Small Mercies

This is a five-part "tandem" story, written by two writers (Katherine English and Steven Whitman).

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Part 1: Her

I'm late...so late...and yet as I hear your key in the lock, I'm still not ready to go. My sense of time has escaped me tonight. It does that sometimes...and now with your new boss and his many stuffed minions awaiting our arrival I've done the inexcusable once again.

I hear you settle heavily on the edge of the bed as I finish pinning my hair and applying my lipstick...pink and understated. I turn. You are resplendent in your new suit. Italian. Tailored. Expensive. Ordered by you just for this event.

I know my role in this delicate dance we are to share. I review as I cross the room, hastily snatching at the clothing that rests impatiently beside you...my naked skin prickling at the thought. I am to be your trophy...an ornament clinging to your arm, a testament to your acceptability among the powerful men who have tentatively opened their ranks to you. My wardrobe has been chosen accordingly. Demure. Feminine. "Look, but don't touch," it says. I want to be what you need.

I feel your eyes on me...worried...impatient, as I grasp my flimsy panties from the waiting pile. Time is the enemy, I think as I feel the cool, black lace slide seductively up my legs, over my thighs toward my hips. The delicious feel of them entices me as they conceal my auburn thatch from your gaze. Are you still watching? I wonder. Are you still impatient?

Silently, I turn to face you, attempting to read your statement as I slip my arms through the silken straps of my matching bustier. My nipples harden, their aureoles dark and dusky...a contrast to the pale contours of my lips. Quickly I secure the tiny hooks which bind me, feeling the lift as it molds my breasts, manipulates them...creates a display for your eyes alone.

I glance nervously towards you...searching your eyes for a sign. Have I pleased you? Have I erased the impatience from your gaze?

Quietly I place my left foot beside you on the bed and begin to unfurl the black, silk stocking, so carefully rolled in my palm, upward...over my calf...my knee...my thigh. I secure it with a satin garter, then turn to repeat the process. I feel your hand grasp my ankle...stroking suggestively along my calf. Are you still impatient, I wonder again...or has your focus wavered...become misdirected?

I cross in front of you...long easy strides...and take the small, crystal vial of "Tea Rose" from my vanity table. This is the part you like best...the part you fantasize about. This is worth a pause, a few extra heartbeats in the pulse of the moment. It's not to be rushed.

I return to face you, insinuating myself between your splayed thighs, grasping the tiny, tear-shaped flacon between my palms. A "pop"...a small sucking sound. I hear you swallow... hard...your Adam's apple working urgently against the pristine knot of your new power tie.

"Hold this for me?" I whisper, thrusting the small, smooth bauble into your palm. "Be careful...don't spill."

Silently, I withdraw the stopper, its hard crystalline nipple coated with the muted essence of roses. I place a drop...a single drop on the tip of my finger. Heavy-lidded, my eyes warming to the task...I arch my neck and dab it gently in the hollow of my throat...just a touch... feather-light...soft as silk. Your unencumbered palm brushes against my thigh. I sigh softly. Did the sound touch you in that special place where only I can reach?

I dip the stopper once more. Your hand trembles. "Don't spill," I whisper again, as I place a second drop on my manicured digit. Then slowly, your eyes following my every move, I slip my finger between my breasts...so firm...so prominent in their black lace bustier. I hear you groan.

"Don't spill," I repeat, my voice a caress.

I dip again.

This time I part my thighs, raising my foot upward between your stiffening legs, and bringing it to rest on the outside of your hip.

A single drop. Pristine and perfect.

Slowly my finger lowers, between my parted limbs, and I trail a thin line of the aromatic moisture along my inner thigh.

You dip your head, inhaling the heady aroma of sex and roses...your impatience a thing of the past...replaced by a more acute sense of urgency...but I haven't finished...not yet.

I dip a final time...one last maddening immersion...and place the small, hard cylinder between my palms. Slowly I begin to roll its moist surface against my flesh...like a child awaiting a treat...coating my skin with its dewy effluent.

Why her palms?

I hear you wonder, your thoughts almost tangible.

Why there?

You'll be wondering that all night... I have no doubt of it. When the staunch and staid patrons of this new world to which you aspire are discussing their golf scores this evening... it's my palms that will occupy your thoughts...my palms and the promises they hold.

But...I want to be what you need me to be. I've delayed long enough. I need to make an end. We need to be on our way.

Quickly I don my blouse, a Victorian confection in antique lace...classic...enigmatic, with a "sweetheart" neckline displaying the full half-moons of my breasts for your approval. Your eyes soften. Uncertainty wafts across your features...vacillation. Perhaps...?

But no...I'm determined. This pseudo-social soiree is of great importance to your career. I won't compromise this evening. I can't.

Without pause, I wrap my open skirt around my hips, covering the bare expanse between my bustier and the low, lacy elastic of my panties. It too is vintage, black velvet, buttoned down the front from the heavy leather belt I cinch around my waist, to the full sweep of the hem hovering just above my ankles. I secure the buttons as far as the knee, but leave the remaining undone. A peek. A seduction. "Look, but don't touch."

