensuring we were never far from one another. Kristen wore a black and purple flower print blouse with a black skirt, not exceedingly short, but short enough. The ensemble was fittingly enhanced by a string of pearls and both fingernails and toenails lacquered in lavender. She was, what Cary would probably refer to sardonically as, "bubbly". She and I were virtually attached at the hip all evening. It was Matt who took me away from her first. He had just bought all this new audio equipment, and was anxious for me to see it. I acted appropriately impressed as he gave me the specs and discussed the features. He excused himself and left to mingle and play the host, leaving me alone for the first time all evening. My seclusion didn't last long. As I stood next to the kitchen door, Cary sidled up to me with a drink in her hand and a smile on her face. "So what do you think of Kristen?" she asked. "She seems a lovely young woman, and quite popular." I added. "Quite certainly. All the men are trying to catch glimpses down her blouse. Including my husband, though there's no mystery there. They sleep together rather regularly." I almost dropped my glass. She was amused at my surprise, laughing briefly. "Yes...neither one of them knows I know. I know about his other nine mistresses as well." "And you maintain friendly relations with this woman?" I all but stammered. "Of course. I maintain friendly relations with my husband too. He's been a nervous wreck all evening. Nervous because she's here at all, and nervous because she seems so taken with you." Cary paused momentarily looking in Kristen's direction. Kristen stood in conversation with three men who surrounded her as in some football huddle where she had just brought the next play in from the bench. Cary turned back to face me and I saw mischievous intent in her eyes. "You are my friend, aren't you?" she asked. "In a way, yes" "I need you to do me a huge favor," she said "What is it?" "Well Kristen's got a thing for you and..." "How do you know that?" I interrupted. "She told me. I could tell anyway." "How well do you know this woman?" I asked. "Oh very well." "So what's the favor?" Cary hesitated a little before she asked her favor. "I need you to take Kristen home with you tonight and fuck her senseless." She paused waiting for my reaction. "Can you do that for a friend Maestro?" By this point I understood that Cary loved to play games, some amusement , distraction for what seemed to her a relatively boring existence. But for some inexplicable reason I also trusted her. Trusted that her amusement would not come at my expense. As I say, I don't understand why I felt this trust, why I felt more like her sidekick than her potential victim. I had somehow been demoted from Batman to Robin. It's been my experience, " I offered, "that seductions don't usually occur as effortlessly as television screenplays and erotic fiction might have you believe." "Oh...this one will be. Kristen's hot for you, and she loves the idea of bedding a celebrity. I'm sorry, I told her who you were...but despite her flaws, she can keep a secret. She's probably pretty good in bed, after all, my husband keeps going back, and she's a screamer...if you like that type of thing." "How do you know all this?" I asked. "Oh...girl talk, you know, while we're sitting around the pool rubbing oil on ourselves." Cary leaned towards me, whispering, "do you like that...do you like vocal women, women who gasp and pant and scream?" she asked. "Music to my ears," I said with a smile. "So I get to release some sexual tension with a woman who's not you, and you get to mess with Matt's head. You get back at your infidel husband without transgressing your code of loyalty." "Among other things," she answered. "What other things?" I asked. "No...I'm not going to let you sap all the mystery out of me. Why are you fighting this? It's inevitable anyway. Kristen will overcome you, she'll unbutton another button on her blouse and spill some cleavage, she'll cross her legs in your direction and allow her skirt to ride up, she'll laugh at all your jokes and touch your arm. You'll cave eventually anyway." "Will she use ice?" I asked. That brought no response. "Because you ask me, I have to go through the laborious process of undressing and ravaging a 25 year old with stupendous architecture and a penchant for vocalization, just so you can get back at your husband in some "Dangerous Liaisons" caper? You're a demanding woman." "I know it's a lot to ask," she said, employing that devastating smile. "Well all right, just this once for friendship. But I'm not fucking any of Matt's other mistresses, and I'm certainly not fucking Matt...at least not directly." "I knew I could count on you," Cary said, "now, you've been away from your date for too long. Get to work, turn on that sophisticated, symphonic charm of yours." "I'm on the case Caped Crusader," I started to walk away then stopped. I made my way slowly back to Cary and leaned to whisper in her ear. "Do you want me to leave my windows open tonight?" I asked. Cary looked at me with an odd expression. I thought I might have seen admiration in that look. The expression of one who has met an equal? It couldn't be. "That would be an extraordinary touch," she said flatly. I made my way towards Kristen. As the evening began to dwindle I asked Kristen back to my place for a nightcap. A suggestion she enthusiastically supported. If only all men could have the intelligence briefing I had received. I stalled our departure until the last of the guests was leaving, and then intimated to Kristen that we should also go, not taxing our hosts any longer. We expressed garrulous gratitude to Matt and Cary as we were leaving. Cary was right, Kristen could keep a secret. She thanked them with her arm around my waist, and one could never have known of Kristen and Matt's amorous history. Matt was slightly less clandestine. Maybe it was just that I knew. Did I