Sunday, October 19, 2008

Two Little Girls, Take 2

I received feedback that the first version of the story ended too abruptly, so I decided to expand the content. Let me know what you think!

Adrienne watched dejectedly as the teenage girls on the field jumped around—peppy enough to appease the parents, provocative enough to arouse the boys. She only came to these school events because her parents made her, convinced that she was a social butterfly hidden in the body of a caterpillar. Her father read the evening news, her mother was a publicist. They both made their living by being likeable, and didn’t understand why Adrienne was content to spend so much time on her own. They didn’t get that she simply liked herself, and was fine in her own company. They were somewhat sated when she started hanging out with a new girl, Anya, but their displeasure quickly returned when they realized Anya was every bit of an oddball as their daughter, and would do nothing to boost her social standing.
“They’re sluts,” Anya’s voice interrupted as though she could read Adrienne’s wistful thoughts towards the cheerleaders.
“Maybe I’m one too,” she replied hotly.
“How can you be a slut when you’ve never slept with anyone? You’ve never even kissed a guy,” came Anya’s puzzled reply.
Adrienne considered this, crimson creeping up into her cheeks. She had just turned eighteen, was about to graduate high school, and had never been kissed, let alone had sex. But that didn’t mean she didn’t really want to. Every night she put herself to bed by playing in her mind what her first time would be like. Each time she pictured Allan, his strong, solid arms, his wavy, haphazard hair, his cocky smile. She pictured him as he excelled at everything—basketball, football, track. Her mind saw him sauntering to the sidelines after another athletic victory and instead of picking up his bleached-blonde cheerleader girlfriend Cindy and lifting her into the air, it would be Adrienne. He would wrap his sweaty arms around her, and then ...This is where the fantasy would vary. Last night she’d imagined that they’d be up all night on the outdoor bleachers, talking until everyone else disappeared, and then it would start to pour. The sky would open up, and they’d run for the doors to the school only to find that they’d been locked out. Already getting soaked, they’d decide to wait out the storm under the bleachers. Their clothes would be wet, and not wanting to get sick before the next big game, Allan would peel off his shirt. . .Adrienne would try to look away, wring out her chestnut hair and lower her long lashes, but he would know what she was thinking because it would be what he was thinking too. And he would move towards her, kiss her roughly on the mouth, and then. . .
This is where Adrienne would slide her hands up under the t-shirt she slept in and run them over her breasts—softly, at first, the way she imagined Aaron would the first time he explored her, and then more urgently. She’d squeeze her nipples and then grab her breasts hard, and her hands would find their way down to the only recently discovered hot spot between her legs. Once it was there, she usually stroked for awhile, until her breathing quickened and, frightened of what would happen next, she would stop.
“How can you be a slut if you’ve never had sex?”
“Anya, if I had the chance, you have no idea . . .,” she muttered unabashedly. Anya was her best friend. She could say almost anything to her.
Later that night at Anya’s house the girls lay side by side on the living room floor watching a sex scene. Adrienne’s pulse quickened as she watched the man and woman’s naked bodies writhing on the screen. She could only see the man’s back, but she could see the woman’s enormous, round breasts and wondered if it was possible that there really were women that well-endowed. She picked up the remote and pressed pause.
“What gives?” demanded Anya. “I was into that.”
“You were?” Adrienne asked, surprised. “Did it . . . turn you on?”
“Sure, a little,” she replied, embarrassed. “You’re not the only one who thinks about sex, you know.”
“I was just wondering if her boobs are real.”
“I dunno,” she answered, looking down at her own perky but small breasts. “Mine sure aren’t like that.”
“What are yours like?” Adrienne implored with cautious urgency.
“I’ll show you mind if you show me yours.” This said with a tease.
Adrienne called her bluff and pulled up her t-shirt, unhooking her bra with her free hand. She wiggled out of the white cotton undergarment with the little pink bow in the centre, and looked at her friend expectantly.
“Well? Show me yours.” She gave a funny little wink. She noticed that Anya was biting her lip, a weird expression on her face. “Oh, were you kidding?” she flushed, embarrassed, placing one hand over her exposed breasts and reaching for her bra with the other.
“No, I guess I wasn’t,” Anya replied slowly. And then, “A deal’s a deal.” She pulled her snug black top up over her head and, depositing it neatly beside her, reached around to try and unhook her satin bra. After several seconds of struggle, Adrienne mercifully reached over and unclasped it with one hand.
Anya’s red hair shimmied in the light as she jumped up and gasped, revealing her perfect round breasts and her beautiful pink nipples, which she noticed with fascination, were now erect. “I like yours better,” said the redhead objectively, looking from Adrienne’s chest to her own.
“Yours are like the woman’s in the movie!” bemoaned the other girl. “They’re perfect! You have porn-star boobs! Mine are weird!”
“Yours are not weird. I love how they’re freckled. It’s really. . .”
“I was going to say ‘hot’.”
Adrienne blushed when she realized her nipples were now as hard as her friend’s. She quickly shrugged back into her shirt and took the movie off pause. Anya kept looking at her, and then slowly replaced her own shirt.
Later that night, as Adrienne pushed her fingers into the wetness between her legs and thought about Aaron, she heard a shushing sound. She stilled as she felt intimately familiar movements on the other side of the bed where her friend, who she’d thought was sleeping, was obviously awake. She heard Anya’s breathing, as well as the pace of the shushing sound increase, followed by a sweet little sigh that sounded as though it was releasing all the tension in the world. What just happened here, she wondered, noticing that the spot where she was sleeping was much damper than it usually was after her nightly ritual. Then she couldn’t help it—she plunged her fingers deep inside herself and did what she’d never allowed herself to do before. She came.
Adrienne couldn’t stop thinking about the night she’d spent at Anya’s. She’d learned in Sex-Ed that everyone masturbates—but when the topic was opened for discussion, the general consensus had been that it was gross, and obviously something only guys did. She had clammed up during the discussion; afraid that anything she said—even if she agreed that it was gross—would betray the fact that this was something she did—often. It both relieved and fascinated her that her best friend did the same thing. Then again, they were best friends for a reason. They were kindred. She wondered if this accounted for the growing heat she felt whenever she thought about Anya, her recent inability to take her eyes off her. It had been weeks since the sleepover, and the feelings hadn’t waned. She’d tried to orgasm every night since then. It was like a quest, trying to find that one spot that made her buck, and that pushed her over the edge, but it seemed like last time had been a fluke. She could go on and on until the pleasure made her dizzy, but her body wouldn’t let her release. She knew what she had to do, but the idea made all sorts of unwelcome thoughts crowd her mind. Thoughts about who she was, who she wanted to be, what she was. It was confusing—in fact, it felt like the only two settings on her mind and body lately were confused and horny. She laughed, wondering if that email address was taken: She picked up the hot pink cell charging on her bedside table and drew a deep breath before pressing speed dial number one.
“Adrienne, hi!” Anya was happy that her friend had called and asked to come over. She held her arms open for a hug and Adrienne gratefully accepted. “I’ve missed you the past couple of weeks. Where’ve you been hiding?”
“I was just in a mood. I needed time to myself, you know how I get.”
“Hmm. Remember when you said being with me was like being alone?”
She remembered. It wasn’t the insult most people would have taken it to be. Adrienne had always been more comfortable spending time on her own. She enjoyed solitude, and didn’t have patience to be around people 24/7. Within weeks of their meeting, Anya had been the only one she could spend a whole day with without having to retreat into herself for awhile. When she said being with Anya was like being alone, she meant she made her totally comfortable. She would never tire of her.
“I remember saying that, and it’s still true. The problem is that when I’m alone I talk to myself, and I was thinking things I wasn’t sure I wanted to blurt out just yet.”
“Care to let me in on the secret?”
“Maybe later,” Adrienne said nervously. She was either going to have to think of a non-creepy way of explaining things or a really good lie. Either would suffice at this point. “You gonna keep me on the doorstep all night? I think I saw a spider crawl into my overnight bag.”
Anya’s face froze in terror before she realized that Adrienne was kidding. “Get in here, you pain in the ass. You know how scared I am of spiders!” she scolded laughingly.
“I know,” said Adrienne. “I know everything about you.”
“And I know everything about you, with the exception of what’s been bugging you the past few weeks. But I’ll pull it out of you.”
“Oh? And how will you do that?” Adrienne asked, following Anya into the empty kitchen.
“The ‘rents are out of town again, and they left a lot of liquor. You babble like a brook when you’re drunk.”
“You’re going to get me drunk?”
“But of course.”
“Then beware, I won’t be held responsible for my actions,” Adrienne replied mysteriously. She hoped she sounded like she was joking, because she really wasn’t.
“Andi. . .Andi, I love you,” Anya blubbered, almost a whole bottle of champagne in her system.
“I love you toooo. . .,” the other girl gushed, reaching for her rum and coke and knocking over a vase in the process. “Oh no! Don’t be mad Ann, k? Do you still love me?”
“Of course I love you. You’re my favourite. C’mere.”
“Come there?”
“Come here!” Anya’s arms were open again, and Adrienne slid off the couch where she was sitting and joined her friend on the floor, burying her face into her shoulder. Anya fell back, and Adrienne closed her eyes. She thought this might be as good a moment as any to let Anya know the things she’d been thinking, but she was just so comfortable . . . and so sleepy. She didn’t want Anya to jump up and start pacing the way she did when she was nervous. She didn’t want to have a long, drawn out conversation about their friendship. She wanted things to stay easy, the way they’d always been. She nestled up closer to her friend and sighed a contented sigh.
They were still like that the next morning when they woke up. Adrienne’s head was pounding. She gently removed Anya’s arm and stood, her body weighing like lead, trying to muster up the motivation to hunt for coffee. It was only once the coffee was brewing and she had popped two aspirin that she remembered what had—or rather, hadn’t—happened last night. She was relieved and disappointed at the same time. She wanted Anya to know about her feelings, but she didn’t want to lose her. She was fairly sure that Anya would continue to love her no matter what she said or did, but she was terrified of changing their relationship. What if it just got too awkward? And anyway, she reasoned, I don’t even know what I want to say to her. Shouldn’t I know that before I start blabbing incoherently about feelings and touching and boobs? She just wanted to know that her friend felt the way she did, that she was normal, that they were still kindred.
She heard Anya stirring in the other room, and got up to pour her friend a cup of coffee with chocolate hazelnut creamer, just the way she liked it. “Morning, sunshine,” she said, sauntering into the living room.
Anya was still splayed on the floor, as if getting up would kill her. She reached up and took the cup gratefully, blowing her red hair out of her eyes. “Do you have to be so loud?” she grumbled. Adrienne sat, lifted her friend’s head into her lap, and bent over to kiss her temple. “Sorry, grumpy.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes sipping their coffee, and then Anya sat up. “That’s better,” she said.
“Hey—you didn’t tell me your secret! I got you drunk and everything.”
“Yeah, about that . . . I’m not sure I’m going to tell you.”
“Respect me, Anya.”
“Fine. Whatever.” She wasn’t just being a brat. She really didn’t care to press any further. She knew Adrienne would tell her. She always did. “I’m going to shower.” She stood.
“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to shower with someone.” Adrienne hoped she sounded casual.
“Well, you know how in those trashy mags they’re always telling stories of people showering together? I just wonder what the big deal is. Do you fantasize about men shampooing your hair?” She really wanted to know.
“Mostly I fantasize about someone else washing all this hair. My arms get tired.” She pushed that gorgeous scarlet mane up on top of her head and Adrienne drew in a breath.
“Let’s take a bath,” Adrienne blurted out before she knew what she was saying.
“Um . . . like, together?”
“Sure. Your tub is huge, it’s got jets, and it’s been forever since I’ve been in anything resembling a hot tub.”
“Uhm . . .”
“We’ll put in bubble bath so we don’t see anything.”
“Will you wash my hair?” Anya agreed with a smile.
“If you wash mine.”

