Your phone rings while we're still in my foyer, its shrill complaint catching your mouth already on my neck and your strong hand at the small of my back. A sigh catches in my throat as the insistent electronic tones fill the space around us, where just a few seconds before there were only my breathy moans and your guttural growl. It has been a week since you were inside me, and that is seven days too long. The darker part of me wants to scream this at the phone, but I settle for pressing my body onto yours, a challenge of sorts.
"Fuck," you groan into my collarbone, and I can feel you stiffen against me. The phone gets louder.
"Don't answer it," I all but whine, sliding my hand over the hard bulge in your khakis. I look into your impossibly dark eyes, teasing you, daring you. In an instant, your hand is in my thick, red ponytail, threading your large fingers through it and snapping my head back. I shiver and try to hide my satisfied smile.
"Look who thinks she's giving orders," you grin, but the flash in your eyes is more menacing than amused. You pull my hair harder; your cock strains harder against me. Between my legs, the familiar warmth begins to spread and as if on cue, you pinch the inside of my thigh. My knees buckle at your punishing touch.
Before I am able to properly respond, you cross to the table and pick up the phone. I look at the wall and listen to your voice, a different pitch and cadence than I am used to, a phenomenon that has become no less fascinating to me over the many months we've been together. You speak this sweetly to me sometimes, of course, but only afterwards and in the dark, when we can't see each other's faces. It's easier that way.
"Yeah, I know," you cajole the voice on the other end. "I'm really sorry. Office hours are running late tonight." At this, your gaze meets mine, your eyebrows waggling comically at our private joke. I have been your office hours for the last three semesters. "Huh? Sure, which kind? Yeah, I'll do that."
You and I only communicate outside of my apartment through texts and emails. This has nothing to do with the banality of a garden-variety, illicit affair, but rather that we both tend to fetishize the written word. Your stern and sexy directives, my descriptions of how my body responds when I execute them—in our sillier moments, we refer to ourselves as the Henry Miller and Anais Nin of the digital age.
Earlier tonight was no exception.
You: No matter how hard I tried to focus all I could think about during my afternoon classes was your delicious taste and smell lingering in my beard. Thank god for tenure. Make yourself ready for me. Now.
Me: Your students' parents deserve a refund. Pervert. I'm at the gym. Still need to shower. Give me a half hour?
You: Fifteen minutes. And don't you dare shower. I'll make you clean.
The last line had sent a psychic bolt of energy through my spine, nearly causing me to lose balance on the elliptical. In the beginning, I used to wince at this sensation, disturbed by how your words displayed on a small screen could invade me physically. Even at the gym tonight, I am painfully aware of how my nipples harden underneath my sports bra, my stomach fluttering at the idea of you wanting me like this, at my most primal, with no adornments and soaked in sweat. There is something so inappropriate and animalistic about it, particularly for two people who live such cerebral lives, that it never fails to flip a switch inside me.
But now, in my apartment, I'm growing cold and impatient. Her voice, differently accented and higher pitched than my own, shows no signs of slowing. I think about walking over and kneeling in front of you while you discuss household minutiae, peeling my tank top and bra off and shoving your cock between my large, pale breasts as you stammer about a barbecue this weekend. I would never dare do this, of course. But the impudent idea leads me to form a less offensive one, and I head towards the bathroom, stripping off my workout gear as I go, like a trail of breadcrumbs designed to make you hungrier.
I run my hand underneath the stream of the shower, listening to the water pelt the tiles and drowning out what I hope is the last few seconds of your conversation. I leave the door open, so that there is plenty of audible proof that I am about to directly defy your order. I stand, small and naked, in front of the full-length mirror. My pale skin is still flushed in places from the gym, and on my neck are raw, red marks from where your beard scratched me. I shake my long, wavy hair out of its ponytail and square my shoulders, trying to see myself as you might see me, as Henry Miller might have seen Anais Nin. In the mirror, a petite redhead with big, pillowy breasts and a small waist spins around to reveal a gently round curve of ass. Her bright green eyes widen and mug for the mirror a bit wickedly, perhaps a little too pleased with herself.
