New Orleans

Night never falls quickly enough on New Orleans. Interesting by day, certainly, but darkness brings the true city to life. The barkers and harkers, bodegos and cafes. The places seeking merely to move money -- from your pocket to theirs. And oh the promises.

This night will bring something else to the city of cadence and creole. She feels, rather than hears, the calls for attention ringing and melting together in her ears as she stands looking out her window. It's a tingling sort of feeling that comes first from the rumble of traffic and next from the memory of last night's arrival.

Her flight had touched down a day in advance of his. Really only nineteen hours. She had counted. Knows the minutes still. Had he even failed to mention it, she would be at the airport to meet him now, but he had specifically told her to wait. Standing at the window for six hours wasn't exactly his instructions, but it was her only option.

If he knew that she would be so keyed up like this, would he have asked any different of her? She wonders -- and distinctly doubts. Questions come and go in her mind, but they all circle back to the same one: will night never come? Will the sun never leave her alone? Tantalizing, toying with her wants and hopes. Smiling and winking at her, making her want and need the blackness to come before discovery. She feels so bald and bare in the sun, so exposed.

Her arms cross all by themselves as she wonders how she will ever get back to her innocence after this night. Is it already too late? Has she gone too far yet? She might ignore the door. Feign deaf to his knock. She might peer through the crack, gaze into his deep blue eyes and tell him she can't do it after all. Stare, even as her body falters and threatens to shake apart. Will he reach through the slit and strip her clothing like the sun or will night give her the bit of cover she needs to be able to tell him no?

Will he push his way past her defenses anyway? A shove against the wood to make her give way, then a grab at her wrists as he presses her back to the wall? Does she really know him at all? A chance internet connection that surged through her wiring and left her in such a state that she stands at a window waiting for six hours. Leaving only to nervously pace or to pick at something or other. Will night never fall in New Orleans?

Though her plane landed near midnight -- was it only last night -- she couldn't shut herself into the room and stay. Instead, she walked the crowded pavements. The one way streets closed to all but pedestrians and brave bicyclists. Or unicyclists.

People jostling one another. Wandering in and out of open doored shops, peering at skeleton themed juju and mojo makers. Or gator heads. She cared nothing for any of them. Ended up at Cafe du Monde about two a.m. picking apart a beignette and sipping at a chicory hinted coffee, afraid to go to her hotel and wait. Afraid she would spend the time staring out the window.

Weary at the dawn, she made her way to the room, but napped so little that she now fears swaying and fainting from excitement over his arrival. Unable to sit. Unable to walk along the river or take tea on the balcony or sit in the park and let sun tingle across her nape. Unable to bear more than waiting and watching. A base excitement that infuses her and sets her apart from the more than friendly people. The more than helpful staff and passersby. Everyone so willing to help make sure she has a good time, yet none are him. So she eschews them all and waits at the window.

The city stretches out before her. The vista beckons. On the one side, the lights just beginning to twinkle. Hardly seen against the waning light of day. On the other side, the river with the wash of steam powered craft. Even the perfect view lacks in her mind. She is unable to see the airport. To watch the planes land and know that one of them is his. She has to content herself with pacing the room and hoping that one of the passing jets leaving tendrils of wisp in the sky will be the one she waits for.

It is only four in the afternoon and she has paced, walked and picked her way through a mere six hours. She tried earlier to meet him online, to chat, but he either refused to get on, was busy or may even have been toying with her. She left him a message, but he gave back a perfunctory text: "I will be on time." Presumably he had allowed for extra time from the airport to the hotel, but it meant that she had five more nerve wracking hours to go. If she could only go downstairs and into the market area, it would pass time. Maybe even sit at the cafe again and watch people walk by. She can't bring herself to do more than pace the room, however, and think.

It began as just a simple internet connection. A little fun, some flirting, very innocent, until one day she woke up and realized she talked more to him than to her husband. Worse, in her mind, was that he talked back. They shared. Laughter, commiseration, news, lives. And he listened. He knew more about her thoughts and needs than her own family did.