I complete the ensemble with a final touch...a velvet choker. Is it a symbol perhaps...a reminder of the hand that gave it to me...the man that gave it to me?

I smooth my clothing with my fingers, watching lust and obligation warring behind your eyelids. I have only my boots remaining now. High heeled. High buttoned. Calf-length black leather.

I slip my foot hesitantly into the right, and retrieve the antique button hook from the vanity. Grasping the bulbous, wooden handle in my palm, I deftly insert the hook into the tiny aperture. With a flip of the wrist, the gap begins to diminish. Button-hooked. I continue thusly, until the dozen or so pearly closures are securely in place, then pull on my left boot to repeat the procedure.

"No," you mutter thickly. "Come here. Let me."

I am uncertain. There is no time. No time...but I obey.

Once again I stand between your outstretched thighs...wondering...wondering. Your hand penetrates the slit in my skirt and grasps my knee.

I quiver.

Gently...but brooking no resistance, you part my thighs and place my foot on the bed between your legs. Your palm extends.

"Button hook?" you rasp.

I feel your hands on my calf...holding me in place...inserting the hook into the butter-soft leather again and again. My breathing becomes ragged and uneven...moisture flows unbidden...drenching my auburn curls.

Higher...higher.

My thighs, open and vulnerable, begin to shiver beneath your touch.

No time.

No time.

No.

Time.

They reach my knee, your task complete, but still you hold me fast.

"Dan?" I ask.

A question? A plea?

Your eyes, smoky and glazed, form a response that no words could approximate.

Slowly I feel the button hook trace a flaming trail along my inner thigh, its bulbous, wooden handle still pressed tightly into your palm.

I shiver once again. You wouldn't. You couldn't.

The thin metallic shaft gently nudges the fragile elastic perimeter of my panties. I feel it turn in your hand, the wooden knob warm against my quivering flesh. My knees become weak. I brace myself against your shoulders.

"Dan?"

I try to whisper once more, but the word dies silently in my throat...desperation unanswered.

And then I hear the instrument of my torment thud heavily to the carpet beneath my quaking form. Relieved, I begin to pull away.

"No," you rasp, your voice heavy with need. "Not yet. Are you wet?"

My lips move incoherently, but words fail me. I'm helpless to respond...mute...a prisoner. Slowly you insinuate your index finger beneath the elastic...tracing the outline of my wet and dripping chasm.

You smile.

You stroke.

Then, in one swift, penetrating thrust, you plunge your finger deep within my quivering core. I gasp...begin to fall...but you wrap your free arm around my waist and hold me fast and unmoving as your finger continues its maddening exploration.

Then, just as my world begins to fall apart...to shatter into a million crystalline fragments... you withdraw.

I whimper as you raise your glistening digit to your lips, the residual void a physical torment. "Not yet," you whisper, watching my hunger engulf me. "I want you to think of me this evening...to think, and feel, and...anticipate."

But I need something...anything...a balm to sooth the ache you have awakened in me. I take your hand. "Let me...please," I ask, my voice primal with desperation. Gently, greedily, I raise your finger to my mouth, stroking its length with my tongue, drawing it deeply between my parted lips. The taste...a little you...a lot of me, dissolves against my palate.

"We're late," I whisper. "I have to let go now."

You nod, the gentle pressure of my mouth lingering on the tip of your finger...and...(what's that?)...a tiny smudge of pink lipstick carelessly smeared across the pad. I reach to wipe it off, but you draw away.

"No," you respond. "Leave it there. I want to remember you, and this, until we get home."

I blush. Your words penetrate deeper than your wayward digit ever could.

I want to be what you need tonight. I need to be what you want.

I want...

I want...

I need...

Part 2: Him

I take your hand and lead you to the car, apparently all sense of distraction at our earlier encounter erased. We walk with easy strides to the door, then you take my arm as we head outside. Our chariot awaits, a new purchase with the signing bonus from my new company, a gleaming black Mercedes, luxuriously appointed with a leather interior, something that made your mouth water last night as I mentioned, oh so casually, what that leather might feel like against certain elements of your anatomy, should they come into direct, bare contact one with the other.

Always the gentleman, I open your door, and stare directly at the leg briefly exposed to my view as you quietly seat yourself in the car, your hands running along the seat beside you. Knowing your weakness for the touch of leather on your skin, in fact the touch of any material on your skin if properly applied, I smile to myself, knowing that such information may yet come into greater use in our future.

I walk to my side of the car, proud of the woman I take with me tonight. I smile wider at my choice of words, since taking you is ultimately my goal for the evening, to see your body shake and tremble as your control crumbles and the remnants are mine to devour. Voracious is a word you used to describe me once, then I reminded you that my appetite knows satisfaction in only one dish, at which point you laughed, a sound quickly turning to a groan as my...but such a reminiscence is not yet ready to be savored.

We have an appointment to keep.