The bath tub was full of bubbles, and both girls were wearing towels. Adrienne turned around so that Anya could get in, forgetting that the mirror in front of her would allow her to see everything. She had seen parts of Anya’s body before, of course. Toned mid-drift at the beach, long legs during yoga class, her breasts that night that she couldn’t forget. But seeing it all at once as Anya dropped the towel stole her breath. She was beautiful. Her Ivory skin was smooth and without blemish, and Adrienne ached to touch it. She was sure it would be the softest thing she ever ran her fingers across. Anya lowered herself slowly into the tub, and Adrienne couldn’t be sure but she thought she saw her wink in the reflection in the mirror as though she knew she was watching.
“I’m in. Your turn.”
Anya closed her eyes as Adrienne sat on the side and then slid herself down into one of the grooves made for sitting. “You can open your eyes now.”
“Well, I’ve never done this before,” said Anya in her usual teasing tone.
“Is it weird for you?”
She thought about this. “Surprisingly not. It feels too wonderful to be weird. I love bubbles . . . and jets.”
“Could you imagine what your parents would think of they walked in right now?”
“Eh, they’d probably think it was nothing. Best friends and all that. If I was in here with a guy that would be another story.”
“Only if you consider getting a spanking at the age of eighteen trouble,” Anya laughed. Adrienne thought her laugh was almost . . . musical. She’d always thought that. It made her self-conscious of her own laugh that bordered on grating and sometimes ended in a snort.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Anya could tell something was on Adrienne’s mind.
Instead of telling her the truth, Adrienne said “I was thinking about this article I read in Cosmo about masturbating in the bath.”
“Uh, what about it?”
“Apparently it’s a good way to figure out what you like . . . you know, sexually. They say before you have sex with a guy, you should test techniques out on yourself so you know what works for you.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ve got that covered,” her nose wrinkled with a half smile the way it did when she was embarrassed.
“Really!? I’ve given it a shot, out of the bathtub, but I can’t say I’ve been incredibly successful.”
“I can’t believe we’re talking about this.”
“Well, they say everyone does it. . . ‘Friction is friction,’” she said with a wicked smile.
Anya laughed that laugh again. “I love that! Friction is friction.”
“I wish I could take credit for it, but it’s actually from the book She’s Come Undone.”
“Wally Lamb, right? I’ve been meaning to read that one.”
Adrienne didn’t want this conversation to end on the subject of literature. “So . . . how did you figure it out?”
“What? The whole self-massage thing?” Adrienne liked that term better than masturbation. It sounded more normal. Leave it to Anya to make her feel comfortable when her heart was pounding in her chest and she was naked in a tub full of bubbles. Anya continued, “It’s like anything else. If at first you don’t succeed. . .”
“Try, try again,” they said together, then burst into giggles.
“You know what I’ve always wondered about, though,” said Anya. “Those girls who practice kissing on each other. I mean its fine to practice sexual technique on yourself to a certain extent, but kissing your arm doesn’t really work. It’s not like it can kiss back.”
“Haven’t you kissed a couple of guys?” Adrienne was wondering where this was going.
“Yes, and it was horrible!” Anya squealed. “What do you do when someone just starts jabbing their tongue randomly into your mouth? Or when they slobber all over your face? I didn’t really feel like I was kissing, more like I was trying to protect my lips.”
“From jabbing tongues and slobber contamination?”
“Exactly! I get the feeling you learn to kiss from kissing, and the people I’ve kissed had nothing to teach me,” she laughed. “We could . . . try it if you want.”
“What, practicing kissing on each other? It’s not like I know what I’m doing either.”Adrienne didn’t know why she was trying to put Anya off kissing her—wasn’t this what she’d been wanting for weeks now?
“I’ve heard it’s different with girls . . . but if you don’t want to, I—“
“No, we can.” Don’t be an idiot, Adrienne.
“Are you sure? Cause I can go back to try to learn from inept guys who try to swallow my face.”
“You’re my best friend. How could I put you through that?”
“Thank you!” She exclaimed with mock-relief.
It suddenly occurred to Adrienne that this would be her first kiss. But would it really count if it was just for educational purposes? Would it matter that it was with her best girlfriend rather than a potential boyfriend? She decided she’d wait until after the kiss to decide.
Anya inched closer until they were sitting directly opposite each other, legs crossed, knees touching. The bubbles weren’t hiding anything anymore. They stared at each other for a minute. Adrienne was nervous, but Anya’s smile disarmed her. She felt totally safe. She wondered briefly about the ethics of kissing her best friend, when Anya was clearly just experimenting and had no idea that Adrienne wanted to do a lot more than kiss, but these thoughts quickly disappeared when Anya put her hands on her face. Adrienne had no idea what to do with her hands, so she placed them gingerly on Anya’s legs and hoped her friend wouldn’t freak out. She didn’t. Before she knew what was happening, Anya’s lips were pressed lightly to hers. She thought she should open her mouth, so she did, and Anya gently kissed her top lip. Her heart was pounding like mad, and she didn’t want Anya regret her decision to practice with her so she pulled her closer as she kissed her slowly. She lowered her mouth a little and sucked on Anya’s bottom lip, which was pink and plump and as beautiful as the rest of her. Anya made a little mewing sound and Adrienne wanted to press her chest against her friend’s, against those flawless breasts, but was afraid to do anything that might make Anya want to stop kissing her. When the sound escaped her friend’s lips again, though, she couldn’t help herself. She drew Anya to her and wrapped her legs around hers, her arms around her slim torso, running her hands up and down her impossibly smooth back. Anya’s response to this was to kiss her with more urgency, grabbing her silky brown hair and pressing her breasts harder into Adrienne’s. When they broke, they were both panting and sweaty and blushing. “I think that’s enough for today,” Anya said. Adrienne had no choice but to agree.
It was only when she was on her way home that she wondered about Anya’s use of the words “for today”. Would there be more another day? Did Anya feel the way about Adrienne as she felt about her? Adrienne didn’t think she was a lesbian—not really. She had a thing for Aaron, right? At the most, she thought she might be bisexual, but probably only bi-curious. It had less to do with liking women, and more to do with adoring Anya. She loved everything about her; it only made sense to feel affection for her in every way. She was her best friend, and the sister she never had. Of course she wanted to kiss her. She loved her. That love didn’t mean she was gay—it didn’t mean anything.