There was more than just simply flirting. Much more. He knew her secret desires. Her inner needs. He started talking one day about why he was just dating. Why there was no one woman for him. How he had a "fetish" he called it. A penchant for creating suffering and fear in women. When he said this to her, she felt a thrill of excitement. She remembers now casually asking him questions about his activities, suppressing her thrill and hoping he didn't recognize it in her written voice, how he was somewhat reluctant to tell her at first, but as she showed more interest, he opened up and she found a world of depravity waiting for her to fall into.

Those first conversations were so innocent, looking back on them, now. She must have seemed the picture of naivete. A virtual unborn. Even now, she wavered between excitement and disgust at how he roped her in so easily. She thought now how simple it was for him to open this door for her and give her just a bit at a time. Enough to keep her wanting more and not enough to turn her away.

To be fair, he warned her repeatedly; early and often. From the beginning. Told her exactly how he would do just this to her, bring her before him with such trepidation, such uncertainty, hoping and craving. How he would take her then, take all of her hunger and lust and fear. How he would feast upon this, leaving her little or nothing of her own self.

She stops her pacing and picks at a vase on the coffee table. Her arms cross and uncross all on their own. Her stomach flops freely. All his warnings only served to heighten her interest and her want, eventually her need. Now she was in so deep she couldn't walk out if she wanted to, though she will toy with herself about not letting him in or maybe telling him no when he shows up. She can no more deny him now than to fly back to Florida and tell her husband it was all a lie about the conference. That she set it all up for these few days with this internet stranger with all his talk about binding her and tormenting her.

Weeks after that first talk, she saw the advertisement for this conference come over the fax machine. She talked her boss into giving her the time and her husband into believing that her boss wanted her there. She talked one person after another into believing her web of half truths and into letting her go. That any one of them could have brought the whole facade crashing down at any time was always there, beneath everything. And so was he.

She nearly canceled every day since she sent in her registration and bought the plane ticket for New Orleans where he bought the hotel and told her he would meet her. Everyday since, she wanted to call it off and wanted it to hurry, both and at once, but here she was, arms crossed and staring out the window. Four more hours until she could no longer turn back.

She remembers being so wet the first time he told her about tying her hands and how excited he'll get seeing her bound before him, she had to lock the bathroom at work and play with herself until she came in a sudden burst that completely took her by surprise. Since then, she's been a bit more ready for her reactions, but he still often shocks her -- not at his words or imaginings, but at the way he makes her feel.

Her arms uncross and she picks at the water glass on the counter as she thinks of the first time he'd sent her a story. A tale of two lovers, never touched yet truly deep in sharing and wanting. They meet and he presses her to the wall just inside the door. Before she can catch her breath or realize what is happening, he's compressing her world into this small area.

He wrote how he will take her wrists and force her to the wall, kiss her as he will and when she turns from him for air, he will push harder until she gasps and writhes. Then he will let her go. She'll nearly fall to the floor in her release. She'll remain there, standing and panting until he has turned and dug into his bag and moved back to her. This time he will take her wrists and force her face to the wall, tying her hands together behind her. When he pulls her head around to kiss her lips this time, her eyes will be wide in excitement -- both nervous and aroused.

Her arms cross again and she walks to the window and presses her palms against the pane of glass. Leaning forward, she touches her forehead to the cool surface and wonders again how she got here. How she can risk so much to see this person she knows so little of and has yet to touch or truly believe is real. She knows all about how unreal the internet might be and the near people there. She knows well how few of them can ever give what they promise. Much like life in microcosm. How many promises people make everyday without ability to fulfill them, yet here she is, led into a situation where some unknown, unseen wordsmith comes to fail to live up to expectations.

She nearly left the room then. Uncrossed her arms, got her purse and had her hand on the doorknob until she realized there was nowhere to go that will fill her. He'd created this hole in her psyche that she is unable to salve. She's tried since that first time. Suggested to her husband that he tie her hands. He did, but so gently that she nearly laughed at him. At least he tried, but she knew as soon as he took her hands that it wasn't him. Couldn't be him.

