The Pulse

I don't know why I came.

He isn't the kind of man I want in my life...in my bed...in my head. But when he called, his dark whisper coiling in low, slow convolutions between my thighs...I came.

I hear my feet carry me across the carpet toward his apartment, and I stand at the doorway to my own undoing, not knowing what lies inside. I should turn and leave...run... this is not what I want... but a curious pulse, nestled deep in a place where only his whisper can reach, forces me to stay. After all...I'm here aren't I?

I came.

I ring the doorbell, my finger stuttering on the small black pebble beneath it...but no one answers. I press again...and a third time, my resolve faltering. Is he here? Will he open the door? The pulse, so persistent, so invasive, fills my head...my body... throbbing in a rhythm that leaves me helpless to resist. And so I turn the knob, an accomplice to the act, and enter his world.

It's dark inside, as dark as my imagination, as dark as my fear that he may not be here. I should leave...I've been given a reprieve...but I stay. I have no choice.

My eyes scan the living room, lit only by the flickering murmur of the fireplace, and then I see him...sitting on the sofa...his silhouette chiseled in dark relief by the flames beyond.

"I'm here," I say, my voice shattering the very air I breathe. "Tell me what you want."

Silence.

The door closes behind me... mute confirmation that this is irrevocable...and I cross the carpet toward my lover. My purse slides to the floor, but it falls silently, unnoticed, as I listen to the stillness of the room.

A log pops...sizzles...and falls glowing on the hearth, but his eyes are for me alone.

"Come here." he whispers, his tone sure...intense... drawing me ever inward. "I want to watch you."

He points with his right hand, clasping a bottle of microbrew, private stock, to a place between his thighs. Obediently, I close the gap between us, my heart and "pulse" beating a frantic duet.

Slowly, as though the race has already been run...and won...or lost...I reach up and begin to unbutton my blouse. My breasts feel heavy, engorged, and I have a need to feel them touched as only he can. But he sits ...and watches...his brew in hand as I expose my body to his smoky gaze.

My blouse hangs limply from my shoulders, its buttons abandoned, and I look to Him for direction. He nods, and I let it slip downward, around my waist...secured by the belt which holds me together.

His eyes linger impatiently on my bra, and I know what he expects. Wordlessly, I twist my arms behind my back, my fingers searching for the flimsy release, my nipples pressing urgently against their black, satin confinement. And then...like my purse...like my resolve...it slides silently to the carpet at his feet.

He watches soundlessly...hungrily, as I begin to release my belt...to add my skirt to the tiny pile of mute offerings. "No," he says, "Pull it up...around your waist." I'm confused. This wasn't in the script...a new act has been written to this erotic play, and I wasn't informed...but I obey. Slowly I tug the soft, slinky fabric upward, exposing the black nylon that embraces my quivering legs...the thin elastic bands which hold them tentatively to the satin garter belt that he insists I wear.

I pause...what now? The Director has abandoned me. I wait while he sips his cold brew...his eyes heavy-lidded ...intense.

"Take them off," he murmurs, his voice a monotone... allowing for nothing but abject obedience.

His demand for improvisation curls uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. Should I...no...maybe...what does he want? Silently I slip out of my heels, and place my right foot on the sofa beside him. His left leg lies unmoving between my knees, and I find this both threatening and erotic...a symbolic invasion of my personal space...my intimate arena.

I lean forward and release the clips which hold my stocking, rolling it carefully downward over my calf...toward my toes...but then I stop. His hand explores my thigh...sliding upward...and my pulse races out of control.

I close my eyes as his fingers slip boldly beneath the brief wisp of my panties...between my legs. I feel a tug...hear a snap, and one more barrier falls before his gaze. I rest my forehead upon my upraised thigh. praying for strength to calm the quivering of my knees...but I'm on my own. After all, this was my choice, wasn't it?

And then he thrusts...2 fingers...(three?)... deep inside of me, chilled from the microbrew. I gasp in surprise.

"You're wet," he says, his voice penetrating beyond his reach. "Have you been fucking yourself?"

The crudity of his question...his feigned banality, strikes me like a slap in the darkness. Was that an accusation or a request? Again I doubt my reason, my compulsion for being here...with him. He's not what I want in my life...not the type to console and nurture...and yet I came.