As Adrienne pulled into her driveway she felt her cell vibrating against her leg, followed by the familiar chiming sound that meant she had a text message. She flipped her phone open, and was surprised to see that the message was from Anya. She didn’t know why she was surprised. She and Anya texted each other all day every day for any and no reason at all. It’s just that everything was so intense right now and she had expected that Anya would need some time to think before talking to Adrienne again. An alarming thought entered Adrienne’s mind. What if Anya was texting to tell her she was upset with what had happened and that she didn’t want to be friends anymore? The thought made Adrienne’s throat constrict as she forced herself to click down and read the message. Her relief was almost crushing when she read what her friend had to say:

you didn’t actually wash my hair. you owe me one hot shower.

She couldn’t deny that she was hugely relieved, but Adrienne was also scared. Anya wanted to have a hot shower with her. What did this mean? She’d loved kissing her and wanted to do it a lot more, not to mention other things, but doubts about her sexuality were starting to cloud her mind again. Images of her and Anya living together and conceiving their children via turkey basters filled her head. She thought of what her parents would do if she came out of the closet, and wondered if she’d have to shave her head and wear t-shirts proudly proclaiming “I Kiss Girls.” Adrienne, calm yourself. She was not going to panic like this. As established on the ride home, she was merely a bi-curious girl with a deep affection for her best friend and out of control hormones. She liked boys. There would be no coming out of the closet, and no turkey basters. She texted Anya back:

when and where?

Two days later, when parents were still at work but teenagers were home from school, Adrienne and Anya took their experimenting from “fluke” status to something more. They kissed for a long time, undressing each other slowly, timidly, and then made their way into the shower with their underwear still on. Anya’s panties and bra were white, and the pulse of the shower made them see-through in a matter of seconds. Adrienne’s wet, lace undergarments clung to her skin as she poured shampoo into her palm and leisurely worked it into the other girl’s thick, red hair. Anya’s back was to her, and she was turned on by the sight of her neck, glistening under the spray with a few stray auburn curls escaping at her nape. She kissed them, starting at the base of Anya’s neckline then moving towards her collar bone. Her fingers traced patterns absently above the boundary of her panties, over the dimples that lived where her back met her ass. Anya moaned, and turned to face Adrienne, a look of painful desire in her eyes. “I’m not a lesbian,” she said, then devoured the other girl’s aching lips before she had a chance to respond.
“I’m not,” she said again, kissing Adrienne’s ear, moving her hands to her breasts and running a finger lightly over her nipple.
“Me neither,” Adrienne replied urgently, trying to convince herself that it was true as she unhooked the garment around Anya’s chest and watched it fall to the ground before pulling down the barrier to place that Adrienne wanted to touch the most. She pushed Anya gently up against the wall, and kissing her ravenously, plunged a finger into her slit. Anya gasped, almost winded by ecstasy she experienced, and in one hazy motion, managed to rip any remaining clothing from Adrienne’s body. Anya pushed up against her as Adrienne slid another finger in, and then another, her screams muffled by Adrienne’s breast in her mouth.
“God, you’re yummy,” Anya squealed into her friend’s tits, biting her nipple and making Adrienne moan in a way Anya had only seen in porn. She wanted to taste her everywhere, and forcing herself to pull away from the buzz of Adrienne’s fingers inside her, dropped to her knees, pulled Adrienne’s legs towards her, and rubbed her clit with her tongue. Adrienne’s entire body arched and she thought she would black out. She angled her pelvis towards Anya’s face and wrapped her legs around her body, causing Anya to make more of the purring noises that turned Adrienne on so much. The next thing Adrienne knew she was splayed on the floor and Anya was on top of her. They grinded their mounds into each other and kissed passionately, their breasts pressed together, their hands everywhere. When they came it was almost simultaneous, Anya’s moans setting Adrienne off, their screams echoing through the empty house.
By the time the parents were home, they were dry, dressed and laying innocently on the couch. Adrienne’s mother brought home take-out, and they sat and talked about school and work. The girls were starving, as people usually are after intense sexual activity. Adrienne loved the feeling of finally having a secret. She didn’t know whether or not she was still a virgin, but after today she was definitely less of one. Anya kept sneaking her sly looks, as though trying to turn her on with her mere gaze. It worked. Adrienne squirmed in her seat as the space between her legs moistened. She knew there was no way her mother would ever guess what had happened, but she still worried just a little bit.
Adrienne and Anya “played”, as they liked to call it, a lot over the next few weeks. They would go to each other’s houses, wait until their parents were asleep and play all night, using pillows to stifle the carnal sounds that poured from their throats. Sometimes they would kiss for hours, and other times they went at it like animals. They liked trying out the effects different variables had on their play. For instance, was there a difference between playing early in the morning versus late at night? How was playing on the hardwood of Adrienne’s bedroom different than when they did it on the carpet of Anya’s? Was it better if they were drunk? High? Could they get each other off when both were still fully dressed? How difficult was it to orgasm without making a single sound? They “experimented” and “played”, but they never made love and they never had sex. That would mean something neither of them was ready to deal with. They often reminded each other that friction was friction, and rationalized that there was absolutely nothing wrong with two friends as close are they making each other feel good.

