Fit

She chalked the first one up to it being their first time. Memories of the kissing and the touching, echoes of the words “I love you” still fresh in her ears, the anticipation of knowing they would explore more that night - she was sure this was the cause for that instantaneous rush when he first slid inside of her. She felt his body against her, let her hands roam freely, and came again and again before he convulsed above her, crying out, muttering “Jesus Christ” as his body arched and twisted, trying to bury himself as deep inside of her as he could go. He lay there exhausted and in a daze, and she still shook as she stood, noticing the flush on her face in the mirror.


When it happened the next time, and the time after that, that slow build followed by the involuntary clenching of her muscles as he slowly entered her, his eyes locked on her face, smiling with her as she went over that edge, she knew it was more than a first time thing. He fit, as if his body was perfectly molded to hers on the inside, designed to touch every millimeter of nerve endings, and rest against her most sensitive spots. Again and again, she relished in that feeling each time they made love, and purposely took her time each time she sank down on him for the first time. The only thing better than savoring his body entering hers was watching his face as he reached his own climax, his cock buried inside of her, his hands on her hips as she slid against him, feeling him pulse as he cried out, abandoning herself to a final orgasm before she collapsed on top of him. Feeling him still inside of her, as the residual spasms subsided, she smiled into his shoulder. He fit.

* * * * *

In the dark before dawn, the images haunted her, and her hand moved feverishly to find that release. Craving that feel, that fit, that she could only get with him, her fingers worked through the wet folds and across her hardened clit, feeling it edge closer and closer, but not quite there. Frustrated, she sought more recent memories, ones she’d tried to fill that void with, and her orgasm inched closer, thinking of different hands and different mouths and different bodies. And then, at that critical moment, it was all him: his hardness buried inside of her, touching those nerve endings deep inside, fingertips digging into the soft skin of her hips, his eyes liquid blue, the curses falling in harsh whispers from his lips and filling the air between them, her release, timed with his, leaving her heart racing. Without realizing it, she cried out in the dark by herself as her fingers stroked and soothed her swollen lips, her other hand clutching the bed. Her ragged breathing turned into audible sobs, and tears wet the pillows.

* * * * *

The sun filtered in, rousing her from more images, and she could still feel the damp spots on her pillow. She lay in the silence listening and feeling. Her hand reached out into the empty spot, remembering how his warmth felt against the cool sheets. Her other hand rested against her chest, feeling the ache in her heart, as if missing a piece. She pressed her fingers into the soft flesh, until she met the resistance of her ribs, feeling her heart beat under them. She could almost feel the empty spot, a vacuum of emotion. Knowing that the only thing that would fill it – that would fit – was him.

Scared

Words, full of hints and promises and innuendo. She liked the words as much as anything; the mental energy they expended over drinks and shared glances while they discussed everything under the sun. The words had depth and fire and life and she felt her pulse race beneath her skin, regardless of the topic.


Then one night, after dinner and drinks and countless words, he kissed her. Turned her around, his arm around her waist, and kissed her, his facial hair tickling her lip. She kept her eyes lowered, catching her breath, but her mouth instinctively sucked his lower lip into hers, her tongue playing carefully with his. She almost forgot to exhale.

*****

The words still captivate her, but there is a point where the words taper off, and a glance and a smile tell her he wants more, and she finishes the drink and follows, his arm wrapped around her waist. This night, especially, she needed him, and he sensed it. His kisses were insistent, but his words gentle, murmuring against her neck, the vibrations giving her goosebumps and making her groin ache in that familiar way. He whispers “baby,” says her name over and over, tells her how beautiful she is and how good she feels. And when he pulls her on top of him, and slides inside of her, she stares down at his eyes, the gold flecks illuminated by the bedside lamp, watching him smile when her orgasm overtakes her. Again, and again, until spent, she collapses beside him, warm and covered in one fluid or another, and he whispers to her more while he strokes her hip.