She walks back to the window. Looks out over the river. Boats were streaming by. Ships, probably - what did she know of such things. They were all going somewhere. Leaving her here in a room waiting for someone who may or may not even come. If he does show up, will he be the one he told her he was?

Her arms uncross and cross again all by themselves and she sees with a stab of anguish that there are still two more hours before he had told her to expect him. She sees Bourbon Street off to the left, just beginning to come alive and she wonders what it would be like to wander there carefree. Maybe even in defiance of his instructions, perhaps get back to the room just after he'd entered an empty suite. See how he takes it. Whether the disappointment will show on his face before the glee of seeing her takes hold.

At the same time she thinks this, she also fears what he will do in retaliation; to teach her about disobedience. He has told her before how he will instruct her and she believes that he truly will - has already begun. It is both a fear and a hope. Just as he long ago told her it will be.

The square below was coming alive in the half light. People were moving or standing in motion. Her arms cross as she watches their hands waver and their feet shuffle. There was a sway to their movements. A hypnotic transient dance of bodies. She imagines how it would look in full dark if she could look down from here and see them. Envision them all in a ballet of tide like swells with ebbs and squalls. She yearns to be among them. Suddenly sees herself being taken by him in the midst of the crowd. Like a private Mardi Gras.

She feels herself sway and lift, keeping time with the hands of a barker. Her sex grasping and releasing as the hands raise and spread, lower and flip inward. She finds herself swaying to the silent beat, drenching her panties when she jerks awake from her trance. She feels the fatigue wash over her with the last of the daydream and stumbles her way to the couch where the cool upholstery welcomes her.

Her dreams are dark and wanton. Filled with lust and the devilish wishes of his pleasures. He has told her "I will take my pleasures" and she finds herself dreaming of him as he forces her to give him her body. First she offers her hands, he refuses with a shake of the head. Then her legs, again a refusal. She tries to give him her entire body piece by piece, but each part he denies her. Shaking his head sadly side to side. She begins to plead with him, begging him to take her children, her dog. She sees herself in tears, giving him her house and car when a soft rap intrudes.

She bursts out of the dream, shaken, but desperate to see him, to let him in and to melt into him. All thought of telling him "no" flies as she runs to the door. She turns the bolt after pulling on the handle, then pulls and pushes it back before taking off the chain. Her fingers fumbling and trembling, she just manages to open the door, to see his eyes.

He's real and before her and her breath is already gone when he pushes his way inside, tosses his bag down and presses her back to the wall. His fingers twine with hers, his body hard and overwhelming. She's gasping even as his lips find hers in gentle play. They're nibbling tenderly at hers, twisting them sweetly between top and bottom, suckling them. She's lost and wonders if her dream has yet released her.

Her back remains at the wall, her mind dazed, when the pressure of his body leaves. Her fingers still feel the twining and his sharp knuckles pressing in her skin as she hears the zip of his bag. She swoons and might have sunk to her knees but that he catches her up once more. This time his lips bruise. Grab hers with brutal indecency, his hands rough her body, seize her hips, her buttocks, squeeze her breasts and upper arms. They move down past her elbows, twists them together almost cruelly and wraps a cloth around them. He echoes the move with her wrists, this time braiding the cloth so her hands are bound firmly to one another. The sharpness of it brings tears to her eyes even as she recognizes the fact that he had openly told her he would do this very thing.

Unable to move her arms, now, not yet having caught her breath, her lips hardly register that his are but touching lightly. Tenderly exploring the bottom, then the top. His mouth just grazes her cheek, her chin, her eyelids, her brow. Moving freely, touching down upon the skin of her face as it opens and reaches for him.

A sigh bubbles up inside her and presses her lips outward. He pushes his lips into her hair and as he comes closer, the smell of spice teases her. When he moves onto her nape, she can no longer resist moaning aloud. It comes to her then that she's dreaming and will wake any moment to the knock on the door. She feels herself slipping and he tugs on her wrists, pulls her forward and across the room. Before she can catch her balance, he pushes her back against the bathroom door.

