The Balcony 12

For those of you who are in the hurry, a little warning: it takes a while for me to get to, well, to the naughty parts. My editor complained about the story being long — and he got the version that had been translated into English, trimmed and then trimmed again. Mind you, he didn't say 'too long', and, personally, I read more before breakfast, but some of you may want to come back some other time.

The rest of you — imagine, if you will, a balcony.

*

"Okay, so then I asked him if he wanted to go to 'The Fountain' — and he just shrugged. Again with the shrugging! I can see how you might not think of a place you want to go to — you know, sometimes — but if I ask about a particular place, how hard is it? Just tell me if you want to go. Just a yes or a no, how hard is that? Not a shrug. A yes. Or a no. It's not that hard, is it? Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. See? Real easy. I can do it. You can do it. Why can't I find a man who can do it?"

It's hard to chatter and look indignant and stuff your mouth with blueberries and ice cream all at the same time, but Natasha's good at it. Lots of practice, you see. She invited me over to tell me about breaking up with yet another guy. I have to admit I'm not listening very carefully; the story changes little and I've heard it already, but it's a lazy summer evening, she makes the best ice cream I've ever tasted and doesn't mind when I put my feet up on her windowsill.

In my humble opinion, a guy not being overly assertive about where he takes you out for a drink is not a reason to break up with him. I can see her trouble though — it's romance, after all, it's supposed to be all whirlwind and swooning and memorable, and here we have the hero shrugging indifferently at the choice of the setting and likely keeping to himself that he doesn't care where they go to, as long as there's a tv or she promises to invite him up to her bed afterwards. A guy not being overly assertive about anything ever — that's what's bugging her, although I have a feeling she doesn't quite realize it. I'd tried to talk to her about it once and she ended up in tears.

I need a change of subject and it comes in somewhat unexpected form. "Um... Is he doing what I think he's doing?" I ask and she nods darkly, without even looking over her shoulder. She's leaning on the railing of the balcony and, behind her back, on the construction site across the yard...

"Yep. Our yard is a urinal." She pouts. "Disgusting." Then she pats me on the knee. "Hey, stick your tongue out at him!"

I know my mouth must be a mess and my tongue violet; there's ice cream in my cup somewhere but it's hard to find it underneath all the frozen blueberries, sour cherries and whatnot. "I will if you do it too."

She frowns, cocks her head, and finally smiles, turns in her chair and leans over the railing. "Hey, you!"

The poor little construction worker is quite taken aback by the sight of two girls sticking out their tongues colored with blueberry juice and giggling. I'm not sure if it's because we'd caught him with his pants down or because of what we're doing. I imagine we look like two Dracula brides, tongues sticking out and dark liquid all over our mouths. I know Natasha is a sight, with her innocent blue eyes, porcelain skin and lush lips, usually pink but now blood red with fruit juice as if she'd just fed on someone's carotid. And I'm just the opposite, with black hair, dark tan and eyes that make people uncomfortable, if that's what "I nearly soiled my underwear" means.

I assure you, the effect is rarely intentional.

We slump back into our chairs, still smiling. "I wonder if that one will pee from the second floor again," I giggle.

"Shame none of them is anywhere near cute," she says almost simultaneously. For a second, I'm confused; construction workers are not her type. Owners of construction firms, possibly even an architect, but grubby brutes who use her yard as a urinal — definitely not. But then, when it comes to sex, you never know, people may surprise you every now and then.

So, "Mmmmhm" is all I say. She digs into her ice cream with a spoon as if there's a diamond wedding ring at the bottom of the cup and, if I'm not mistaken, there's a bit of a flush in her cheeks.

"Shirtless," she says and raises an eyebrow in a challenge. It's a game we invented about two years ago when we were in Greece on a vacation and realized how much fun it is to invent sexual fantasies in a middle of a full restaurant when no one has any idea what we're talking about. Or, with all those who can understand us wisely keeping it to themselves.

I can actually see her pupils dilate as I smile. "Sweaty," I respond.

She wrinkles her nose but then we both take a moment to enjoy the picture.

"Tattooed," she says.