*****

She’s not sure how many times they repeat the routine. She lays beside him again, the air cool against her damp thighs, but this time the words are serious. Knowing her heart is lighter, he opens up, whispering against her neck again. The bravado of a man whose days are measured dissolves, and he murmurs into her shoulder “I’m scared.” He feels warm and alive, but in the silence, she can hear the clock ticking, and she wraps her naked body around him tighter, her cheek against his face, her hand stroking his head. He holds her tight, hands skimming over her sides, and she can feel the moisture at the corner of his eye. Her heart breaks, for an instant, then heals over quickly before he sees. “Stay here with me tonight,” he whispers, which breaks her heart all over again.  Makes her want to say "I love you," even if the words might break her heart more than it already is.

She kisses him, smiles at him, but catches the clock out of the corner of her eye. Her time is measured too, though not in the same way, and she steels herself for the hard part of leaving, even if it is only temporarily. The goodbyes are long, and the words sweet, though it still hurts a little when the door closes behind her.

*****

She holds the tears back until she’s alone in the car. Not sure whether driven by her own fears, or his, she leans her head against the steering wheel, as a sob racks her body, and pleads to whoever might be listening in the dark before dawn, “Please.”

Breathe

The winds are harsh and spray is cold, and you are deafened
Between the crash of the waves and the silence between.
Waiting for that one ship in the night to realize
It needs you to lead it back to a rocky shore safely;
Like a weathered lighthouse, you stand,
Your beam sweeping across a dark and turbulent sea.

When all you want to do is get on your hands and knees,
And pray to an unspecified god that logic prevails,
Against fear and emotion and desperation,
And doesn’t get crushed beneath the weight of inertia;
Your head whispers “it will all work out” but the voice quakes
While your heart begs “please” into the suffocating silence.

You close your eyes and try to still your fears.
You whisper “here” into the darkness
Hoping he hears above the storm
And finds his way home to you;
Wanting to help him steer
When all you can do is breathe.

Tomorrow

She could still see his face when he asked, struggling with the internal debate.

“Do you ever ask yourself how it ends?”

It didn’t matter that she had; the question still felt like a punch in the stomach, even after having time to digest it. It was a logical question, and she was a logical girl. He was only voicing what she knew was an inevitable question.

Here in the dark, with just her own head replaying the conversation, she felt that tightness in her chest. It was too late to be ambivalent, and for as much as she told him “you just need to tell me when it’s time to stop,” she secretly hoped that day would always be some other day. Remembering his face, she was pretty certain he wanted that to be some other day too.

There was a point when “stop” wouldn’t have hurt. Right now, she couldn’t remember when that point was anymore. She only knew that she wanted one more tomorrow. And the price she’d pay for one more tomorrow would be a little more hurt, eventually.

So she lay back on the pillow, closed her eyes, opened her heart a little wider, and admitted to herself that she cared enough to deal with the pain. Even though it could hurt more tomorrow that it could hurt today.

She felt the tear slide down her cheek; heard it hit the pillow. “Tomorrow,” she thought.

Satin and Patent

It was our compromise to be together. He sat half naked in bed, wearing only a t-shirt, flipping pages of the report, making notes. I grew restless of my presentation and set it aside; I needed to get my things ready for an early morning departure. I tried not to think to hard about it; his scent still lingered in the room, in the sheets, on my skin. Tomorrow it would be gone, except in my memory. I kissed his cheek as he read, then hopped off the bed.

The room had a chill; I slipped the little pink satin chemise over my head. He glanced up for a moment and smiled, then looked back down at the papers in his lap. I tidied up the room, packed up a few things, laid out others for the morning. I gathered laundry in a bag; realizing we wouldn’t be going out again, I decided to throw the pink panties I was wearing into the bag as well.

I pulled out my shoes, to set beside my clothes for tomorrow; the darling little brown patent leather sling-back, peep toe pumps. I slipped them on again - I never tired of how delicate they made my feet look or how great the angle of the heels made my legs look.

“Want to see my new shoes?” I asked, bending over to pick up some more of our scattered clothes.