see Matt put his arm around Cary? Did I detect a tightness in his jaw, a coiled spring aspect in his chest, a flinty, terse tone in his voice? I tried to play it up a little for Cary, rubbing Kristen's shoulder, toying with her hair. Cary seemed subdued. Probably my imagination. I couldn't help thinking that Matt was jealous that I was leaving with Kristen, and Cary was jealous because Matt was jealous that I was leaving with Kristen. Kristen and I sat drinking cognac, killing time before the inevitable. She finally brought up the fact that she knew who I was. She didn't, of course. She asked me what it was like to have to perform, what it was like to play in front of thousands of people. I told her it took a lot of practice and energy. She told me she liked music, but not classical music. I told her I understood; that I didn't always like classical music either. She laughed and said she loved listening to the radio, and liked to go out dancing at the clubs. She said she loved aerobics at the health club because they turned the music up loud. I suggested that she enjoyed that because she was transposing the abstract sensations of the music into something physical, the exercise, the exertion of her aerobic workout. She didn't completely understand what I meant. "I guess I feel that most things are about expression...music's just another one of those things," I said. "What makes you say most things are about expression?" she asked. "I can't guarantee this but, ultimately, people don't like being alone, so most human endeavors involve some form of communication. It's a way of making contact with other people, other things, sometimes other ideas or feelings." "And music is like that?" "Yeah, absolutely. You hear some song on the radio, it elicits a response in you, some sort of nostalgia maybe, melancholia perhaps, but whatever it does, it speaks to something in you, and you speak back. The emotional reaction is a way of speaking back, or the physical rush of the aerobic workout.. For all its complexities, all the rigorous analytical structures we spend so much time discussing, music is a device. A device that allows us expression to those things we can't express in other ways." Was I speaking to her, or just thinking out loud? "So what else is like that," she asked. "Any artistic or creative pursuit, I would imagine, has some component of communication." "I think sex is like that," she said. I knew exactly what she meant. "What do you mean?" I asked. "There's all this stuff going on inside of you, you have these feelings for the other person. It may be lust, it may be love, it may be admiration or affection. You can't say that stuff all the time. So you jump on them and tell them that way. Isn't that what you were talking about? It's a way of demonstrating what you feel, right?" "Right." Kristen leaned forward and kissed me. "So? Is there any stuff going on with you right now?" she asked. As a response, I bent down to kiss her, our tongues tangling, excusing themselves from vocal communication. "Do you have a bedroom in this place?" she asked when we broke. "I just had one put in," I responded. She giggled, and stood up, offering her hand, a gesture of invitation. I placed my hand in hers, an RSVP, a gesture of assent and agreement. In Matt's defense, I have to admit, Kristen's breasts were even more spectacular than I could have gathered from seeing them from afar. Large and firm, they felt heavy in my hand as I ran my palm over their surface, excited by their weight as I held one through the thin fabric of her blouse and the stiffer fabric of her bra. I couldn't wait long before getting to work on the blouse's buttons. I pulled Kristen's blouse from her skirt and unwrapped her. The look of admiration on my face was most likely something Kristen was used to, and she giggled again as she reached behind to remove her bra, letting it fall casually to the floor, uninterested in any flair for presentation. She let the work speak for itself, standing back slightly, enhancing the moment. Gleefully pleased in what must have been my obvious delight, she threw her herself towards me, wrapping one arm around my neck and running her other hand over the prominent bulge below my belt. Her hands seemed small to me and I wanted them around my cock. I quickly unbuckled, unbelted and unzipped, offering an invitation of my own. Without breaking our kiss, she thrust her hand into my shorts and grazed her lavender fingernails over my swollen cock with en excruciating lightness of touch. "Mmmmmmm, that feels promising" she said breaking away from me. Without answering her, I bent down to lick the nipple of her left breast while I reached behind her to lower the zipper of her skirt. It fell away as effortlessly as her bra had. Because of our height differences she had to stand on her toes to lick at the side of my neck. I kissed the top of her head and smelled raspberry in her hair as she bit at my shoulder and rubbed her stomach against my erect prick. She pushed away from me gently and lay back on the bed. I drank in the picture perfect pose she struck as she watched me undress. Clad only in black panties and pearls, her long hair fanned out against the pillow. She smiled up at me as my eyes traveled from her breathtaking upper body to her slim waist and then to her full hips and fleshy thighs. Her body was almost a Wagnerian opera. "C'mon, hurry up," she teased and took a breast in her hand, rubbing its nipple with fingertips that pinched occasionally, and fluttered over the expanse of flesh. I moved a little faster in undressing. I went to the bed and kneeled above her, my cock hovered obscenely over her stomach and she reached for it, sliding a fist along it's length. "You're so goddamned hard," she sighed, closing her eyes and licking her lips as her hand continued its ministrations. I bent my neck to take a hard nipple in my mouth and then licked all around it, wanting to taste every inch