I get in, starting the car and we pull from the driveway. I look over at you as we go along, and we smile at each other, until I raise my finger to my lips and lick it gently, and your eyes flutter as your hands move involuntarily to the front of your skirt.

Then you feel my hand grasping your wrists as I speak.

"Not now. Wait."

You groan at this, and I see your knuckles whiten slightly as you grip the seat next to you, wanting to do more, knowing that yes, indeed, waiting is best.

We arrive, and the gathering is buzzing with the predictable smattering of wit nearly smothered by the obvious posturing of my colleagues. Hired as a creative director for their public relations and communications department, I know that this will never be a world entirely to our liking. But the contacts made here will serve us both well, as the draft of your first novel is nearly complete, and the work has begun on our collaboration on an anthology sure to be a bestseller. We mingle, two creative minds veiled in our proper attire and polite conversation, as dinner is soon served.

One thing that can be said for this company is that it is not entirely bound by traditional dining experiences, as each couple is seated in fairly private booths around the restaurant hired for the evening. They wish their new employees to feel welcome, but do realize that allowing them to be somewhat separated from each other will make them more comfortable. There will be times to meet with clients at mass gatherings of nearly anonymous people, but now is not such a time.

We sit side by side, perusing the menu, as I lean in to gently place my lips at your neck. You blush, muttering something about the people around us, but you know you enjoy it completely. Regardless, no one except the waiter can really see us in this little nook. Then you feel my hand reach for a button on your skirt. You place your hand over mine, saying no, but I look in your eyes.

"Trust me. The tablecloth reaches almost to the floor...no one is looking, and they could be standing right there, you could be naked from the waist down, and no one would be the wiser."

You relax, but only for a moment, as the first two buttons from your knee are undone, and my hand does not stop its work. Soon they are undone to just above the bottom of your panties, and your breathing has quickened considerably.

I see our waiter a few tables away yet, taking orders for wine, and stop, but my hand is cupping against the front of your panty clad entrance, and my middle finger slides down and presses them in gently. Then our waiter is here, and I remove my finger, but my hand stays in place. I order a bottle of Zinfandel, knowing your penchant for a Mexican vintage of slightly more intoxicating properties, but also aware of the possibilities yet to come.

You glance around nervously, but your legs, instead of closing against my ministrations, have somehow opened wider, and I slip the tip of my finger around your panties, as at last they touch the heat that I have been feeling for the last few minutes.

You gasp, quietly, as I slip into your wetness, and begin to gently stroke you. Another finger slips within, and you grind against them a little.

I whisper caution, as we don't wish to cause any undue disturbance here. I look at you, my right hand casually raising a glass of water to my lips, talking to you all the while, as you struggle to maintain an statement of normalcy. But you nearly fail, as the pressure of my fingers has stoked once again the barely banked fires of passion that we crafted before leaving the house for this evening. The wine arrives, and the waiter hands me the cork for my approval. I take it in my left hand, extricating myself from your panties, and sniff it. My fingers grasp it, and the scent of your moisture is wafted toward my nostrils along with the product of the vineyards.

"Excellent," I declare, and he pours 2 glasses, replacing the cork in the bottle as he goes.

I sip from my glass, and you do from yours, until I take the cork from the bottle in my left hand and slide it below the table again. You look at me, eyes widening as you begin to suspect my next destination. I nod gently, and your legs open beneath my touch again.

You know I have no interest in placing anything but me inside you, but that doesn't mean I won't tease you at all. The cork moves inside the nearly non-existent panties, as I slide it against your lips, now nearly flooded with your anticipation. Up, and down, you feel it rasping against you, then it is removed, and I place it under my nose again.

"Delicious. A heady bouquet that could overpower, but yet remains intriguingly subtle."

You smile, and then our dinner arrives soon after. Throughout the meal, I look at you, and you glance around nervously from time to time. Without my touch, you have recalled your state, and the others around us. I decide to distract you once more. I take from my plate a slice of chicken breast, and, taking it from my fork, it begins its journey once again to your waiting center. You look at me, a half smile on your face, knowing that such as small piece of meat will barely register sensation, but you still breathe in sharply as it brushes your lips again, as my fingers coax your moisture along it.

I raise it again, and, placing it on my fork, I stare at it, noting the glistening "sauce" that now coats its surface. I take a bite, and close my eyes, savoring the taste of you mingling with the chicken in my mouth. I offer it to you, and your mouth opens, but then I smile, and finish the last of it myself. I tell you to button your skirt again, as it is about time for us to leave.

You do, but leave a couple buttons undone...our dinner has left you a bit more daring than when we arrived, and so a bit more of you will be obvious to anyone noting our departure. And they will, as you and I together make a rather striking couple, one in which onlookers are aware of our shared passions and joys. You take my arm, and we stand for a moment as you adjust your breathing, as the teasing through dinner has left you a bit breathless with both the efforts and the anticipation of what yet is to come.

We drive home, our hands locked together, and you seek to bring our joined hands to the front of you again, but I shake my head, pulling you away again, and you moan, nearly whining, until I remind you that the waiting draws the beauty out of passion.

To Be Continued...