“Come here.” It was a command. Soft and gentle, but firm, like all of his. I walked to the end of the bed. “Are you wearing panties?” he asked. I shook my head from side to side.  A grin flickered across his lips, then disappeared. “Come here and show me your shoes.”

I walked all the way around to his side of the bed where he could see. “Those are so sexy, baby.” His voice lowered, a huskiness to it. “Come here. Turn around."

I walked over, and stood beside him. I turned slowly, my back to him. He lifted the edge of the chemise, running his hand over my ass. “Turn around,” he said quietly, pulling my hips. I turned to face him. “Show me the shoes,” he commanded, not letting go of me, slipping one finger between my legs. I stood on one foot, and pulled my other foot up to my side, trying to keep my legs from trembling while he teased my wetness.

He let go of me long enough to push aside the papers in a neat stack. Then he reached for me again, his hands sliding under the hem of the chemise, caressing my ass. “Come here,” he said, pulling me toward the bed. I reached down to slip off the shoes, but he stopped me. “No. Leave them on.”

I crawled on the bed, straddling him. Placing a knee on either side of him, my shoes turned carefully outward so as not to scrape him with the heels. He raised the hem of my chemise, looking up into my eyes, then held my hips, settling me over top of him. I felt him slip easily inside of me. He paused, savoring the connection again, one that never seemed to lose its intensity. “What do you call this,” he asked, stroking the pink satin covering my breasts, making my nipples rise under his fingers.

“A chemise,” I breathed.

“You look beautiful in this chemise,” he murmured.

He reached down to stroke my legs, touch my shoes. I leaned down to kiss him, and he let the edges of the chemise drop, draping our hips where they joined. He pulled at the neck, sliding it over my shoulders, letting it drop around my waist, exposing my breasts to his view. The satin puddled across my hips, covering him as well, resting lightly on my heels at his side. He grabbed my feet again, holding my heels as he stroked.

The movement came natural again, like it had the first time, and every time. And the reaction came naturally too, like it had the first time, and every time. And when it was over, I lay exhausted on his chest, breathing hard, sweating, everything hot to the touch. Except for a cool pool of satin, and brown patent leather.

Three

You sat back in the shadows, where I could barely see you. A candle burned on the nightstand; moonlight was the only other light in the room. But I could hear you breathe, groan, shift in your place. I knew you had to be stroking yourself, but couldn’t quite see it. I could only see him, over me, sheen of sweat in the candlelight, stroking, his face intense. I could see him glance over at you now and then, sometimes a hesitation in his glance.

He moved his hands to cup my breasts, squeezing the nipples; I heard your sharp intake of breath and felt myself clench around him. He looked in your direction, then leaned down to take the nipple in his mouth, sucking fiercely, and I arched up, ready to explode. His stroke and his mouth took me over that edge in seconds, and I reached up to hold the headboard with one hand, and raked my nails down his back with the other.

He pulled back, his cock slick and shiny in the moonlight, motioning me to turn over. I turned in your direction, seeing your face bathed in moonlight, catching your eye and the smile at the corner of your mouth as I took my position on my hands and knees. He rested a hand on my ass while he positioned himself; I locked eyes with you as he slid inside. Although your body was still in shadow, I could see your neck and shoulders flex as your hand gripped your cock, stroking downward. You closed your eyes for a minute, tipping your head back, your hair falling away from your face. I watched your jaw clench, and then saw you rise from the chair and step toward the bed.

I felt him pause as you approached, your cock smooth and hard, right there in front of my face, close enough to feel the heat radiating from the shaft and the swollen head. You reached out to touch my cheek, brushing my hair back behind my ear, tracing your hand down my jaw, and tipping my face up to you. You looked into my eyes, but your request was to him.

“Please,” you pleaded quietly. Your finger traced my mouth, and I opened it, involuntarily, catching the tip of your finger and sucking it. “Please. I need her.”