I search his eyes once more, uncertainty rising in the pit of my stomach. What will he say next...do next? What does he want? What do I want?

Slowly he unbuckles his belt and lowers his zipper, and the next act becomes clear. I sink to my knees, my face buried between his thighs as it has been so many times before. His gaze wavers minutely as I free his hardened shaft from its confines. I was in control...for a second...but no longer.

I feel his fingers twining in my hair...his grasp becoming unrelenting...demanding. I touch my tongue to the very tip, the Rubenesque heart of his sensuality, feeling it undulate against my lips. He groans. Am I in control now, I wonder, or is he?

Roughly he pulls me toward him, burying himself deep within my throat. I panic. This is too much. I try to pull away, but I can't...I never can. My own needs go unfulfilled as he thrusts himself into me again...and once more. And then I find myself on the floor...the ceiling a maze of acoustical dots swirling before my eyes.

"I want to watch you." he states again, his voice my commandment.

Watch what, I wonder? What's expected of me? What is his pleasure...his diverse delight now? I stare searchingly into his eyes, dark...dominant...piercing, and suddenly I know.

Slowly I draw my finger across my breast, its nipple swollen painfully with need, and traverse the quivering flesh of my abdomen. I ignore the folds of my skirt, still bunched around my waist like some forgotten remnant of another time, and push between my thighs, feeling the satiny smoothness of my one remaining stocking brushing against my knuckles.

My gaze once more seeks his approval. (Is this what you want?) it asks in mute desperation...(Is this what you want from me this time? )

He swallows, his hand fondles the microbrew once more, and he nods. I am to continue. The play must go on.

I close my eyes, blocking out the flickering undulation of the flames against his skin...in his unwavering stare, and feel myself becoming lost in a world of my own making. My French manicure slips warmly between the delicate folds at the apex of my thighs, eliciting a fresh, warm rush from deep inside me.

I arch my throat and search unerringly for the tiny spot that I know will set me free... the yearning hub of my sexuality... my release. Tentatively, at first, I begin to stroke, feeling it harden and grow beneath my fingertip...an erection in microcosm. I begin to respond...my breath coming in ragged gasps as the friction builds. Deep within my body, a spring begins to coil, tightening with each stroke, leading toward the cataclysm that I know awaits.

I hear Him shift in his seat, but I am beyond that now...beyond him. His presence is lost in the moment...or is it? I can't stop now...I won't. And then I feel him between my thighs, his hands capturing my wrists, imprisoning them above my head. Dimly I try to remember...was he naked before? Did I imagine the rasp of his fly against my cheek?

I hear my cry rend the stillness as he enters me, his throaty chuckle acknowledging my need. I struggle against him, my body gratefully accepting the hard thrust of his shaft within me. I am pinned like a butterfly on a mat...but I want more, so much more. I'm lost in his scent...his masculinity...I shouldn't be here...but I came.

Over and over he plunges deep into my very being. The room fills with the primal sounds of our joining. This is not love...not a meeting of the soul, but rather a timeless urge that defies us both. Am I his prisoner, or is he mine?

A delicate sheen of perspiration forms on his upper lip as he labors above me...inside of me...his thrusts becoming more demanding with each passing moment. I grasp him tightly between my thighs, and feel him struggle for freedom...for dominance...but it is not to be. I have him where I want him now, and I will not relent.

The room begins to harden and crystallize behind my eyelids...and then, with one massive thrust I feel myself shatter beneath him. His body stiffens, stills, and I hear a low groan escape from his lips. He falls unceremoniously atop my quivering form, covering me, holding me fast. And then, in an instant he rolls aside and I am free. Our time is over. The pulse that drew me to him is silent.

I watch him as he lays, lifeless in the flickering firelight. My clothing is in disastrous array, but I'll cope. I always do. Silently I organize myself, but he remains unmoving, unheeding. I remove my second stocking, and stuff the pair into my purse along with my discarded bra. The panties are a total loss...let him keep them. I'll never wear them again.

I smooth my clothing back into place. This round is mine, I think as I silently remove myself from the apartment. It always is. I'm the last one standing...am I not?

Silently I retrace my steps down the carpeted hallway toward the waiting world, his seed still slick between my thighs. This will be my last visit here, I promise myself for the hundredth time.

I'll never come this way again.