of her tits, a task that might have taken some time. I looked into her face. It was a pretty face, not a stunning face like Cary's, but sweet, deceptively innocent, a high school cheerleader face. Her eyes were still closed, a smile on her face, but the absence of my oral attention to her breasts caused her to open her eyes. She saw me looking down at her, and tilted her head slightly in question. She grabbed her tits and pushed them together, creating a crease in the universe that would drive any man with a breast fetish to clinical insanity. "Do you want to fuck my tits? C'mon, slide yourself in here..." she said, demonstrating with an index finger the path she suggested. I didn't move, just looked down at her, "No," I said, "I want to taste you." I flattened myself out on top of her, felt the surface of her breasts against my chest and started my descent of her body. I ran my tongue along the underside of each breast before moving lower stabbing my tongue into her navel, and then swiping it against the inside of her thigh. My face brushed against the silk of her panties and it felt smooth against my face. I traced the edges of her panties with my mouth, licking and biting softly along the way. I heard her moan as I maneuvered my tongue beneath the elastic waistband, sliding it along the edge. She had almost imperceptibly started to thrust her hips off the mattress, searching for greater contact. "Take them off," she panted, "lick me, I want to feel your tongue, I want to feel your whole mouth on me." she groaned, finally impatient with my maddeningly slow pace. She started to remove her panties before I could, but I completed the process for her. As I lowered my face to begin working her over in earnest, she spread he legs wide for me, running her hands along the inside of her thighs, all the while watching me intently. A little impatient now myself I tried my best to devour that which was presented to me in such an erotic fashion. Kristen grunted appreciatively as I ran my tongue the length of her pussy, before attending to the swollen clitoris I found at journey's end. I moved quickly and firmly against it, and Kristen started throwing her hips up, forcing collision in our connection. "God, yeah...just like that...just keep doing that," Kristen moaned when I moved my tongue from side to side, holding her ass in my hands to steady her against my mouth. I felt her pussy contract and throb against my tongue as she came. "Yeah....now, I'm cumming...." I knew the event had arrived and I felt Kristen shudder, heard a gasp, but nothing I would consider a scream. She sagged back down against the bed, and ran her hands through my hair. "Don't stop...more...please...." I hadn't really thought of stopping, and now redirected my efforts by thrusting my tongue in and out of her. I grabbed her ass and rolled us over so she was now on top, pussy planted firmly on my face. She moved to kneel above me and I lifted my head, maintaining the contact. "Fuck yes, I'm going to cum again soon...." she almost yelled. She began to drive her hips up and down, riding my face in sexual fury. Thirty seconds later I heard what was definitely a scream. Though the sound died in the air quickly, I hoped it had not died too quickly. When Kristen finally rolled off me and lay on the bed, those breasts heaving, a thin film of sweat highlighting their movement, her pussy damp and swollen, I was not at all surprised to discover my cock literally aching with hunger for her. After what seemed like a long time, she had finally regained her breath, and reached for my cock. "Your turn now," she smiled, and bent her head down to take me in her mouth. "No," I said, perhaps a bit too urgently. "I want to," she replied, a bit confused. "I can't wait...I have to fuck you." I was over anxious, and she liked that. She liked my impatience, my craving, my desperation. Another supplicant to her considerable charms and talents. She smiled at me as she lay back on the bed, dragging me with her by the cock. "Do it," she said, "fuck me..." I knew from that first gut wrenching penetration that I would not last long in this initial round. However difficult it might have been only having to deal with the wet, warm embrace of Kristen's pussy; her "bedside manner" made matters tortuously impossible. The woman spoke incessantly. That body, that skill, that dialogue...the woman was a poster child for premature ejaculation. She should have come with a warning label. "Does this feel good? Do you like this? Do you like being buried in my cunt?" she hissed at me. "I can feel every inch of you inside me, fuck me harder...make me cum again." I slammed into her, varying the tempo cautiously trying everything to maintain some control. But control was not something Kristen was interested in. She didn't want me to hold back, she wanted me undone. She wanted me helpless to control my desire, my lust, for her. I had little time, or inclination however, to consider my status as trophy to this 25 year old travel agent with the porno film body and the junior prom face. "God yessssssss, I'm close....cum with me, I want to feel you unloading in me....pump me...faster...faster!!" I tried, I honestly tried, but Kristen's orgasm was my undoing. I'm not too proud to admit it. What do you expect? It was the way her head tossed frenetically, hair flying wildly; it was the way the muscles and tendons stood out on her throat; it was the wailing scream torn from her open mouth; it was the way her lavender nails dug into my shoulder blades; it was the way her hips convulsed against mine and her pussy snapped around my hair-trigger cock like a rubber band. It was all of that, and it was the sound of her voice. "Shit....now, I'm cumming now....cum with me...fuck YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!" My orgasm almost blinded me. I felt the recoil in my testicles, the lurching of my cock inside Kristen. I could almost hear my cum splattering