I held my breath, waiting, and my muscles clenched around him involuntarily when I heard him his “yes” between clenched teeth. He pounded his cock harder into me, as if needing to prove possession. You looked down at me, smiling, letting your cock graze my cheek. Then you dropped to your knees in front of me, your face only inches away from mine. You pulled my head close, making our foreheads touch, running your hand up and catching the back of my hair, pulling me close for a deep kiss. You broke away, holding my head in both hands, pulling my hair around our face like a curtain. You kissed a trail to my ear, whispering the whole way.

“Tell me how much you want me . . . tell me how much you want to taste my cock . . . tell me you want to suck on my cock . . .” Your breath tickled my ear and I whispered a frantic “yes” to each of your questions. You held my face tight against yours, whispering into my hair, your fingers tense. “Tell me you want me. Tell me . . . tell me you love me.” My heart clenched at the same time my pussy did, and I held my face against yours, whispering in your ear, “I love you. I love you . . .” You muffled the last words as you crushed my mouth with a kiss, whispering “I love you too” into my mouth, the words only we could hear.

Then you stood, still holding my face, guiding your cock into my mouth. My eyes locked on yours as you slid further inside my mouth, letting his thrusting motions push my mouth farther and farther down your engorged shaft. I heard him groan, and felt him pull out, hot thick cum spattering my back and my ass. Watched you gaze flicker over to him stroking his cock behind me, but only for a second before returning to my face. Then you watched me, my lips wrapped around you, and nodded your head. I could feel your cock expand in my mouth right before you came, and watched your jaw clench. You hissed through your teeth as you came; “I love this . . . you . . . “ and I could taste that salty, sweet fluid at the back of my throat, feel your fingers run through my hair, watch your eyes close. You pulled out of my mouth and knelt again, kissing me, running your tongue inside my mouth as if to taste every last bit of yourself. I let myself lay on the bed, my head next to yours, fingers playing with your hair. Perfectly content.

Tattoo

They were still laughing about it as she slipped the key in her room. Everyone else was still off doing their own thing and wouldn’t be expecting them to show up for another few hours. Somewhere during lunch over gourmet burgers, between the first beer and the third, they had agreed that a fake tattoo was a good idea. Given that several in the crew had real ones, maybe no one would be as surprised as the two of them imagined they would be, two beers into the discussion. But they’d managed to find a place that did pretty nice faux artwork after lunch, and she’d promised him honors of getting the first photo before the nights festivities and the good chance that it might wear off quickly.

He excused himself to use the bathroom, and she tucked a few of the other packages she’d grabbed along the way. A few beers had a nice way of numbing men’s intolerance for shopping, and she’d grabbed a couple souvenirs and gifts on the way back from lunch with little protest. She was tucking the last item in her suitcase when he came out of the bathroom, and she giggled when she looked up.

“I know it’s stupid but I totally have this ‘naughty schoolteacher’ feeling now . . . my 7th graders would die if they knew I had something like this!”

“No worries,” he said. “It will wear off in a couple days and you’ll be back to Miss Prim and Proper . . . they won’t even know the difference. Of course, I still haven’t seen evidence of just how ‘naughty schoolteacher’ you got . . . and I think you still owe me the exclusive photo op, don’t you?”

She felt herself flush, a little, hesitating. The room felt incrementally smaller, even though he was still standing in the same place. “Of course . . . has to be someone I trust. You have the camera?”

He held it up for her to see. “You still didn’t tell me where it is or what you got. Butterfly on your shoulder? ‘I heart Mom’ on your arm? Aces on your butt cheek?” He stood, smirking, waiting for her.

She laughed. “Aces on my butt cheek . . . nice. I’m sure there is a pun in there somewhere about aces getting cracked . . . but beer and burgers are making me fuzzy and I don’t have it ready for you.” She laughed again, and he laughed with her. “No silly . . . I got . . . well . . . I got a tramp stamp.”

His eyebrow arched, and maybe his smile faltered for just a second, but then he grinned. “What’s it say?”