"A little sun," I offer, and she grins because we know someone with a sun tattooed on his chest.

"No," she says decidedly, "it has to be something more... um..."

"A dragon."

She nods happily. "A big scarlet dragon."

Oh, my. Next she'll ask for it to be looming out of his pants. "On the small of his back."

She frowns, but doesn't argue. "Blue eyes," she proposes, for my sake.

"Ah, green perhaps?"

Her eyebrows rise. "Really?"

"Yup."

"Well, that's new."

I grin. There's not much to tell her about the one with the green eyes. Yet. "I'll tell you when it's time to tell you."

"Okay." She hates it when I don't tell her everything, but she knows that I'm more stubborn than she is and that insisting on more information would be a waste of time. But she pouts, just to let me know I owe her one.

I ignore it. "Voice low and husky, whispering..."

"Stubble on his chin scraping your cheek..."

"...and thighs..."

I expect her to wrinkle her nose again, but instead, her ridiculously colored tongue darts out to lick her lips and there's a barely audible "Ohh..."

Two years ago, Natasha and I went to Greece. You probably don't want to know how we ended up in a small hostel room that could have been cleaner, and sharing a bed that creaked like it had had one young couple too many abusing its welcome;

I

certainly don't want to remember it. I'll just say that it involved three guys, each big enough to have to turn sideways to fit through a doorway and one of them holding a bottle of cheap champagne in one hand and a gun in the other and saying "Choose, baby." We bolted out of our five star hotel foyer and decided it was safer to manage through that night with only what we had in our pockets. Fortunately, the guy with the gun was too drunk to find the trigger on that thing.

That night, my friend did two things that were a bit out of character. The first was to be unusually quiet about the guy with the champagne bottle; usually she teases them until their brains spill out of their ears and then later, complains about men being cowards or assholes, depending on how they deal with her teasing.

The second woke me up about an hour before dawn.

She was masturbating, very unceremoniously and roughly, not in hurry but in surprisingly urgent need, her breath hissing in and out so rapidly it was in time with vibrations her hand sent through the mattress — and then suddenly it all stopped. I had to make myself breathe slowly in sudden silence, not quickly as if I was awake and curious, not deeply as her own bated breath made me want to. I wondered if she'd orgasmed without me noticing it or had somehow heard that she'd woken me up; but then she started again. And stopped again. Again and again, and just as I'd successfully convinced myself that she must have been reading one of those articles that mention dynamite and orgasms too many times, she stopped again, and a soft, childlike "Please..." drifted off her lips as she exhaled a long, suffering breath. There were no vibrations, except those her body made convulsing and choking trying to keep silent.

Oh, nice.

She threw the blanket off, overheated from the orgasm. After a few minutes, drew it back on with her arms over it in a very chaste pose of a corpse arranged for a funeral, but it wasn't long before they were back under the blanket and the mattress trembled again, and this time it felt like she'd nearly fallen off the bed.

She waited to see if she'd woken me up. My back was to her and I decided to keep it that way. If she was teasing me, she deserved to be kept guessing. But I thought it was more likely she didn't have much choice and just didn't feel like going to the bathroom for her little adventure — and I didn't blame her; the last thing I'd want to be breathing in while having an orgasm was the smell in that bathroom.

"... As you squeeze his shoulders..." Natasha's voice is low now, hushed so even I can barely hear her. She's blushing. It's her balcony, not a restaurant in Greece, and if her neighbors hear us... Well, if I know Tash, moving away and to a different city the next day would be her solution to that problem.

"...strong and sleek... his hands gripping your ankles..."

Her lips are parted, she's staring blindly at the basil and parsley plants innocently growing in the ceramic pot in the corner of the balcony; since she doesn't take her turn, I continue, "He probes your pussy with his finger, feeling its wetness, his skin so much rougher than your sensitive flesh; he knows his hands are too calloused to fully appreciate the softness, but even his slim finger is gripped tightly by your muscles. He curls it upward and your hips follow, rising off the bed; he smiles, watching your body dance to his will. The temptation of watching you writhe is almost too much, he almost takes off the rest of his clothes to use your body the way you both crave — almost, but he doesn't. He wants to take you at the point where you can't discern between ecstasy and agony—"

Suddenly she stabs her spoon into the ice cream one last time and says, "I want you to write it."

