Two tall crimson candles glow from the table when I come in, an
unexpected touch after I presumed I'd come for a business meeting, and you,
with an evening dress so soft and revealing, I blush just looking at you, at
the swell of your pointed breasts, and the crease where the top of your
stockings meet. Only then am I aware of the soft music, some familiar tune of
my youth consigned to violins and cellos, leaving me and my hormones swaying on
your door step.
"Is your husband home?" I ask, only
then beginning to suspect the ruse. Business meeting? In your apartment? I
should have guessed something by the tone of your voice on the phone, far from
the professional courtesy I'd received in the past from his secretary. You
never called me to set an appointment before, though I have thought of you far
too often for my own good.
You don't answer me, except with a devious
little smile, your soft lips painted pink as you walk away from me.
"Make yourself comfortable," you
say, "while I get dinner ready."
You pause at the table, looking over the
assemblage of plates and silverware, things far too good for the business I'd
come for, shimmering in the dim light as you strike a match and light the first
of the two candles -- your thin fingers easing down the taper wax to rounded
holder, lingering over this, your sharp nails highlighted against their curved
surface. Then, slowly, you repeat the ceremony for the next candle, eyeing me
through the whole thing, smiling at me as if to ask: "Are you getting my
message?"
I can say nothing, finding it difficult to
think and even more difficult to swallow. You are another man's wife and I have
no business having the kind of thoughts just then running through my head, even
if your husband was a total stranger, rather than an important business
associate. Sweat dribbles down my cheek to the edge of my mouth, its salt so
sharp it stabs my tongue when I lick at it, and you, staring at my mouth,
seemed to receive a message from me, and your smile broadens.
"I'll only be a minute," you say and
then vanish into the kitchen to leave me in my growing discomfort, my hands
trying to readjust the swell that has suddenly grown on the inside of my pants,
telling me that I should leave before things get too far out of hand.
This is not the first time I've felt this way
or had my cock react to you. I've felt your haunting presence from the first
time I met you, something in your smell stirring me into a kind of insanity.
I've always found it impossible to think straight around you, my stare always
wandering to the wrong places, to the sudden hardening of your tit through your
dress, or the swell of your breast showing from your slightly open blouse.
You've haunted every business meeting, stirring around in the background, your
voice sending stabbing pains into my crotch.
If your husband ever noticed, he showed no
sign, even when I stared rudely at you, drinking you in -- believing at those
moments that you didn't notice me. It was a shameful bit of voyeurism on my
part, allowing me the luxury of fucking you in my mind. Each visit would leave
me making excuses as to why I needed to use your bathroom so much to wipe the
stickiness from the tip of my cock, toilet paper clinging to the escaped cum
like a mark of guilt.
She's married, I told myself again and again,
feeling guilty for each instance. Happily married to a man I respect. And I'm
married, too, happily and with a good sex life, and yet, my wife never created
the kind of electricity inside me as you create, sparks flying from the tip of
my penis to the tip of my nose every time I breathe the same air as you.
This is the reason I've always kept my
distance with you, refusing even the accidental moment when we should find
ourselves alone in the same room. If you husband rose to go to the den, I went
with him. If he went to the restroom, I found an excuse to go get something
from my car.
Even in my mind, I've fought desire of you,
afraid that if I let my mind's fingers reach for your silky breasts that my
real fingers would suddenly feel the unquenchable desire to repeat the act,
aching to touch and caress your rose-colored nipple. But my mind is hardly as
strong as all that. While I could control it during the day, clamping down on
every random thought, at night, in my dreams, I ravished you. This is
particularly true for the few days after one of those dinners, when you and the
vision of you stayed freshest in my mind.
Not only did I not avoid being alone with you
in my dreams, I sought your company, and when your husband vanished from my
dream, I came to you, seating myself beside you on the same couch and pressed
my mouth against yours, easing my tongue out between our lips to taste you, to
lead your tongue to meet mine. The whole time, my dream fingers worked at the
buttons of your dress, popping each open one aggravating button at a time,
until I could slip my hand underneath, your softness overwhelming me for a
moment, making me catch my breath.
For in my dreams, you felt as soft as any
silk, your skin so creamy I could lap at it like a cat, drowning myself in you
-- the perfect suicide. Inch by inch my hungry fingers would seek out your
breasts, finding to my surprise -- and absolute delight -- that you wore no bra
and that what I confronted was your flesh itself, your breasts as soft yet firm
as my imagination could make them, and your nipple as hard as my cock, my
forefinger moving around the base, feeling the place where the softness and
hardness came together, my finger circling up until touching the very tip,
finding that tip slightly moist.
In some dreams, I never got this far, or
directed my attention to less obvious places of desire. Sometimes, I didn't
need to undress you at all, finding that your hand was enough, with my fingers
working along yours, playfully dancing over the back of your hand, then around
the wrist, touching the palm of your hand as if it was an object of sex,
feeling you stiffen all the way up to your shoulder, giving off a little shiver
of delight, each touch bringing as much pain to me as delight. But each dream
ended the same way with your husband charging in, demanding to know what I was
doing to his wife. and I'd wake to find my cock dripping thick white globs of
cum, cum I would hastily wipe up with the edge of the sheet to keep my wife
from noticing.
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