Things were relatively uncomplicated until prom. Adrienne and Anya decided they’d go together since neither of them had dates. Lots of girls went together, as friends or in groups and no one would think it was weird. The complication came from the phrase “since neither of them had dates.” Anya took this to mean that when John Johnson asked her to go, she could say yes, since she and Adrienne were only going together “since neither of them had dates.” Adrienne, on the other hand, was pissed. She’d been asked out by a guy in their class, and had turned him down out of solidarity to Anya, a fact that she kept secret from her until the following scene in the school parking lot:
“What the hell do you mean you’re going to prom with John? You’re going to prom with me!” Adrienne was fuming as she slammed her bag into the back seat of her car.
“Adrienne . . . I didn’t think you’d be upset. I thought we only agreed to go together because neither of us had dates. I didn’t think it was a binding contract. You can come along with John and me, if you want.”
“That’s great. A threesome sounds perfect.” She hated the fact that Anya was making it seem like she was doing her a huge favour.
“What?” Anya’s face paled. “Adrienne, don’t say stuff like that.” She looked around anxiously, and Adrienne knew she was afraid that someone would overhear the word “threesome” and immediately deduce what Adrienne and Anya’s extracurricular activities consisted of as of late.
Adrienne rolled her eyes. “Could you be any more paranoid?”
“I am not paranoid,” Anya whispered tensely. “And lower your voice. Do you want everyone to hear?”
“Anya, no one else in this school knows we exist.” Adrienne’s voice betrayed just a hint of bitterness.
“John Johnson knows I exist. Don’t be threatened just because I’m going out with a boy.”
Before Adrienne knew what she was doing, her hand made contact with Anya’s perfect cheek. Anya retaliated by pushing her.
“Listen, bitch,” Adrienne spat, catching her balance. “I got asked to the prom weeks ago by Craig from Spanish, and I turned him down because I promised I’d go with you! You are not the only one boys pay attention to! I just thought it was more important to keep my word to my best friend than go on a date with some guy!” She threw herself into the drivers’ seat and put the key in the ignition, but didn’t speed away before Anya had a chance to yell, “I’m not your fucking girlfriend, Adrienne! I like boys, you dyke!”
Adrienne was furious. She felt betrayed and angry, and secretly wondered if Anya’s words had a ring of truth. Did Adrienne think of Anya as her girlfriend? Had Anya thought they’d just been playing, when this whole time Adrienne had been falling in love? It was complicated. She loved Anya ferociously, but having never been in love before had no way of telling if the love she felt for Anya was purely friendship or if it was something more. To make things worse, the senior prom was the most important night of her life to date, and she had no one to go with. She’d heard that Craig from Spanish was now taking Sara Green, and she kicked herself for not accepting his invitation when he offered it. The truth, though, was that Adrienne didn’t really want to go to prom with Craig. He was cute enough and nice enough, but they were acquaintances, not friends. He didn’t make her skin all tingly, and when she thought about kissing him it didn’t turn her on. She had wanted to go with Anya because she knew they’d have fun, and if prom was supposed to be a celebration of their life at high school, who better to celebrate with than the one person who’d made high school bearable for her? But Anya obviously didn’t share her sentiments, and that cut Adrienne deeply. They were going to different colleges next year and if prom was any indication, they were probably going to grow apart. She put her head in her hands and sobbed, and then lit a joint to calm herself down. She usually saved getting stoned for either very good news or very bad news, and this definitely qualified. She didn’t know if she was crying over the loss of her best friend or her girlfriend, and she didn’t know which would be worse. All she knew is that for the first time in her life she understood how it felt to be heartbroken.
A week later, Anya was at prom with John. She was wearing a sapphire blue satin dress that, coupled with her red hair and pale skin, gave off almost a dreamlike quality. Her older sister was home from cosmetology school for the weekend and had done an incredible job on her make-up, which was dramatic, and her hair, which was piled on top of her hair all sexy and casual. She looked amazing, but felt miserable. She was incensed that Adrienne had the power to ruin this night for her without being anywhere around. It was not her fault that Adrienne had refused her invitation to come with her and John, it was not her fault that Adrienne had turned down a date with Craig from Spanish, and it was definitely not her fault that she had been refusing to take her calls ever since the parking lot blow-up. Anya had left dozens of messages on her cell phone, and she had no idea if Adrienne had even listened to them or if she just deleted them right away. She had to stop thinking about this. It was out of her hands. She was sorry she’d agreed to go to prom with John and sorry she’d called her best friend a dyke, but there was nothing she could do about that now. John asked her to dance, and she said yes, forcing a smile. She wondered if he would try to get under her dress tonight and if she would be okay with that. I mean, she had been practicing for a reason.
Adrienne was miserable. Her parents were forcing her to go to prom, and she was already so late. Her mother had hounded her relentlessly trying to find out why she was no longer going, and when out of sheer exhaustion she finally blurted out that Anya had found a date and ditched her, her mother took it upon herself to find a date for her daughter. Adrienne was adamant that she was not going to go with some random guy her mom brought home, but her parents were insistent that she not miss out on this, and in the end she caved. Her date was the college-aged son of a man that her mother worked in publishing with. They’d met at various different company events, so he wasn’t a total stranger. Still, she was humiliated beyond measure that she had to rely on her mother to find a man for her, and as I result was determined to look hotter than she’d ever looked in her life so he wouldn’t think she was a loser. Her mother had spent the whole day with her at the salon as she was plucked, exfoliated, manicured and groomed into something resembling a model. When she looked at the final product in the mirror, she was shocked. She didn’t know how she’d missed it before, but she was beautiful. She’d thought maybe this night wouldn’t be so bad after all. And now she was sitting at home waiting for her date, and had convinced herself that he wasn’t going to show, when the doorbell rang.
“I’m so sorry,” he said as she opened the door. “There was a terrible accident on the highway and the limo was late picking me up. Do you remember me, Adrienne? I’m Dexter.”
“Limo?,” she asked, wide-eyed. As a publicist, her mother had taken her in limos before, but she’d never been in one of her own accord, and had certainly never had one rented just for her.
“Of course. When I take a woman on a date, I pull out all the stops.” And pull out all the stops he had. He had rented a tux, and his hair looked incredible. His eyes were deep and soulful, and he looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. Why hadn’t she remembered how hot this guy was? Adrienne blushed, and she could tell that her parents were thrilled. They snapped several pictures of the couple together, and then sent them off. In the limo they drank champagne, despite Adrienne’s underage status, and chatted easily with one another. Adrienne would have sworn they were on a real date if she hadn’t known her mother was the one pulling the strings. He told Adrienne she looked amazing, and she felt tingles up and down her arms. This was what it was supposed to feel like when you went to prom with a guy. She was almost glad she’d turned down Craig from Spanish.
When they arrived at the prom Adrienne’s eyes automatically scanned the crowd for Anya but she couldn’t see her anyway. Dexter grabbed Adrienne a glass of punch and she smiled as he told her, “When I went to my prom I was a terrible dancer. Just terrible. My sister got married last year and as a ‘gift’ she got the whole family dancing lessons before the wedding. I think she just didn’t want to be embarrassed by how uncoordinated we all are. As a result, I am now a master of the dance floor.”
Adrienne laughed. “Good to know. I’m not much of a dancer, though. I never come to these things and I haven’t had much practice,” she said, watching the other couples swirl around the dance floor and keeping one eye out for Anya and John.
“I can show you a few moves, if you want,” he offered comfortably.
What the hell. She was here to have a good time. “Sure,” she said, as he took her purse and placed it on a chair.
“Have I mentioned how incredible you look?”
“Yes, a few times,” she laughed, enjoying the attention and the feel of Dexter’s arms around her.
“Your mom mentioned that you’re going to the same college as me next year. I can show you around, introduce you if you want.”
“Did my mom put you up to that? Tell you I’m a social leper?”
“No. She didn’t say you were a social leper, she said you preferred to keep to yourself. Is that true?”
“I guess so. I just find that not a lot of people ‘get’ me. Everyone here is so fake. I’d rather be myself alone than pretend to be someone else to fit in.”
“College is different. There’s more different types of people there. There’s not as much of a need to put up a front. I bet you’ll fit in fine at my school.”
“Well, maybe I will take you up on that offer, then,” she said as the song changed from fast to slow. Dexter pulled her closer and she felt her heart-rate increase. There was no way this guy liked her. It was a pity date of the highest order. Yet even as she told herself this, she was taken aback as he smelled her hair.
“Why did you agree to come?” she asked him.
“Honestly? I’ve always found you intriguing.”
“What? You don’t even know me.”
“That’s exactly it. When all the other teens at those publicity dos was sneaking liquor and making out in coat check, you held yourself together so well. You were more like one of the adults. I always wanted to invite you to join us, but you seemed so above it all. I was afraid I’d get burned.”
Adrienne couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was Dexter actually interested in her? “Thank you,” she said numbly. “But I am definitely not above you or anyone else.” She saw Anya across the room, at the exact moment that Anya saw her, and felt like a wrench was being turned in her body. She looked absolutely stunning. She always did.
It was eleven o’clock when the limo pulled up and Dexter walked Adrienne to the door. She had tried to enjoy herself after seeing Anya, but it had been hard and Dexter sensed the difference. She wound up telling him she had a headache. Her parents hadn’t given her a curfew and she’d thought maybe she and Dexter would hit a college party or a bar, but after seeing Anya she just hadn’t felt like it. He’d given her a quick kiss on the lips at the door and told her he hoped she felt better and to look him up when she started college. They exchanged numbers and emails and then he was gone. Adrienne sat down heavily on her front porch and was taking off her heels to massage her feet when Anya’s car pulled up. Her heart leapt into her throat. She wasn’t mad anymore. This was her best friend.
“Hi,” Anya said.
“So, I saw you at prom.”
“I saw you too. What happened to John?”
“He went to an after party.”
“Why didn’t you go with him?”
“I missed you,” she said, sitting tentatively down on the steps. “I am so sorry, Adrienne. I’ve been miserable without you. Can you ever forgive me for the things that I said?”
“It’s not what you said, Ann. It’s the fact that you ditched me for someone else without a second thought.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. To be honest, I’m just really freaked out by what’s been going on between us. I don’t know what it means and I’m scared.”
“Oh.” Adrienne thought about Anya’s repeated insistence that she was not a lesbian. She said it almost every time they were together. It was all making sense now.
“Please just love me again.”
“I’ll always love you.” They hugged. “So is this the reason you didn’t go to the after party with John? Because you wanted to come right over and apologize to me?”
“I didn’t go with John because I got the distinct impression that he wanted to get into my pants.”
“You didn’t want that? I thought you were dying to have sex.”
“The only one I want in my pants on prom night is you,” she said Boldly. Timidly. If such a combination were possible. And then, “I love you.”

