This story is part of a collection, "West of Boston." The stories can be read in any order.
For Michelle, who helps this breathe
Sometimes she crawls to him on all fours the length of the living room. She appears in a black merry widow, as stark black as her hair. Her breasts are pressed up and threaten to jiggle free. Her skin is pure alabaster against the tight, black fabric. She always smiles, full of joy and lust. Her ponytail curves on her back and falls over one shoulder.
When she reaches him she rises to her knees, black eyes sparkling with sex. She grasps his hard cock. He takes her face between his hands and lowers her mouth onto him, soft wetness enveloping his length. Holding her head, he slides her mouth on him, slowly fucking her face.
Just before he comes, he lifts her and cradles her in his arms then lays her on pure white sheets. She is spread before him, and he binds her with soft cuffs to the four corners of the bed. The trimmed black hair at her loins and the pink wetness of her swollen sex lies open for him. He lowers himself between her legs and plunges into her. Once again there is blackness, her sudden depths, infinite fulfillment. She smiles still, even as he penetrates her over and over, even as he probes her mouth with his tongue. and she struggles to move.
After such wildness, he would waken, breathing hard with exertion, the sheen of sweat on him, his cock still throbbing and his come already chilling on his clothes and in the hollow where his groin joins his leg. Sometimes it would be easier to sleep afterward. But usually he would watch the room take slow shape in the dawn while he imagined her as he usually did, ahead of him on the road, running with her strong kick and graceful stride, her woman hips as vivid as in his dream. Every day he ran, not because of her, but hoping to see her.
She was a good runner. Each time she overtook him she said "G'mornin,' Morgan" as she passed. She had a natural stride, practiced and easy like an athlete who trains often. He enjoyed watching her black ponytail bounce back and forth against her neck. Often, he quickened his pace so he could enjoy for as long as possible her long legs and the way the perfect split beneath her black nylon shorts was revealed at each stride. She always pulled away from him easily, probably unaware he had even sped up. He was past the point of running for speed. Eight minute miles were just fine. So every day he put in his three or five miles, and on many days she passed him.
He had tried to remember the first time he saw her. It wouldn't come to mind, but the first time they spoke was clear enough. He had been signing runners up for a 10k charity event, and he spoke with her beside the road while she was stretching a tired muscle. He'd told her his name was Morgan and asked if she'd like to run in the event, set for Sunday in Fleming, three towns over.
He'd been watching her as she ran since the first time he'd seen her, but he only noticed her eyes when he met her, deep black pools that didn't know to look somewhere else. Her look felt like a sad kiss. She was maybe 5'8" and slender from activity, not diet. She said she was interested in the race but would need to check on transportation.
"There are three more going from town, and I'm taking my SUV," he said. "You're welcome to ride along."
He saw her dark eyes cloud with confusion. "I wouldn't want to intrude," she said, but when he insisted, she accepted. He told her how to get to his place. On the ride, both up and back, she was shy, uncertain. She couldn't figure out where to sit in the car, and he invited her next to him, selfishly, because she was more than pleasant and very nice to look at. At the race, she won the women's division. On the way back, they stopped at a pub to eat; she couldn't decide what to order. He recommended a pasta and shrimp alfredo dish. She looked at him as she ordered it. He knew her name, but he had no need for it; every time he wanted to speak to her, her eyes were on him, dark and sad and trying to see something inside of him. It was on that trip he started to call her 'Runner,' an effort at first to relax her, but she seemed to like it.
Not long after, on a summer night at a lakeside restaurant, he saw her across the room at a table with a man. The man was studying the menu intently; she seemed distracted and was looking about the room. She noticed him and smiled, so he went to say hello. "Hi, Runner," he said.
She smiled. "I like my nickname."
The man's name was Fred, and he was her husband. Morgan chatted with her about their running schedule, his most recent injury, the beauty of the lake. Their waiter came, and he began to leave. She said: "Please stay, if you want."
She ordered, again a pasta and shrimp dish and, when she finished, smiled up at Morgan as if she were sharing a secret. Fred's head was still buried in the menu: "I'm just not sure. What do you think?" he asked her. She said he'd like the cod and he ordered that. When the waiter left, Morgan asked Fred if he ran, not wanting to leave him out.