the walls of her pussy. I may have screamed for all I knew. We lay afterwards talking, filling in the empty spaces. "I thought you were the one who couldn't talk about 'stuff'," I said, teasing her. "You seemed pretty eloquent to me." "I get into it...and things just come out..." she replied, almost shyly. "Men don't like to talk back though..." I pulled her closer to me and kissed her forehead, pushing her hair back. We settled back into silence. "Why did you stop playing the piano?" she asked, a quiet, contemplative tone in her voice. I didn't have a substantial answer for her. I never had a substantial answer to that question. "I didn't stop," I answered, "I only stopped doing it in front of other people." She was the one who brought up Cary. She told me that Cary thought the world of me. She went as far as to teasingly contend that Cary had a "crush" on me. She said this while reaching between my legs, awakening anything that might have been slumbering there. There was something about the mention of Cary's name while Kristen fondled my cock that had a visible libidinous effect. I grew hard in Kristen's hand. I rolled over on top of her, kissing her firmly, and fingering her pussy. She was already wet, aroused by my arousal. "I love the feel of your fingers in me," she whispered. I continued to work at her pussy and clit. "Is it true," I spoke softly in her ear, "do you suppose, that no one can do you like you do yourself?" I saw her smile in response, "Maybe," she said, "but you're doing all right for runner-up." As I moved my finger in and around her, she took my wrist in her and guided me. "Bite my nipple," she demanded, and I followed instructions as she moved my hand across her clit more rapidly. Her nipple seemed to grow harder in my mouth as her legs snapped shut, pinning my hand between her thighs. Her eyes closed again, her mouth opened again. God, I loved watching Kristen cum. "Fuck me from behind...I love that..." she gasped. I scrambled to do as I was told. Sexual obedience is one of my strong suits. Slicing into her effortlessly, I felt now like I could fuck this supremely fuckable woman forever. The momentum had somehow changed. Now she lay at my mercy, as I had lain at her mercy earlier. I abhor the concept of sex being about control. I believe that is how we get ourselves in the most irretractable, and indefensible trouble. I did not want to control Kristen, necessarily. I wanted Kristen to be without control. Payback? Maybe. Cary? Maybe. Me? Maybe. But who cared. Kristen was shaking in orgasm again. I watched the cheeks of her ass clench tight, saw her grasp the pillow in orgasmic seizure. I ran my hands over her backside and down the backs of her thighs, watching her cum. She let herself drop to the bed, exhausted. I ran my tongue up along her spine, biting gently at her shoulders. She was panting for breath as she rolled over to face me. I licked at her throat and rubbed her shoulders. I slid my cock along the outside of her pussy and over her stomach. As she reached down to take me in her hand, I rolled us over so she now lay on top of me, covering me. She inserted my deliriously hard cock in the place it most wanted to be. Now it was I who drove my hips up off the bed, lifting her light body with each lunge. "Fuck, this feels good," she moaned. I increased the pace, holding onto her hip with one hand to ensure I wouldn't actually throw her off of me. I pushed my other hand to where we were joined, feeling my shaft as it alternately became exposed then engulfed by Kristen's pistoning hips. I lay still, allowing her to control the pace, and ran my fingers firmly over her clit as she bounced on top of me. "Do you like this? Is this good" she teased, quickening her pace. "Christ yesss," I moaned back to her. "Tell me what you....fuck...what you like." "I love seeing you on top of me. I love watching you fuck me," I managed to wheeze out. "Keep going...please," she pleaded. I rallied my resources. "I fucking love this body," I said, running a hand roughly over her bouncing tit. "I love the way your tits sway and move, I love the way your ass feels crashing down on me." She was moving alarmingly fast and furious now. "And I'm going to love watching you cum all over my hard cock, right before I plaster your pussy with all...." I never got to finish "Yeahhhh, just like that, keep doing that," she grunted. "I'm cumming again, FUCKKKKKK, OHHHHHH GODDDDDDD!" She slammed her body down on mine and froze there, grabbing my wrist, pulling my hand tighter to her trembling clit. Though her ass was firmly planted on the top of my thighs, her upper body lurched and undulated on me. I watched her ample breasts bounce and sway in the sweet agony of her climax. Those lavender fingernails dug into my chest as she shivered through the final stages of her release. That was more than enough for me. "Kris...I'm going to cum," I gasped, grabbing her ass and driving myself into her again, violently. "Tell me when," she pleaded, her face almost expressionless, her rapt attention on me and my pre-orgasmic flight plan. "Coming soon..." I managed to croak out before Kristen dismounted me. She quickly moved down my body and took my cock into her mouth, sliding her lips up and down my trembling shaft. I heard her mouth come off me and could feel her fist around my length. "Come for me...come on my tits," Kristen said as she took my shaft and laid it within her cleavage. I looked down to see my cock trapped in the valley of her breasts. I saw the way she used one hand to wrap her tit around me, the nipple hard and welcoming. Her tongue shot out to swipe at the head of my prick and then swirled around her upper lip, and thick, heavy ropes of my cum layered her chest. She laughed victoriously as the paste rolled down the upper slopes of her tits, collecting on her nipples and dropping down onto my stomach. She pounced up to kiss me, rubbing her cum and sweat slick chest against