Adrienne wasn’t sure how it happened, but one moment they were talking on the porch, the next they were a blur of arms and hands and kisses and skin fumbling down the stairs and into Adrienne’s basement bedroom. Adrienne’s black taffeta dress was pulled up over her head, and Anya’s silk number was ripped off and thrown on the floor. For the first time, they didn’t play and they didn’t experiment. They had sex before midnight, and at sunrise they awoke and made love.
Five Years Later

Adrienne and Anya wandered through the streets of New York hand-in-hand. It was their yearly girls’ weekend together when they pushed all of the responsibilities and craziness of their lives to the backburner and pretended they were in high school again. Adrienne’s husband got a kick out of the fact that she was spending the weekend with the girl who was responsible for his wife’s first orgasm. He’d tried more than once to get the details out of her, but she always brushed him off. “We were just two little girls—you know, best friends and all that.” She always left out the fact that they had dated for a summer before they each went away to school. That was a secret—hers and Anya’s. Today she was helping Anya pick out a Christmas gift for her girlfriend, with whom things seemed to be getting serious.
“Do you think she’s The One?” Adrienne asked as they browsed through Macy’s.
“I don’t know. I know I love her, but do you think that love can last forever?”
Adrienne didn’t reply, but as she looked at Anya’s wrinkle-nosed smile she thought, Yes it can.

© Fable J Hill, 2008

Friday, October 17, 2008

A Day In The Mind of a Bisexual Nympho

I wake up and stretch out across my bed, moving into the warm spot that my lover has left behind him. He has gone to work already, and I am alone. I wish he would have woken me for a morning romp. There is nothing like blurry sex, half-asleep . . . I start to picture it, and I am hot instantly. I should probably get up and shower so I can get to work early, but I am almost paralyzed with desire and know I will be useless today unless I feed myself. I fumble in my night stand for my pink vibrator that is fully charged and never leaves before I wake up. The mere sight of its rabbit shape suffices to turn me on further. I love the perverse fact that I regularly get off with something that resembles a forest animal. I turn it on and am transported to new realms of pleasure as I slide it inside me and the base of the shaft sends waves over my opening as the bunny ears flick my clit. As I move it slowly up and down inside me, my breath quickens and I start to moan. Lusty, raunchy images flood my mind and are released through the wetness between my legs. I picture a man watching me pleasure myself as his wife straddles him. She is looking at him, but he is looking straight into my eyes and I’m looking back. He is sexy and his wife is gorgeous. I want them both. I picture myself sliding between them. She is behind me and I am facing him. I am rubbing up against her and I can feel her nipples harden against my back. He is thrusting inside me and my moaning is getting louder and louder . . . I bite my lip and then scream as my orgasm rocks my body. I take a moment to catch my breath, and then head for the shower. I’m going to be late for work, but it was so worth it.

I am on the subway. Someone sinfully gorgeous is sitting across from me. His eyes lock with mine. I smile the seductive way I used to smile at strangers before I was taken. I briefly wonder what kinds of sex I am missing out on by agreeing to be monogamous.

“Hey,” he says, and I am startled.

“Hello,” I reply demurely, hoping that my conservative skirt, silk scarf and blouse are effectively disguising the sex-crazed animal inside me that is begging to come out and play.

“Where are you off to?”

“Work. You?”

“I just worked the night shift. I’m on my way home to bed.”

“Ah. What do you do?”

“I work security.” I bet you do. He is burly and looks like he’d be a handful for any person who tried to make trouble for him. “And what do you do?”

“I teach preschool classes at the YMCA.”

For some reason men seem to be turned on my women who are wholesome by day and sex-slaves by night. Maybe it’s the contrast. I hope he can’t tell that I am a whore hiding in a children’s’ teacher’s body.

“You like kids?”

“Very much. And you?”

“Oh, yeah I love children.” He leans forward conspirationally. “I would love to have some.”

I always wonder at what point during these exchanges I have to tell the guy I’m not single. I mean, I don’t want to just blurt it out, because he could quite possibly just be a friendly person making conversation. There’s nothing wrong with a little conversation. But I always feel like kind of a tease for allowing it to get to the point when he asks me out and I have to tell him no.

He leans back and looks at me for a minute, and in that minute I am seeing myself kneeling to the floor, unzipping his worn jeans and taking his hard, throbbing cock into my mouth. I know by the look on his face that he can either read my mind or is having very similar thoughts of his own.

“It’s too bad you have to work,” he says. “I could take you home and make you breakfast.”

I should tell him I’m taken, but what would be the point? “Don’t you normally make a woman breakfast after a one night stand?” I am brazen. I am one part ashamed, two parts thrilled.

“Yes, but when you work at night you gotta rearrange things a little.” He chuckles. “I’m not workin’ tonight though, if you’re interested in doin’ things right.”

Say no. I don’t want to tell him that I’m taken for some reason. I like being desired. “I’m sorry. I’m busy tonight. Maybe another time.”

“Can I have your number?”

I try to think of a way to get out of this. “Give me yours.”

“Ah, a woman who likes to be in control. I like that.”

He lists off his number and I pretend to program it into my cell phone. A heat is burning between my legs. I want to devour him but I know I would regret it. I picture him doing naughty things to me, and then shake the thought from my mind. Mercifully, it is my stop. I say bye to him and hustle my horny self into work.

As the kids are being dropped off I make casual chit chat with parents and sip my cafe mocha. My loins have cooled down considerably when in walks the hottest mom on the block. I try to tell myself that she has a husband. I try to tell myself that I have a husband. I try to tell myself that her and her husband have entrusted me with their baby, and that my husband has trusted me to be able to go out in public without wanting to hump every attractive person in sight, but it is no use. She hands me the bundle of pink flesh in her arms, and I smile. “Hey, baby,” I murmur, inhaling the powdery, lemony scent of the 18 month old. She gurgles at me and I think of how wicked it is that I am holding this baby girl while picturing her mother naked. It’s just that Gemma* is not your usual mom. Her wardrobe conjures a mix between army fatigues and couture. Her boy cut hair is bright red with jet black low-lights. She is marvellously tan, and her body is a compact, tiny, yet curvaceous wonder, with a very sexy trail of tiny stars tattooed from behind her ear, down the base of her neck, and disappearing suggestively beneath the collar of her shirt. She paints her nails with black polish and has a ring through her tongue. I want to touch it with mine. She goes on energetically about her latest photography project, and all I can think about is making these children disappear so that I can have my way with her on the craft table, both of us going home covered in glitter and glue. She kisses her baby good-bye, and I look down at the precious pink bundle in my arms and say “Lucky baby.”

“What?” asks one of my co-workers, overhearing my comment.

“I was just telling Lucy* a secret,” I say, and smile. Lucy starts to fuss and I bounce her up and down on my hip, trying to forget about her mom and all the dirty things I want to do to her.

I arrive at home, covered in glitter but not because my fantasy came true. I saw Mr. Sexy on the return subway ride, and had to fight tooth and nail against the slut inside me not call my husband and tell him I’d be home late. I open the door, and there is my lover. He is sitting on the couch watching TV, but one look from me tells him he’d better stop. He knows that look. He knows that I am starving for it, that I crave a fuck, that if he does not satisfy me I will not be held responsible for my actions. He knows that now is not the time to make love--I am brimming with lust. He stands to his feet and pushes me against the wall. I drop my purse. He kisses me hard and I moan, then he forces me to the floor. He opens the lid of the black leather cube that masquerades as a footrest while hiding our stash, and locates our handcuffs. Pulling my hands up above my head, he cuffs me to the legs of the coffee table. I am so hot I am trembling. I lick my lips and look at him, begging him silently to ravish me. “Slut,” he says, knowing it’s what I want. “Whore.” Yes I am. The words themselves make another moan rise in my throat, and he silences it with another rough kiss that makes me weak. He pushes my skirt up above my waist and pulls down my sexy knickers, leaving me deliciously exposed. “Fuck me,” I beg. He says no.

I ask him again. “Fuck me.”

He pulls my silk scarf away from my neck with one tug, and wraps it around my eyes. I am hand-cuffed. I am blind. He does not touch me. He makes me wait so long I don’t know if he is even in the room anymore. I am naked from the waist down, and the cool air in the room makes me painfully aware of just how hot and wet I am.