For something silly and temporary, she’d actually debated quite a bit. Thought about getting the name of some hair metal band, to be funny. Or something equally stupid, like “Princess” or “Juicy” stamped low on her back. In the end, she’d opted for something aesthetically pleasing, with classical scrolls and loops that tapered downward in a delicate triangle. Even with a pair of low slung jeans, only a hint was visible, and was covered by her long fitted shirt.

“You have to come see . . . but over here, by the window. Lighting is better for pictures.” He walked around the other side of the bed, to the sitting area by the window. She stood next to one of the chairs, fidgeting a bit. “You ready?”

He nodded, and she turned around, lifting her shirt up in back, exposing her waist and lower back. “I only see a couple bits . . . your jeans cover most of it.” She looked back, and sure enough, it wasn’t possible to see much of the design at all. She bent over slightly, feeling a little silly, and he said “That’s a little better . . . but you’re not going to get much in the picture, you know.”

“What do you suggest, Mr. Photographer genius?” she asked, straightening back up.

“Unbutton your jeans,” he responded, very matter-of-factly. Stared her straight in the eye, waiting to see if she’d flinch. She raised an eyebrow, and felt compelled to swallow. “Unbutton your jeans, so there is a little more flexibility, then lean over the chair with your back arched. That should let them slide enough to show the whole thing off.”

Her fingers went instinctively to the button on her jeans and paused; her mind went, unbidden, to another brief series of thoughts that had nothing to do with the current situation or any known reality, except that he was standing only a couple steps from her. She glanced at him again, and saw him swallow now, almost as if he’d read her mind for that nanosecond.

She undid the button, and turned around, leaning down and resting on the chair. She reached back to settle her jeans a little lower on her hips, nearly down to the lacy line of the low rise panties she wore. “Better?” she asked, looking back at him. He was staring, his breathing shallow, one hand holding the camera casually. He reached out with his right hand, and she felt his fingers trace the pattern, burning their own pattern in her skin. “Nice,” he whispered. She felt the gooseflesh start to rise.

His fingers hooked her waistband, tugging another half inch, and her skin kept the memory a few seconds longer. He positioned the camera and snapped a few shots; he’d look at the camera now and then, make a quick adjustment, and shoot again. “There,” he said, his voice softer.

She stood up, buttoning the jeans again, a leftover warmth on her skin where his fingers had brushed lightly. She exhaled, realizing she’d been holding her breath the whole time, which made her a little light-headed. When she turned around, he glanced up from the camera screen to her face, and she noticed a little color had crept into his face. “Very nice,” he chuckled. “Want to see?”

She moved close to him, leaning over his shoulder to view the small LCD screen. This close, she could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, smell the hotel soap he’d used to shower with, mixed with the warm, yeasty smell of beer from lunch. She took a deep breath, smelling more, and reached over with one hand to tilt the camera so she could see better. She touched his fingers in the process; he didn’t move them.

He flipped through the shots, pausing to show her, and she realized he had a good eye for lighting and framing, capturing the curve of the small of her back, the intricacies of the temporary design. One particularly good shot seemed just perfect, and she exclaimed “That’s nice!” as she turned to face him. He turned at the exact same moment, his face close enough to hers that she could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, their breaths swirling together in the small space. Until she stopped breathing, waiting. Feeling the electricity crackle, the small hairs on her neck at full attention.

He closed gap, brushing his lips against hers, testing, and her mouth responded without hesitation, brushing back, opening slightly, his top lip fitted between her own. A small noise startled her, until she realized it came from her own throat; his response was muffled as he fit his mouth tightly against hers, his arm coming up to pull her body against him. She let herself meld to his chest, let his tongue explore her mouth.

The knock on the door and the muffled “housekeeping” made them both jump and pull away. His lips were flushed against his pale skin and she had a hard time pulling her eyes away from his face. She turned and went to the door, cracking it slightly to send the hotel staff away. Certain they could hear her heart beating. She closed the door, leaning against it, watching him across the room. Waiting for the next step.