mine. "Me and my 'hooters', we get them all eventually," she smirked proudly, but with good humor. "Consider me 'gotten'," I said. We had taken a shower together, hands never far from one another. Kristen's body and a bar of soap was an engaging combination. We lay together afterwards, enjoying how our moist skin cooled in the night air. My arousal came mostly as a result of my complicity with Cary. I had no idea whether the sound of our lovemaking passed through the fashionable windows of Matt and Cary Salasmore, though I hoped they had. Cary wanted Matt to hear, but I wanted Cary to hear. I couldn't escape the notion that Cary was here with me. Her awareness, her designs, her intentions made her a component. That's what got to me. That is why, even after my second orgasm, I still felt the stirring, felt the nagging hunger. I thought of Cary listening to us, of Cary's "girl talk" with Kristen tomorrow, of Cary's bathing suit and green knit dress, I thought of Cary's breast beneath the frigidity of the ice cube, and I felt myself hardening. I rolled over to straddle Kristen's waist and show her my most recent erection. "I can't believe you," she groaned with exasperation, but she had pride at stake too. So we fucked again, this time slowly, languorously, tortuously, for what seemed like hours. "I've got to stop," Kristen finally whimpered, "I'm too worn out...can you cum for me?" I thrust harder, eyes closed, muscles tensed. "I want to kiss you" I heard Cary's voice in my ear, and I unleashed another torrent of desire into the young woman beneath me. I was waiting. It only took two days. I answered the knock at the door, and Cary stood there. I invited her in...again. "Thanks for the dinner party the other night," I said. "Oh, thank you," she responded with a sly grin. "Everything work out the way you wanted it to?" I asked. "Couldn't have been better, neither could you have been better...from what I hear. I just had lunch with your busty girlfriend Kristen." "My 'girlfriend'!? Was she wearing that Varsity letter jacket I gave her? So...? What's the verdict?" I asked. "Well, according to Kristen, you're the fuck of the century. Do you want to break the news to Matt, or should I?" "You better, I'll be too busy basking in the ego-glow of my own greatness." "Incidentally, you're the only man ever to decline the 'tit-fuck' invitation. Congratulations." "Intrigued?" I asked. "I have to admit I am, yes." "Good. You see, self-depravation and discipline can yield desirable results," I answered. Cary let my response hang in the air, not ignored, but not addressed either. "Well, I know how you are in bed, tell me, how is she?" "Quite accomplished, one might even say, a 'virtuoso'...and very enthusiastic." "C'mon...dish the details." "What do you want Cary, a scouting report? Looking to add to your repertoire?" "Hey, I need to get something out of this," she said, "I wouldn't have gone through all the trouble of setting you up with one of the Seven Wonders of the Sexual World if I knew you were going to abruptly suffer a case of lockjaw." Maybe I was tiring of the game, maybe my frustration was emerging, maybe I felt an emotional affection now for Kristen, a loyalty of my own. For whatever reason, for the first time I felt annoyed, even angry, with Cary. "You know Cary, who do you hold responsible for your husband's infidelities? The women he sleeps with or the man who sleeps with them? Kristen's not exclusively at fault here; or do you see Matt as the helpless victim of the evil seductress travel agent?" "Or the agile waitress, or the alluring commodities trader, or the flexible airline stewardess, or the accommodating sales clerk, or the nubile co-ed ....?" Cary spit out venomously. "Why don't you just talk to your goddamned husband?" My voice louder than I probably wanted it to be. "It would be too humiliating," she yelled back. I had never seen her lose her temper. "Do I look like the type of woman who should have to 'ask' her husband to be faithful!?" She wrapped her arms around herself in defense. "Don't I suffer enough indignity here, living this life. Isn't it enough I have to listen to the inane babbling of those around me, 'oh, our youngest is now at so and so Country Day School, it's very prestigious you know; we just can't decide whether to buy the Lexus or lease; do come over after tennis on Sunday for brie and chardonay, it will be smashing...Jay and Daisy Gatsby will be there.' This is how I spend my time! This is what goes on with my days! And now you want me to say 'please honey, you know it hurts my feelings when you let the college girl working as a secretarial temp blow you in the executive bathroom, so please try to hide it a little better from now on, okay?" "Maybe he does it because he can...because there are no repercussions...no objections," I offered. "As pathetic as it might seem to you, this is all I have. This facade is all I am. I'm not good at anything else. I'm not a 'genius' or a 'prodigy', I'm not 'brilliant' or 'talented' at anything. I'm Emma Bovary without the financial problems. I don't suppose you'd understand that, would you, Mr. Lincoln Center? Or maybe that's why you quit and ran away, because you're not as good as everyone thinks you are..." This was meant to hurt me. It didn't really. "Cary...we don't have to be about what we do," I said as softly as I could, "sometimes its enough to be about how we do it." She froze there a moment then turned, slowly, away from me. "I'm not about being anything." she said. What was wrong with her voice? It sounded different. I saw her shoulders rise a little and listened. "I used to think: tomorrow. Tomorrow things will be better, I'll be better," she said. "But tomorrow doesn't matter. I am where I am, where I will always be. I never thought...life would be this short." I saw her shiver slightly, and figured out what was wrong with her voice. As unimaginable as it was to my rational mind, as uncharacteristic as it seemed, Cary was crying. I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her to face me. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to somehow provide solace, make her feel better. I should have said that everything would be all right, that she would find herself someday, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after tomorrow. I should have listed all her good qualities, all her potential. But I didn't say any of that. For some reason I looked into her eyes and said the first thing that came into my head. "Maybe the problem isn't that life's short. Sometimes, the way we live makes life too long." Cary looked back at me for a second, eyes wide, then I watched. Her lower lip and jaw trembled, quivering in desperation, trying to maintain some balance. I had said the wrong thing. She burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably. But perhaps I had not said the wrong thing, for as she lowered the fortress walls behind which she had been so long protected and isolated, she finally gave expression to the unspeakable sadness, the exhausting burden of grief. She wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me to her tightly, as she wept. I held her, silently standing with her, witness to the display of fragility. I know this is dangerous to admit, to myself or anyone else, but it broke my heart. Seeing Cary cry broke my heart. For the next two weeks, she seemed to disappear, as I must have disappeared in the perceptions of record executives, agents, and audiences. She didn't come by, I didn't see her in the yard, on the patio, in the driveway. I gave thought to creating some contrivance, an excuse to knock on her door. But though I thought about her constantly, I decided it best to just leave her be. I know being a recluse is hard goddamned work. One could use a little cooperation. A weather pattern without conscience gripped the area; the heat index approaching Tony Gwynn's batting average. Local news reported seven deaths as a result of the record breaking heat. The power company, in an alarming display of naivete, asked us please to reduce electrical consumption by not running the air-conditioning. We smirked and turned the dials to 10, causing brown outs all over the state. I moved my room air conditioner from the bedroom to the third floor and worked on my symphony 20 hours a day. I was close, I could feel it. The heat and humidity continued to build as I unraveled the chaos of measures 70 through 110 of the third movement. It's mystery fell apart in my hands like a dry dandelion. In 72 hours, I reworked the entire movement, bassoons and timpani now pushed the viola variations forward, higher woodwinds now a frozen rope, impenetrable and unyielding as violins chased it, mirroring its every move. I was writing the music about something now. I was writing the music about agony and desire. I was writing the music about lack of identity, in an identity driven world. I was writing the music about seeing something you want, and trying to reach it. The finale to the fourth movement was broken glass and jet engines. It screamed like the human heart. It wept like the human heart. It spoke to a woman who was better than what she had become. When I listened to the playback and heard my voice making arguments I could not dispute, I knew I was done. It was 6:15 on a Thursday morning. I printed out the rest of the score. I found a felt tip pen and wrote "THE EMMA SYMPHONY" on top of the first page. I shut down the machines, and fell asleep. I awoke in the late afternoon. Looking out my window towards Cary's house, I saw nothing. But I glanced at the sky and saw the atmosphere in a very bad mood. I grew up in Indiana, this was a sky I recognized, a sky with bad intentions. I turned on the television to hear that both tornado and severe thunder storm warnings were in effect for the vicinity. No one knew when or where the storms would begin, only that weather with this much vengeance would be something to remember. Perhaps it is my boyhood years, but I have an affinity for heavy weather. I might very well have been a storm chaser had not so many people told me "...here, play this music." I watched the storm disembark, watched it fall from heaven to earth and land like an angry, expelled deity. I listened to its overture, the distant thunder that moved quickly through darkening skies on gusts of wind. Then the rain, sheets of water that devoured rain gutters and street sewer grates. The lightning was perfect. The electricity was knocked out at 8:45 PM. You could feel the temperature drop 20 degrees. There was only one thing that I, being me, could do. I went to the Steinway. I went to the Steinway and played. Glenn Gould used to practice pieces while running a vacuum cleaner to cloak the sound of the piano. Without hearing the music he claimed he was better able to feel the music. I felt like that somewhat as I played beneath the sound of the torrential downpour coming through the open third floor window. I finished and sat with my hands still resting on the keys. The rain sounded like applause. The lightning reminded me of flashbulbs. "I owe you an apology." I turned quickly, startled by her voice. She was standing on the stairs, arms folded in front of her, leaning against the wall. "You are as good as everyone says you are." "I'm glad you came back," was all I said to her, sliding around on the piano bench to sit facing her. She was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt , her hair, and the shirt were wet from the rain. She came over and set next to me on the piano bench. We just sat there for awhile, not saying anything. "I talked to Matt tonight," Cary said finally, "he's in San Francisco, I tried to tell him...tried to say those things...those things we talked about...he said we would work it out when he got home." "Are you going to work it out?" I asked "I don't know...I didn't talk to him to save the marriage, I