“Please fuck me now,” I whimper. Then I say it louder, in case he’s down the hall. Then I yell, not knowing where in the house he is. “FUCK ME!”

I realize now he has been right in front of me all along. He calls me his sexy whore, and after teasing me cruelly with his tongue for what seems like an eternity, he shoves his cock inside my wet, swollen pussy. I gasp with relief. Every sensation is heightened by the fact that I can’t see, can’t do anything to reciprocate except strain against the metal cutting into my wrists. I come violently, feeling like my body has been reduced to a shuddering mass of pleasure. He lets himself go inside me, and I come again, like waves crashing on the shore. I hear the jingle of keys. He pulls the scarf from my eyes down to my neck. He lets me watch as he unlocks me, then kisses my wrists where the cuffs left red marks.

“Thank you,” I say, burying my face in his sweaty neck.

“Anything to keep you out of someone else’s bed.”His tone is light, but I can tell he means it.

It can’t be easy being married to someone with an appetite like mine.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Ideas of Lust and Love at 17

Why am I not running?
I should be fleeing you.
I shouldn't allow you such control,
should never allow you to have such a hold.

How can my heart beat so hard while its melting?
How can my thoughts get so lost in your eyes?
You leave me speechless,
with my head full of words.

I'm not the type to fall for a stranger,
this rush couldn't get any stranger than this.
I can't let go, but I'm scared to hold on.
I'm locked into you by the force of your kiss.

I want you.
I need you.
I touch you.
I taste you.

Want me.
Need me.
Taste me.
Tease me.

If I fall,
will you catch me?

You've got me out of my head.
Out of my body.
I watch us from my bedroom ceiling,
it sends shivers through me.

We move like music,
we flow like water,
one note melting into another.

And I don't know where you've been my whole life,
and I don't care,
I just wish you'd been here.
And I barely know you,
I have so many questions,
But their answers won't change me,
or you,
or how I feel about you.
Except to make my feelings stronger.
I know this,
but I don't understand it.

It's been such a short time.
I'm not usually so easy
to touch,
to tease,
to get to know.

And I'm scared that you've done this a hundred times before,
stolen a hundred other hearts,
just to rip them apart.
I'm afraid of you,
cause I'm drawn to you like a magnet.

I run my hand through your sweaty hair,
over your smooth skin,
and look into your honey-brown eyes.

Touch me,
tease me,
just don't leave me.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Where Social Action and Erotica Meet

Fantasy is one thing. Reality is another. Prostitution may be sexy in stories, but there's nothing sexy about what those in the sex-trade go through in real life. The drawing below is my artistic interpretation of what one of society's most marginilized group of men and women go through. I'm all for sexual liberation--if they do it, it should be for fun. We should have sex because we want to, not because we have to.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

Blog Action Day

Fable J. Hill is participating in Blog Action Day 2008. Where social action and erotica meet ;)

Thursday, October 2, 2008

More Than Just Sex, Fable J. Hill ©

Les Facettes De La Petite Morte in English meants Beautiful Agony. And Beautiful Agony is the perfect phrase to describe what can be found by logging onto this site. When I first heard about this, I was intrigued. I have to admit, I'm not a huge fan of porn. It's so graphic and the pictures I come up with in my mind are much prettier than a lot of what is digitally captured and put out there. Somehow the images in porno movies or on web-sites never quite do it for me--I guess they just dont seem real. I much prefer erotica because a huge part of being sexual is what goes on in the mind and those subtle cues that happen in the body, which can be lost on camera when everything is so focused on the explicit exposure of genitalia.

The experience of Beautiful Agony is anything but 2-Dimensional. This is a web-site on which people share some of the most personal moments they will ever experience, and do so with complete vulnerability: They send in video footage of themselves getting off. The majority of people send in footage of reaching orgasm by themselves, but as with everything, there are exceptions to the rule. There is feed of people having sex, having a partner or friend use a vibrator on them, or even mutually masturbating in groups to the mantra of "We will keep our hands to ourselves." (I may have to borrow that line for a story somewhere down the road.) The results of this ametuer operation is incredibly erotic, and moved me in more ways than just turning me on.

First of all, there are no body shots, only faces. The web-site is careful to distinguish that they are not in the business of pornography. This is about people sharing a private, albeit sexy as hell, experience with the world. The absence of nudity is not the only thing that surprised me about, though. I'm not sure what this says about me as a person or society as a whole, but was somewhat caught of guard by the realization that men were also part of this project. I don't know why that should suprise me--men are just as sexual as women. Maybe it is just that I have always subscribed to the notion that women are highly sexualized in the media to hold men's interest, not the other way around. Then I can hear myself saying these words, and I wonder, who ever said that women have to by sexualized for men or vice versa? Why can't a woman be sexy for another woman, or for no one at all? And it seems like maybe I have forgotten all that gender-equality and orientation-equality stuff that I have been promoting so proudly. I realized by viewing Beautiful Agony that perhaps I am not as untouched by our cultural norms as I thought.

Lastly, I realized I am not as liberated as I thought. I can sit here and write all the sexy stories I want, or participate in all things naughty in the privacy of my home (or a few choice public places), but as I thought about this site, and how amazing it is that all of these people are willing to share themselves so openly with the world, I wondered how liberated can I truly be if I am unwilling to do the same? I mean, its one thing to just not be into exhibitionism, but I can definitely be a bit of a show-off. . .I have no problem with perfect strangers seeing me in the throes of pleaure and agony, but more of a problem with people who are not strangers stumbling across my video. Yet, I think that's part of what makes BeautifulAgony so exciting. How can someone judge you when they're there to witness someone else giving the same thing you're giving?

I love song-writers who bare their souls for their audience without fear or thought of how raw their words are, a la Ani Difranco. And I have a sneaking suspicion that the reason our culture is so enamoured with Reality TV is not because we like watching people make fools of themselves, but because we like watching people, period. For me, Beautiful Agony is like someone holding out the most intimate, gut-wrenchingly confidential journal entry they possess, and asking you to read it. I would be careful in watching these videos if you are not comfortable with the idea that you too, might be tempted to strip yourself bare and let everyone see.

Maybe it is needless to say after this glowing report, but I am now in the market for a new video camera and someone willing to participate in the act of me showing my agony to the world. . .

Questions? Comments? Concerns? Constructive or not-so-constructive criticism? Leave a comment. Don't be shy.

Fable J. Hill, 2008. © All rights reserved without written permission.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

The Fuck of His Life. Fable J. Hill. ©

Austin was horny. Daniela was just so smoking hot. He’d practically paced right through the carpet trying not to think of her, yet every time he heard her deep, throaty laugh float through his office walls, he wondered if there were any other deep, throaty sounds she was capable of making. He wondered if she was good at deep-throating, then chuckled at his own cleverness. For weeks they’d been exchanging flirty emails back and forth, making significant eye-contact across the table at board meetings, and lingering late in the office under the pretence of work so they’d be the last two in the building. She’d made it no secret that she wanted him, but the end decision was ultimately his, and there was a problem. It wasn’t inner-office politics or the fear of a sexual harassment suit. No, the problem was named Valerie, and she was his wife.

Until now he’d never thought of his wife as a problem. He’d loved her since college, and he loved her now. She was beautiful in the wholesome kind of way that you’d expect a woman who led ‘imagination workshops’ for preschoolers to be. She was a honey-blonde, blue-eyed beauty and anyone would agree that he was nuts to even be thinking about cheating on her. Not only was she perfect, but his life was perfect. He had two perfect twins, Codey and Audrey, who he’d got a kick out of raising and received regular emails and phone calls from since they went away to college. He loved his job in Advertising and was planning on taking a trip around the world with Valerie when he retired—a trip they’d been planning since before they got married. The mortgage was finally paid off, as were their two cars, and the only major setbacks he’d suffered in his life were the deaths of his parents, who had been good to him, and the death of his dog, who he was still mourning. He’d always thought of himself as the luckiest man in the world, and often said that there was nothing else he could possibly want. Enter: Daniela. She wore dramatic eye make-up and had long, luxurious black hair. Her skin was the colour of coffee with cream, and she wore higher heels than Austin had even known existed. She dressed like the free-spirit everybody knew she was. She wore hot-pink, baby-blue, bright orange. She had no specific style—she came to work dressed as a fitness instructor one day, a hippie the next, a salsa dancer the day after that. “Whatever suits the mood,” she’d said when some of her co-workers commented on this. She was kind, but not the way that Valerie was.