"No, not really," he said, looking to her to explain. "Fred prefers to support the rest of us," she said, never taking her eyes from Morgan's. He returned to his friends and their table, but throughout dinner he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She looked his way frequently and Fred talked earnestly. She didn't say much.
Morgan recalled the two meetings because of the difference in her behavior, from shy and uncertain the first time to assertive and restless the next. He found her charming in both guises but wondered what it was that made her change so much. He had gotten into the habit of thinking of her as 'Runner,' and so never thought of her by name.
He recalled speaking with her other times but not what was said, though once she touched his arm as they parted, a very womanly and non-athletic touch. He remembered how cool her touch had been. Since then, whenever they made eye contact it was more familiar and intimate than he would have expected. He felt she was looking for something in him. He wondered if he had what she needed. He felt protective, and he felt the interest of his heart and sex pique each time he saw her.
On a beautiful afternoon, after she passed him and dwindled in the distance, he watched her disappear into the high school parking lot. Either she would make the loop and return, passing him going the opposite direction, or she would stop in the grass beside the turnaround and use the parking bumpers for one last stretch. When she didn't come out in a few seconds, he picked up his pace so he might talk with her again.
She was still stretching when he got to her. "Hi, Runner," he said. "Oh, hi, Morgan," she said. Her smile was missing. As they talked, she was even more quiet than usual, and when she stood up, he saw a worried look. He asked if he could help.
"I don't know," she said. "I forgot my keys again, and I'm locked out."
"When will Fred be home?"
She sighed. "Not until tomorrow afternoon. A business trip."
"What if I help you force a window?" he asked.
"Alarms everywhere, and I never remember the codes. Double and triple locks. Fred's such a worry wart." She was frustrated.
"I just don't know," she said, sounding confused, "I could call his mother…. He'll be a wreck."
"I have two bedrooms and a guest bath," he said. "Come with me."
"Oh, no, I …." she began to say. Then she looked at him, trying again to see something in him.
"Do you have any reason not to?" he asked.
"Not yet," she smiled.
He held his hands out to her. He was close enough he could touch her. She looked in his eyes.
"Look at my hands," he said. She did and reached out to take them in her own. Her touch was soft and silky.
"These hands will never touch you…" When he paused for emphasis, she looked back to his eyes. "…without your permission." He smiled at her. "C'mon," he said, "we'll eat beside the water and neither of us will be alone.
He turned and began to run off. "But you'll have to run at my pace."
"But I don't have clothes," she said loud enough for him to hear.
He turned but kept going backwards for a few steps: "I'll take care of you."
She ran to catch up.
At his townhouse by the lake, they showered and grilled swordfish with tomato and lemon slices. He made pasta. They ate on the deck and finished a bottle of pinot. He had never seen her with her hair down. Out of the ponytail, it framed her pale face in soft waves of black. Everything he had wanted to ask her was possible. As the shadows grew longer and the mosquitoes began to dance above the water – and bite – they went inside.
They watched a movie, or the movie was on and Runner watched. Morgan sat across the room and his eyes rarely strayed from her. She was dressed in what he had left on the guest bed for her while she showered: a pair of his boxers, and one of his blue dress shirts with a button down collar. He'd also left a pair of shorts, but they were so loose that she had decided the shirt covered enough and she wore it over just the boxers. In the medicine cabinet she found a safety pin and used it to snug the waist of the boxers.
He didn't try to hide his staring, and every few minutes she looked over at him and smiled. Her hair fell softly onto her shoulders, and occasionally a wisp of it would fall across her cheek. She shifted her position on the sofa, her bare foot and leg lying down the length of the sofa and her other leg curled beneath her.
When she felt him still looking at her, she ran her hands over the soft fabric of the shirt. "Very nice," she smiled again.
"I like the way the fabric feels," he said, "but it doesn't look as good on me."
"Thank you," she said, shy but pleased.
"Smile for me," he said. She was suddenly radiant again, her smile not only showing her teeth but the heart that danced in her. He laughed with happiness.
"It's fun to make you happy," she said softly, still smiling. "I like pleasing you."
The windows and sliders to the deck were open and the soft night air caressed them. There was the sound of crickets, a couple of night birds, and far out on the lake the drone of an outboard as a fisherman returned home.
"Doesn't it worry you that people may look in?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But if you're nervous, we can shut them."
"Oh no," she said, "but at home Fred …. well, Fred worries … about everything."