It's not that she'd asked me for a story — it's not the first time. It's the demanding tone and the unusual lack of 'please' that catch my attention; for one long second, my mind drops out of reality and, when it comes back, I lick my spoon clean and wave it at her.

"You know... I do have an idea or two... One condition, though."

"What?"

"After you've read it, we never speak about it, ever."

"Why not?"

I shrug. She pouts again, but she doesn't really have a choice. "Oh, okay."

So here it is, her story.

~ ~ ~

It's a building, more or less. People are bodies first, skeletons later. With buildings, apparently it's the other way around. This one is yet to be given its body; at the moment, it's just concrete platforms, stairways and a few walls. Just a skeleton. I've been watching its birth from my balcony; it grew surprisingly fast for a while, but now it's been still and silent for a couple of months, as if it couldn't decide what to do next.

I know the feeling.

My weight is supported partly by platform steps. He's covered them with a cloth I couldn't identify in the dark, but if I had to guess, I'd say his jacket. It's not his shirt; I know that much for certain. I've watched him take the shirt off — a yummy sight, if you must know, though I don't feel like admitting it at this particular moment — and tear it into strips. One strip to stuff my mouth; another over my stretched lips to make sure I didn't spit the first one out. My hands are spread, slightly raised and bound with rough rope — but, again, there's a piece of cloth between my skin and the rope that might scrape it. It's hard to say whether these little mercies are done out of kindness or ironic compassion that only keeps me on the brink of tears. I'm practically naked — all he'd left on me are my panties. And my legs... spread, raised, knees bent, bound. Every now and then the night air stirs, and the cool beginning of a breeze brushes across my crotch.

The street I live in doesn't have heavy traffic even during the day, but there's still a sound of footsteps occasionally. Sometimes the sharp click of women's shoes, sometimes shuffle of a man's feet, once a dog running up and down the street, the soft thump of padded paws and the scratching of claws. Whoever it is, all they have to do is look up and see me spread like a frog before a high school student in biology class.

I couldn't really complain about this though, even if my mouth was free. I came here because I wanted to. I'd asked for it. I'd have to shed that last bit of pride I have left to complain about my position now. Before you shake your head at me, let me tell you how I came to be in this position.

I live alone. I'm not saying I sleep alone; if you have a reasonably firm ass and breasts that don't quite fit in men's palms, you don't have to. I just wake up alone. My mother wouldn't agree, but it's not my choice, being single. It's just that men aren't...what you might hope them to be. And life is too short to be wasted.

When you live alone, you develop these little habits, rituals almost. Mine is having a smoke out on the balcony. I work from home; when you spend endless hours staring at the computer screen, you're likely to end up with an ashtray full of cigarettes you can't even remember lighting, let alone enjoying. This is why I only smoke out on the balcony, and never more than five a day.

And, this is why I was more than a little annoyed when the small house that I'd stared at for years got torn down. It was an ugly old crumbly thing, but, over the time, I'd grown fond of it. It was right in front of me and safer to look at then the street to my left; it was something to look at when someone from my apartment building would come down the street and, seeing me on the balcony, expect me to nod and smile and even answer brilliantly inventive questions like, "How are we today, dear?" despite the fact that I live on the second floor and have to shout so that entire neighborhood can hear that I'm just fine, thank you.

What? No, I'm not ill-tempered. I'm twenty three and not an idiot. Two decades on this planet is enough to make anyone with any brains in their head a little grouchy. Instead of a small family house, they're going to build a large noisy thing high enough for my new neighbors to see me on my balcony. Dammit.

Anyway... There were machines with giant steel balls swinging, and a lot of digging and dust and noise and sweaty men with their asses hanging out of their pants and a brand new building started to grow. It became interesting to watch, and then it stopped. The men left — all except one.

A night watchman of sorts, I guess, although he'd come in the late afternoon and work a little, taking the rubble out of the yard or doing something I couldn't see that involved a lot of hammering and banging, down on the ground level. It seemed more like something he was doing to pass the time than serious work; he dragged his feet, whistling to himself and peeking under my skirt every time I went out on the balcony.