Valerie lived by the golden rule. Valerie was soft and sweet. Valerie cried at both funerals and awards shows; made conversation with the homeless and incoherent as well as the rich and fabulous. Valerie was a wonderful mother, a loyal friend, an affectionate wife. Her cooking was to die for, she got uncharacteristically competitive at board games, she loved her country and ran a voting booth every election.

Daniela was not like Valerie. Daniela was not a girl scout. Daniela was not concerned about making people feel comfortable, she was concerned about telling people the truth. This made her fairly unpopular among the women at work, but Austin suspected this was because they didn’t know how to react to her, or--more accurately--wanted to be her. Daniela had lived everywhere, done everything, met everyone. She would not be sitting around years before retirement planning a trip for the 25th year straight—if there was somewhere she wanted to go, she went. She spoke of alligator sightings in Australia, cooking lessons in Sicily, parasailing in the French West Indies, building houses in Guatemala. She was a perpetual student by her own admission (“aren’t we all?” she’d said). She was a thirty-something who’d been in school her whole life, taken classes or internships on just about every continent, and was doing this temp job at the advertising agency (filling in for chubby Moira, who was on maternity leave) only so that she could fund her next adventure--teaching white-water rafting at a survival skills camp for teens in Costa Rica. Daniela was a problem for Austin.

He’d never cheated before, and didn’t want to now, but there was something about her that made his chest ache. When she touched his arm during conversation he felt a surge run through his body. When his email inbox lit up with her name, he got so excited it was almost comical. He loved Valerie, but she hadn’t made him feel this way in a long time. She made him feel taken care of when she had his coffee ready to go every morning and hid little love notes in his wallet, knowing he’d find them sometime throughout the day. She ironed his clothes, cooked his favourite meal once a week, and taped his choice of crime show when he was working late. But it wasn’t only what she did for him. He felt safe when she circled her arms around his mid-section as they fell asleep at night. He loved the way she tucked her hand into his pocket when they went for evening walks, the way she softly blew cool breath on his face when he got razor burn, the way she said “love ya,” at the end of every phone call like an infatuated teenager. His feelings for her were still there, but though he hated to admit it, he realized that the word he would use to describe the way he felt about his wife was fond. He was fond of her. He enjoyed her. But she didn’t give him that crazy feeling he got when he was with Daniela. He didn’t want to devour her, didn’t have a desperate need to know everything about her, to search her for all her secrets, and then take her and make love to her until she was dizzy and breathless and hoarse. He and Val hadn’t had that kind of sex in a long time. The sex they had was pleasant, but he’d had the feeling lately that after the first ten minutes both were just in a hurry to finish up and go to sleep. In the beginning they’d had sex like mad. No place was too inappropriate, no time of day was off-limits, no position was out of the question. They had explored each other thoroughly, and it seemed like maybe there was nothing else to explore. Is this what happens to all marriages? Austin wondered. Still, he knew he couldn’t complain. Even if their marriage was slightly boring now, slightly routine, even if the over-the-top love he’d once felt for his wife had been replaced with fondness, he could do a lot worse. They were happy, and that was more than a lot of people could say after twenty-five years. He might have gone on this way forever if it hadn’t been for Daniela. She had stirred something in him that had lain dormant for a long time, and he had no idea what to do about it. I could quit my job. I could work from home until chubby Moira comes back and Daniela goes off to Costa Rica. Or I could forget about my perfect life and my perfect wife, bring Daniela in here after hours and make her scream until she loses her voice. This last thought made heat spread through his body and his cock stiffen between his legs. He tried to distract himself by thinking about Val, but her face kept being replaced by Daniela’s. He finally surrendered to the full on fantasy, pictured himself taking Daniela into his office and throwing her on the desk. The door would be left open in the heat of passion, and it wouldn’t matter because no one else would be around (as far as they knew). He would climb onto the desk on top of her and their bodies would be a blur of lips and hands roaming everywhere. Somehow they would end up on the floor, and they wouldn’t say a word, and he wouldn’t think about Val or any potential consequences to what they were doing. The sex would be frantic, animal, desperate, like they couldn’t touch each other enough or get deep enough inside each other. He was certain Daniela would be the fuck of his life, and that both excited and terrified him.

Stop it, stop it now, the logical, faithful side of him screamed, but the side of him that was controlled by sex seemed to be winning the battle for his thoughts. He needed a cold shower. He needed a cup of coffee. He needed to do something, anything, to get away from Daniela’s presence in the office. Her laugh carried like the sound of Big Ben through London. Her perfume which smelled like a combination of lemons and cinnamon intoxicated him whenever she walked by. She was in his inbox, and then he looked up and she was in his office.
“Daniela!” he stuttered as he noticed her standing in the doorway.
“Didn’t mean to startle you Austin. I emailed and said I’d be coming by, I just assumed you’d have read it by now.”
“Right. I was just getting to that email, actually. What is it you wanted to discuss?”
“The Jamieson account. I know you said I should stall him, but he’s been phoning like a madman for two days straight and he’s really starting to get on my nerves. I’m not sure how much longer I can put him off.”
“Just tell him I’ll call him back.”
“Tried that. He doesn’t believe me anymore. I’ve got him holding on line three, and he’s refusing to hang up until he can talk to you.”
“Tell him I went out.”
“I did. He said he’ll wait.”

Austin heaved a big sigh and rolled his eyes. Jamieson was such a drama queen. His demands were completely unreasonable, and because of that it was taking Austin forever to sew up the loose ends of his account. It had only been a week since they’d last spoken, and Jamieson was already harassing the administration staff from nine to five straight. He wrinkled his forehead in order to encourage sympathy.
“Daniela. Isn’t there anything you can do to put him off for awhile longer?”
“Absolutely not,” she said, running her fingers through her inky, lush hair. “But I can sit here and talk you through it if you want,” she said with a sly smile, followed by a wink. Before Austin could object, she plopped herself down in one of the navy armchairs opposite his big mahogany desk and raised an eyebrow. “Well? He’s waiting. Line three! Go!” She waved her manicured nails in the direction of the phone.

He shook his head and couldn’t help but chuckle. Any other receptionist would have done his dirty work, and while they would have complained about it behind his back, they would have never done so to his face. He would never have had to deal with chubby Moira bursting into his office and forcing him to contend with a client he didn’t want to contend with. But then that was why he didn’t have a shockingly inappropriate crush on chubby Moira, and why the sight of Daniela crossing and then uncrossing her long, bronze legs in front of him was about to drive him out of his mind. He picked up the phone and unenthusiastically said “Austin Philips,” as though his mere name carried some admission of guilt.
“Philips, you bastard. I’ve been trying to pin you down for weeks now--”
“I believe it’s been a week.”
“—and I keep getting told that you’re not in the office, or that you’re in a meeting. Do these people think I’m stupid? I know when I’m being avoided, Philips, and I don’t like being screwed with.”
“Uh-huh,” he nodded, rolling his eyes at Daniela. She stifled her sexy laugh.
“’Uh-huh’? What the hell’s that supposed to mean, ‘uh-huh’?”
“Just that you’ve made a lot of very specific requests, and I told you I would be in touch when progress was made. These things take time, and we have a lot of other accounts we are working on as well.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your other accounts. I care about my account. My campaign. My career. Do you understand that, Philips? You’re not the only one getting pressure here! Now I want to know what has been done for my account! If I don’t have a full report on my desk tomorrow morning, you and your agency are toast.” He hung up.

Austin wasn’t sure whether to laugh or curse. He knew that the men in the biggest offices on the top floor weren’t going to like this. He knew he’d take flak for not taking care of Jamieson immediately, but he hated to let someone bully him.
“Well?” pressed Daniela expectantly. “Was it that bad?”
“You could say that. He’s threatening to pull the account.”
“Good thing you talked to him, then,” she said. Her logic irritated him but he knew she was right. There was nothing to be gained from avoidance.
“Well, I’m going to be up all night now trying to put this report together so he can have it ‘on his desk first thing tomorrow morning.’” The last part was said with a surprisingly accurate mimic.
“Want some company?” Daniela asked breezily. So breezily, in fact, that Austin wondered whether she knew how seductive she was being. Maybe she didn’t want anything to happen between them after all, Austin thought hopefully.
“I couldn’t ask you to stay after hours like that. You have your own things to work on, and this isn’t your problem.”
“I believe it became my problem when Jamieson started verbally abusing me all week long. I want him off our backs just as much as you do.”
And I want you on your back, he thought, then winced. It sounded like a line out of a bad porno. What was the matter with him lately?
“Well? What do you say, Austin? Can I stick around and help get Jamieson out of our lives?”
“I don’t know, Daniela.” His undertone was unmistakeable. He could tell she caught his drift; this wasn’t just about her taking on more than her fair share of the work-load, but about them being alone together all night.
“Please.” This was the only word she had to say to sway him. As soon as the breathy word was out of her mouth, he pictured her saying it in the same office, in a different context. On her back, underneath him, writhing and gasping, ‘Please. Please.’
“I’d love the company,” he said before he knew the words were out of his mouth. He hoped she didn’t know what he was thinking, but one look into her eyes told him that she did know. And that she was thinking the same thing.
She cocked her head to the side and said “Great. I’ll order in. Come by my desk when you’re ready to start.”