just did it for me...you know?" she said, turning her head to look at me. I looked back. "Good for you Cary...good for you." I smiled. She smiled back. She took a deep breath and changed the subject. "You know, I've never heard you play until tonight. Not in person, I mean. Pretty impressive Maestro." "It's a living...or at least it was" I said. "What about you? Are you going to 'work things out'?" she asked. "Oh...I haven't been here trying to save a career...I just did it for me." She saw me wink at her and she laughed. Then we were quiet again. She put her head on my shoulder, and I was gripped by the poignancy of that gesture. "Is there any good in trying to figure things out?" she asked. "Sometimes," I said, "but it's hard work." She lifted her head from my shoulder, looked into my face for a moment, then kissed me. The kiss wasn't light this time. This time wasn't a game. This wasn't flirting, or manipulating, or puppeteering. This time we were serious. Was I catching her in a moment of weakness? To this day, I don't think so. If anyone was being caught in a moment of weakness, it was I. "I missed you," she said. "I missed you too." "I would like very much," she said, almost demurely, "to make love to you." "That's it." I asked, "that's the best you can do? No witty barbs, no sardonic tongue in cheek irony?" "I don't feel like it tonight," she said distantly. "I would very much like you to make love to me," I said. She moved from her position beside me and pulled her t-shirt out of her jeans and over her head. I watched it all, as in slow motion, and loved the way her raised arms tightened her breasts against her chest and the material of her bra seemed to inhale. She straddled my hips sitting on my lap. I noticed that she seemed to be gently grinding herself down on to me. She felt me harden almost immediately. "I surmise that after all you've seen of me I'm no longer too perfect to fuck," she said. "No. Too perfect not to fuck." I said and kissed her again, forcefully, sliding my hands over her back and under the strap of her bra. I pulled her tightly to me and felt her nipples harden, pressing against my chest. This was no longer an amusement. This was the arm of craving, the sweet complicity of rescue. She stood up, a little breathless, and unzipped her jeans. She slid them, together with the white panties she wore, down the sweep of those sculpted legs. She moved quickly to stand in front of me, now totally naked, while I remained fully clothed. Finally given the opportunity, I reveled in the excruciating beauty of Cary's body so close to my own. I took inventory, running my fingertips over every inch of exposed flesh I could reach. I cupped her firm breast in my hand as she leaned over me, the weight of it resting in my palm as my other hand felt her shoulders, stroked the side of her face, and traveled the sleek lines of her ribcage. My ardor matched only by my thoroughness. Her hair was still damp and I breathed the moisture in, wanting to fill my lungs with the scent of it, with the feel of it. I sought to drown in the rainwater that had drenched her on her way to my house, on her way to my room, on her way to my affection for her. I gasped when I felt Cary's hand on my skin, her fingers on my chest, her palm on my stomach. She had reached down to unbutton and unzip my pants. I pushed them down my hips, mirroring her earlier choreography. I sat back down on the piano bench, my hard cock standing up eagerly up for her. She saw my arousal and smiled before resuming her position, straddling my thighs and lowering her hips onto me. She grabbed my cock in one hand and placed her pussy over it. In one languorous motion she slid down, swallowing me deep inside of her. I groaned ecstatically, and her hands slammed down on the keyboard behind me. I never stopped to think about what might have been the root note in that cacophonous chord, suffice it to say it was atonal. I was almost afraid to move. I could feel the semen churn in my testicles already. Cary drew my face to her breasts, I tongued her hard nipples, and sucked at her breasts as she ground herself on top of me. My hands gripped her slim waist on either side as her movements became more rapid, more frantic. There were no screams. There were no pornographic invectives. There was only a trembling in her hips, a flexing of her muscles, a firm grip in her hands, and an expression of conveyance in the line of her jaw, in the flutter of her closed eyelids, and in the quiver of her slightly parted lips. It was the sexiest, most compelling sight I had ever witnessed. Not in its performance, but in its performer. "I'm sorry Cary....I can't....I can't...hold back..." I stammered. She looked down at me, smiling. "I don't want you to hold back. I'm tired of holding back." I squeezed the flesh at her waist with one hand, and the flesh of her upper thigh with the other and let go, looking into her face the entire time, forcing my eyes to remain open. A ball wrenching spasm gripped me and fired gouts of cum into her. She seemed momentarily startled by the force of my expulsion, then the face of grace again, as my orgasm triggered another for her. We jerked there together, both bewildered and assuaged by the force of our deliverance. We walked down a floor to the bedroom, leaving our clothing, leaving our respective poses behind. I watched her walk in front of me. She move so fluidly, so gracefully, almost without effort. I was hard again by the time we reached the bedroom. I grabbed out for her suddenly as we reached the bed, pulling her back to me by the hips. She yelped in surprise before murmuring approval as she felt my excited cock cushioned against her ass. She ground back against it briefly, making me moan, before extricating herself from my hold, turning around and gliding back on to the bed. Her arms opened, welcoming me to her. I descended upon her, hungrier than ever. I felt her body yield beneath my