The peeking I don't mind; but why is it that construction workers pee standing on the edge of the first, even second storey platforms? They all do that. During the night, of course; during the day, apparently, it would be inappropriate. Do they think that no one can see them? There are streetlights, and there I am. I can see them. I don't get it. I refused to be exiled from my balcony; I'd stare straight at them and if they were not embarrassed about being watched while dispersing their urine all over the yard, why should I be? Fortunately, they had enough decency to stop.

Not the one left behind, though. Not only did he not avoid doing it in front of me, he seemed to purposely seek the chance to drop his pants in my face. I was curious, I admit — although the yard separating us was too large to make out anything interesting, really — yet there was something about his expression that bothered me. It reminded me of a crocodile, or a snake; cold eyes that didn't waver when I stared at him, and predator teeth that showed; not quite a smile, more like they were too big and sharp to remain concealed by hard lips.

He was always there. I'd water my plants and he'd sit, leaning against the concrete wall and having a sandwich. I'd have a smoke, pretend to watch the passers-by and as I turned to go back into the room, I'd see him just sitting there looking at me. It was odd. My balcony was no longer mine and it was annoying. On the other hand, he was almost company. In the afternoons, I began to watch him through the shutters of my bedroom. I keep them shut, except when I'm cleaning. He couldn't see me. I could see him through the cracks. He wore the same washed-out and stained pants as the others — but his ass didn't hang out. He was often unshaved, but the ragged look kinda suited him. He was often shirtless, sweaty, with long, lean muscles glistening in the light of the setting sun. Nice.

Then one night, just as I was putting out my cigarette and he was finishing getting rid of three beers I'd watched him sip earlier, he didn't pull his pants back up. He simply stood, his hand curled in front of his crotch, and suddenly the yard was not big enough; his penis grew out of his fist and my breath caught in my throat. I whirled and retreated back into the room. I stood there for a few frozen moments. Soon regretting my impulse, I stuck my nose between the window shutters to see what he was doing, but he was gone.

Damn.

As if it had never happened, he was back the next day, whistling and following me with his eyes every chance he got. I thought I'd just play along, but it wasn't the same anymore. It wasn't just a smoke and a nosy neighbor; it was flirting — whether I wanted it to be or not.

~ ~ ~

The night air plays with my skin where his hands don't, reminding me it's bare, revealed to anyone who might walk down the street and look up to see me half-naked and tied up.

"You have great tits. I'm not a big fan of tits — I prefer the ass — but these..." He envelops them in his palms. He's got large hands, but my quivering flesh still bulges out. His palms are rough and callused from all the menial work, but not hurtful; the touch has precise force to it, exactly enough to make me worried, but not to do any damage. "...These I'll enjoy fucking later."

Later?

He releases one of my breasts and takes the nipple between his fingers. As they squeeze gently, I moan, distracted and confused. What does he mean, later? What's...?

Ohhh God.... He rolls my nipple, sending hot flashes right to my clit. Yes, yes, yes — hey! Where is he going?

~ ~ ~

It had been a long, very hot summer, but in all honesty, my plants did not need

that

much watering.

What terrified me was how safe I'd felt, how careless I'd been. How it never even occurred to me that he knew where I lived, that he could have knocked at my door — or broken in — and done what some men think they should when they're being shamelessly led on. I'd felt safe, that is, until I found a note in my mailbox downstairs. "You have too much clothes on." It hadn't been delivered, he'd just put it in there; I knew it was from him although there was no address, no name, nothing but that one sentence in surprisingly clean, educated handwriting.

I got up the stairs, into my apartment and out onto the balcony before I started to wonder what I was doing there. His eyes took in first my street clothes, then the note in my hand and at last I saw him smile for the first time. It was a breathtaking, lewd smile and my body responded on its own. My smile he could see, the wetness between my legs he couldn't, but I had a feeling he was equally certain of both.

I figured it had to be a joke. I mean, I barely had enough clothes on not to be arrested when I go out on the street.