He wished she had her own office, so he wouldn’t have to see her all day, every day, out there in the middle of the floor at that long, high desk; swirling around on that plush swivel chair, talking discreetly into the phone when she thought no one was paying attention; eating pistachios one-by-one, sucking off the salt, cracking the shell inside her mouth, then spitting out the shell and swallowing the rest. She was so sexy. Everything about her was sexy. Watching her was like watching . . . art. The thought was sappy and he was embarrassed. Pull yourself together, Philips, he commanded himself. This has gone on long enough. He had a right mind to march right out of his office, stop by Daniela’s desk, and let her know that he wouldn’t be needing her help tonight after all. Thanks anyway. But he knew he would do no such thing. Tonight was going to happen, whether he wanted it to or not. He would just have to control himself, and then the spell would be broken, and he would return home to his wife, still faithful and trustworthy.

At twenty past five, Austin decided that enough time had passed since the end of the day for him to go by Daniela’s desk without seeming overly eager. “Austin, hi!” She said when she noticed him standing beside her chair. She hung up the phone. “I was just ordering in. You ever had Vietnamese?”
“No, but whatever you want is fine.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” she answered with a twinkle in her dark, mysterious eyes.
“Should we get to work?” he asked. He was scared.
“Sure. I’ve got all the Jamieson files right here,” she said, tapping a stack of folders on her desk. “Why don’t you make some coffee and I’ll be by your office in five?”

He nodded, thinking that chubby Moira would have never suggested that a senior staff member make the coffee. Then again, she would have never suggested a lot of things, and coffee wasn’t the biggest suggestion on the table tonight. The real suggestion hung between them in the air, like a tight-rope suspended above a stage, begging to know if the performers were daring enough to walk it. Austin ambled over to the espresso machine, hoping that his walk didn’t betray his nerves, his uncertainty. When everything was set in the beverage department, he stopped by his office to let his wife know he wouldn’t be home tonight.
“Hello?” His wife’s cheerful voice caused a cramp in his conscience. Was he really thinking of doing this?
“Hi, Bev. How was work?” He hoped her day had been good. She didn’t deserve to have a both bad day and a cheating husband in the span of 24-hours.
“It was fantastic.”
“Yeah?” He was stalling.
“Daniel did the most adorable impression of a robot! We were all pretending to be our favourite animal, I was a deer of course, and Daniel’s doing these weird movements and I’m wondering ‘what is heck is this kid trying to be?’ A robot, can you believe it? I couldn’t wait to tell his mom at the end of the day, she thought it was hilarious.”
“Beverly. I love how much you love those kids,” he replied, suddenly drenched with emotion.
“I do. Makes me wish our little rug-rats were still home. Can you believe we managed to get them out of the house and into college in one piece?”
Austin’s laugh was strangled. “You did most of the work.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Bev?” Austin was not in the right frame of mind for a trip down marital memory lane.
“Oh, right. I guess there was a reason for your call.”
“I’m going to have to work late. All night, actually. I’ll probably just end up sleeping at the office.”
“All right,” she replied without a hint of suspicion. “I’ll grab my body pillow and a tub of popcorn and reacquaint myself with some chick flicks.”
“Have fun,” he said.
“I’d say it back, but I doubt you’ll be having much fun stuck in that office all night.”
“Probably not,” he lied. He hated himself at that moment. “Good night, Beverly.”
“Love ya,” she said, as she always did. Before he could say it back, the dial-tone was ringing in his hand. He had put the phone down and was sitting behind his desk with his head in his hands before he noticed Daniela standing in the doorway holding a tray with two espressos and a white paper bag which he presumed held Vietnamese.

“The wife?” she asked wryly.
He nodded.
“I’ve never been able to settle down, myself,” she said carelessly, as though she wasn’t trying to feel him out.
“Oh?” he replied lamely.
“I mean, I’ve had the opportunity, but I love the world too much. A lot out there to experience still, you know?”
“Well, you’re young.” He wanted to kick himself as soon as he said it. Was he or was he not trying to bed this woman?
“And you’re experienced.” She didn’t seem slighted by his remark about her youth. She seemed . . . amused. She set the take-out bag on his desk, and wonderful smells wafted towards him. “Fried coconut shrimp?” she offered, handing him one of the containers and a set of chopsticks.
“I can never figure out how to work these things. Didn’t they send forks?” He asked, tilting the bag towards him to get a better look.
“Oh, you can’t go the rest of your life not knowing how to use chopsticks, Austin.” She leaned forward over the desk, exposing a dangerous amount of tanned cleavage and broke apart the chopsticks he held impotently in his hand. “Here. Do it like this,” she said, demonstrating the proper technique. Austin imitated her movements, reached for a shrimp, and then promptly dropped it, the grease staining the oversized paper calendar he had taped to his desk. Daniela laughed, then touched his fingers with hers, adjusting his grip. “There,” she murmured. “Try it like that.”
He did, and it worked. He was amazed that after fifty plus years of living on this planet, he had now mastered the art of using chopsticks. “I bet you could teach me all sorts of things,” he said, aware that with any other woman that line would have come off as sleazy. Maybe it even sounded sleazy with this one.

“You shouldn’t be afraid of yourself, Austin,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t hold back.” It was like she knew all the thoughts that had been going through his head in the months since her arrival. He didn’t just want her, he wanted everything she represented. He wanted freedom, he wanted to learn, he wanted to grow and move and experiment, to get the hell out of this damned office and start living life. He felt longing so deep he knew he couldn’t suppress it anymore. He reached across the desk, and placing both hands on her neck, drew her up and forward. He kissed her deeply, like someone wandering in the desert who was finally getting that longed for sip of water. He lost himself in her, and in doing so, finally woke himself up.

They were clawing at each other like two untamed animals. He had her pushed up against the wall and panting for him. He kissed her mouth and she moaned hungrily as he slid her tongue through her lips and massaged the inside of her mouth. She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled his head closer because she couldn’t get enough. He kissed her neck, then ran his tongue along the outside of her ear which evoked another moan. She bit his shoulder, and he pushed her pants down around her knees and slid his fingers in through the side of her panties. Feeling the wet heat between her legs drove him wild, and before he knew what he was doing he was down on his knees, dragging her undies down with his teeth and nibbling the outside of her Brazilian-waxed pussy. He slid his tongue over the areas surrounding her clit until she begged, “Please,” and then he rubbed her clit with his tongue until he heard her scream. Satisfied that he’d got her off, he pulled her down towards the ground and kissed her face. She ran her tongue over his lips and tasted herself, a move which made his cock swell even more. He hadn’t thought it possible to be more aroused. He slid his body towards her, and angled himself, and then he entered her. She moaned loudly and threw her head back, tossing her hair from side to side. He drove himself into her again and again, harder and harder. She scratched her nails down his back and almost drew blood, but pain coupled with so much pleasure only made the sex feel even better. Grabbing her he spun her around, so she was on her knees with her back to him, and then he entered her from behind. She let out a scream, followed by moans of ecstasy that increased in volume whenever he hit that spot which drove her crazy. Her body tensed and the released, and he felt his do the same.
It was the fuck of his life.

Austin woke the morning after the mind-blowing sex and gazed in amazement at the stunning woman beside him. She really was smokin’ hot. The experience of Costa Rica had made her even more beautiful, if that was possible. She had colour in her cheeks, and the sun had taken her hair from honey to platinum blonde. She rolled over, as though she could sense she was being watched, and gave her husband a big smile. “Austin,” she said warmly. “Thank you so much for making us do this.” This was selling their house, cashing in their shares in the company, taking early retirement and finally embarking on that trip around the world.

©Fable J. Hill, 2008. All rights reserved unless written permission is granted.