Still sure she's deep in sleep, she's yet to struggle, but she does work at the bindings and finds them taut but giving. He ties a robe belt around the cloth between her wrists and grapples her arms above her head, throwing the belt over the top of the door. He has a second soft belt there with a large knot in it that he tosses beneath the wood. He leaves her briefly, tightening her arms tight above her before he turns away. She finds it fairly uncomfortable, yet somehow arousing as well and she wonders how her dream could be so real as to chafe her wrists.

When the bathroom door closes, it's such a small click that she could ignore it but for the note of finality it presents to her consciousness. He's back in front of her, his knees moving hers outward. Feeling the door stiff against her back makes her finally realize she's awake and the dream is gone.

Now she struggles. And gains a chuckle from him. "Did I wake you? Have you been nervous waiting for me?"

She tries to swallow and tell him how she had spent her time, but all that comes out is: "Are you really here?" And it comes out in gasps. Her body reacting with the touch of his fingers coupled with another low, nearly evil laugh from his lips. Better than her imagination had given her. Better than her dreams. His hands leave tendrils of flame as they trace her sides and run up her arms.

He has succeeded, meanwhile, in separating her legs and forcing his pelvis into hers. She can feel his hardness, separated from her by layers of clothing. His and hers. She wants nothing more than for the material to dissolve. She wants to feel him bare and presented to her. A moan escapes her. And another as his hands keep up their relentless campaign against her sanity.

She wants to touch him. To take his hardness in her hand and make him moan. His hands keep her from expressing this physically, however, and his fingers wandering over her prevent her from telling him. She tries. She opens her mouth and closes it several times, all to no avail. She can no more talk than wrench her hands free of the cloth he'd bound them with and all her struggling only serves to make it tighter on her wrists. She can feel his excitement rising as she twists and squirms.

His knees pushes her thighs completely open and his body presses into hers so firmly that her struggles become little more than wriggling. His mouth presses into hers, then, insistent and forceful. It takes her breath from her again. She thinks to turn her head away, but he reaches up with his hands and holds her there, forces his lips on hers and shoves into her until she has nowhere to turn. Her wrists pull, but the ties get tighter and the cloth digs into her flesh when she fights too hard.

His hands move down her body, lift her, turn her and push her breasts against the wood of the door. His palms smooth the muscles of her back and buttocks and shove her still more firmly into the door. Now she finds she can squirm and she does. Until his hand finds her ass. A stinging blow that nearly brings her to tears with the suddenness.

He pulls the hem of her skirt up and tucks it into the waistband as she steels herself for more swats. Instead, she gets her ass rubbed and kneaded. The circles make her moan and need more. He presses close to her and moves his voice to her ear "Is this what you want?"

The words are said in an accented melody while the tone holds an underlying menace that makes her flood her panties. Unable to speak, she lets the words linger in the still air. "Well? Not talking now? Well... we'll see about that." There's more than threat in those simple syllables. It makes her soak the remaining dry cloth of her panties. She can feel the flooding as acutely as the touch of his breath tickling her ear.

Why had she wanted this so? Even now, as her sex drips with excess moisture; as she can all but feel a sliver of water snaking along her thighs and the cool of breeze on her bare bottom where he's pulled her underwear into the crack of her ass, she wonders how her reaction can be so severe. Her body taking over from her mind. Even as her thoughts cry out against the things happening to her, her body trembles and tingles and aches for more. Pooches outward for it, like her buttocks.

His fingers work up, then down her back, to the conjunction of thigh and ass. His thumbs circle her thighs, separate them and pull at the skin. She feels her groin tauten and a trickle of moisture makes its way down her bared flesh. His fingers flick outward and yank the thin cloth of her underwear away from her skin. Pulls them cleanly to her knees, then her ankles. His knee holds her thighs apart and his fingers move back to squeeze her buttocks open, pinch them with his thumbs and open her wide to him.