The Bed Behind

The bed behind the woman is not the focal point, but it is within Hunter's line of vision, and its presence works on his subconscious, reassuring him, telling him that he can touch her body, even love her body, if he wants to. The solid, sturdy bed in the background, with the still-warm and rumpled sheets lends an element of reality to the image before him, and reasserts the idea that there are no longer any physical or moral boundaries between him and his would-be lover.

With renewed confidence he acts out the scene he has rehearsed over and over in his dreams, approaching the woman before him as an actor would walk onto a stage, surrendering his entire self to the performance and existing only for the moment. In his mind's eye he watches himself as if he were a spectator in the stalls. And he watches her; as he walks towards her he can see her lips part slightly, in anticipation of his kiss. But instead of kissing her, he finds himself, or rather, this more self-assured version of himself, walking past her and lounging back against the pillows on the bed behind.

Her eyes follow him, and a slight tremor crosses the lower half of her face. It is a tiny movement that would have been imperceptible to almost anyone else but Hunter. It tells him that he's in control, and he feels himself reeling from this new-found power over her. When she opens her mouth to speak, he silences her. "How slovenly you are" he says, without moving a muscle, with no outward display of emotion. "Your room is full of socks. Pick them up!" Indeed, the floor of the room is littered with socks: woollen socks, nylon socks, long socks, short socks, odd socks.

The woman hesitates, and then, when she's sure that she hasn't misunderstood him, she complies with his wish, bending over at the waist to gather them up, one by one. As she grapples with her hands on the floor for socks he can see how the skirt of her dress rises up behind her, and he can feel the beginning of arousal. "Turn around, pick those socks up behind you" he says. Facing away from him, the woman slowly lowers the upper half of her body so that the dress rises again, revealing the upper curves of her thighs. Then she stretches her arm out further to pick up a sock that is nearly out of her reach, and her whole body sways forward so that for a brief instant she is resting her weight on her one free hand and her toes. Hunter catches a glimpse of the lips of her vulva. He thinks how plump they are, how smooth and ripe to bite into. He hadn't anticipated her being naked under the dress and he is tempted to destroy the moment, to rush to her and crush her and take her on the floorboards.

Instead, he watches as she repeats the movement again and again, until her arms are full of socks, and she walks towards him. "Oh, but there is one more right there" she says, nodding to the floor beside the bed, and she drops her head down to her ankles with such an abrupt movement that the skirt of the dress that is full and loose swirls up over her hips.

Hunter is finding it increasingly difficult to separate fantasy from reality. It seems to him that he is disconnected from the scene with his would-be lover, that he is merely an outside observer, a voyeur watching through a crack in the wall. Hunter's lover, who is oblivious to his confusion, scatters the socks all over him, all over the sheets, and climbs up on top of him so that her genitals are in his face. It is only when his cock swells between her lips that he finally ceases to be a spectator. There is no longer any doubt in his mind that the hands holding her buttocks are his hands, or that the mouth that is now sucking her where she quivers is his.

And so the would-be lovers become lovers. They morph into a love-locked, four-legged beast, and fall into each other with the unremitting motion of a seesaw. Back and forth they teeter, all-consuming, all-absorbed, until he pushes her aside, onto the sheets and pulls her towards him by the hips. She hoists her buttocks upwards, supports them on top of closed fists, and opens herself up to him, wrapping her ankles around his neck. In this position he can watch himself slide inside her. Just half way in at first. He wants her to beg for it. If only he could suspend this moment, he thinks, catching his breath, and looking into her face. She is moaning, flushed, her right cheek pressing into the sheet, she wants more than just four inches of cock, she wants it all, she's pulling at his thighs with her fingers for more. And he gives it to her. But as he gathers momentum, it is her eyes that hold his gaze; they are leaking, spilling over into his. As she climaxes, her whole physical existence seems to dissolve, until only the smell of her lingers in the room around him. Hunter comes with her, and falls back onto the bed beside her.

Only, he's alone, slouched on his sofa-bed with the broken spring, his right hand is sticky with come, the only orgasm he can smell is from his own ejaculation, and his would-be lover, standing before the bed behind, is no more than an image on his computer screen.

With a start, he hears a key turn in the lock of the front door of the small, paint-peeling apartment, and then footsteps traipsing lightly along the corridor. He hastily wipes his hand clean on a stray sock that he picks up from the floor, and closes down the image on the screen. As the bedroom door bursts open he pulls up his jeans, and turns around reluctantly to greet Katinka, who is facing him with flushed cheeks and her bright, youthful smile. She crosses the room and kisses him on the lips, as he stuffs the smeared sock down the back of the sofa.