weight, and my cock slid into her again without guidance from hand or manipulation. Her arms wrapped around me, I moved my legs to the outside of her hips and covered her like a blanket. I tried desperately to consume her, to bury her beneath me. I couldn't get close enough to her. My position clamped her legs together, somehow pushing her pussy tighter against my screaming cock. "Oh Godddddd," she murmured quietly, almost whispering, and I felt the walls of her pussy grip me again in the slap of orgasm. She held me tightly in her arms a she heaved in pleasure. When it was over she relaxed her hold on me, sunk into the mattress and started laughing. The laugh was full of who she was, who she wanted to be, how she wanted to feel. "Christ..." she laughed, "I'm not sure how to handle this." It was good to see her happy. It warmed me. I know that sounds stupid. It warmed me. I almost laughed myself. "You're more than I can handle too." I said through my suffused comfort of being with her. We were both laughing together now. She raised her hand to her forehead, and I kissed at her fingers, and the back of her hand. Cary regained herself, looking at me, the trace of a smile on her lips. "It's just that...that...it's you...you know?" She was more serious now. "I don't do this...I've never...I...." "It's okay," I whispered, placing my forefinger on her lips, "I know. I understand..." I said, quieting her. "Everything about this," she said, gesturing around her, "is so...simple, so easy." "It makes sense?" I offered. "Yes...exactly. It makes perfect sense," she said, and kissed the side of my face. I lay there with my granite like cock in the sweetest pussy I'd ever felt, part of the most fabulous body I had ever seen anywhere; and what I noticed most was how soft her cheek felt against my own. Her hips shifted delicately, reminding me of my own need. I started to move myself in and out of her again. She picked up the rhythm quickly, coupled in synchronicity we had created in recognition of moments, a product of time and place, the age of discovery. My movements became more urgent, racing against my own selfishness. I thrust into her more forcefully wanting to see her come again before I, inevitably, surrendered to my feelings for her. I raised myself, now kneeling between her splayed thighs, and pulled her onto me by the hips. A trickle of sweat had formed between her breasts, despite the coolness of the room after the storm. I shifted the position of my hands so I could lift Cary's upper body towards me. She followed my lead, wrapped her legs around my hips and ass, crossing them at the ankles and allowed herself to be lifted towards me. This position, yet another embrace, allowed me to lick at the sweat between her breasts, feeling the soft cushion of her breasts against my face. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pummeled herself up and down my shaft. I slid my hands down to ass, supporting her weight in them. "Mmmmmmm, yesss," she sighed, "again...again..." I felt her arms and legs tighten around me, and I returned the embrace, squeezing her as tightly to me as I could. I threw my hips at her one more time. I felt the muscles in her ass clench and poured myself into her plaintively. "God Cary...." I bit down on a strand of her hair that had flown into my mouth as I suffered the amnesia of orgasm. There goes another symphony, as Balzac might have said. Conscious, deliberate thought abandoned to the searing relief and mind numbing pleasure of firing my cum into Cary. Very far in the distance I could hear her groaning. It was loud enough for me to hear, and that was all that mattered. She shivered and whimpered in my arms, as if chilled. I thought of wanting to warm her as I continued to throb out fluids. All strength expended, we tumbled to the bed, deliriously exhausted. Through the distance I heard Cary laughing again, happy again. She ground her hips against me, my cock still buried in her. I shivered...it had nothing to do with temperature. I awoke to sunshine in the bedroom and turned to see Cary looking at me, resting her head in her hand, an elbow planted on the mattress. "Hi." she said, smiling at me. "Hi. What time is it?" "I don't know. The power is still out." I looked at the clock to see flashing digits verify what Cary had said. She bent forward and kissed my cheek. "I have to go," she said. "I know." She got out of bed and I watched her walk out of the room. I remember watching her walk into her house from the pool the day this all started. I heard her moving up the stairs to the third floor, where all this had started, to retrieve the clothes we had left there. I threw on some clothes and waited at the bottom of the stairs for her to come down. We walked to the door together. The storm had left debris all over. Tree branches littered the lawns, broken telephone and power lines curled across the street. Apocalypse in suburbia. Cary started to leave then stopped, turning back to me. She put her hands on either side of my face and kissed me. It was a long kiss, and I kissed her back, wanting to say so much in that one shared moment. When she left, I watched her walk home through the wreckage and I thought of what lay within that kiss. There was tenderness and affection, but there was honesty too, integrity and dignity. For all Cary's manipulative sexual game playing, both with herself and others, for all the angst and emptiness she expressed through biting sarcasm and wit, she was genuine, she was for real. I felt, in that moment, that Cary always told me the truth. And if one such as she could ever find herself with one such as I, that all affectation would drop away, and nothing else would remain but the naked kiss that lay beneath. All comments and criticisms enthusiastically and gratefully welcomed and appreciated. dvflorence@excite.com -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. 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