After Me

Chapter 01: Opening Remarks

I suppose I should avoid the temptation to begin by suggesting that I never intended for any of this to happen.

First, after these past four months with Bonnie, the mere thought of ever voicing as unoriginal an idea as that again makes me uneasy. It's not that I was always this committed to authenticity. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. Before I met Bonnie, I'd have been happy to assign such a vapid caption to the events of my life.

But not anymore.

Not after Bonnie.

When she found me, I really was nothing more than a lost animal wandering aimlessly in wilderness, separated from the herd and stumbling about in mute desolation. I had collected several birthdays, and I was proud of them---keeping them stacked in my pocket like a sleeve of quarters--but had managed little else in my 26 years. I was immature. Crude and undeveloped. I painted the world gray to appear vibrant by contrast.

But she knew. Instinctively, she understood what I was and how she could get to me.

That's why when it's all said and done, it would be a mistake to infer from any of this that she rescued me or somehow saved me from myself with her gentle intervention. Nothing could be further from the truth. When she spotted me that day on the elevator, she was no angel of mercy.

She was a lioness, and I was her helpless, succulent prey. Knowing what I know now, I can imagine how her mouth must have watered at the prospect of taking me. Of devouring me. And once I was fully in her sights, she stalked me easily. Relentlessly. She sized me up. Identified my several and obvious weaknesses and then commenced to quickly overwhelm me.

In the end--in the rushing moments before she deftly overtook me and silently gathered me up--it wasn't difficult or shocking at all. It was actually a relief. As I relaxed and consented to her inevitability, something inside me loosened and I felt all those years of practiced deceit slacken and then drain from my limbs and spiral away. I then gave myself to her as a final act of obedience. As if I'd been waiting for that moment all my life.

And she felt it. I'm sure of it. Though we never spoke of it, I'm certain it pleased her to have authored my transformation. How else to explain the care she took in pulling me back to her lair, dismantling me and then rearranging my every part. And when I was reassembled--as I lay naked across her lap nursing at her twin ruby nipples--was she not uniquely pleased? Not simply at my having sated, however temporarily, her ravenous lust, but at this new creation suckling her breast?

So no, I have no further use of cliches. They're quite dead to me now, in fact. I'll speak now of Bonnie the only way I now remain able to.

Simply. The devoted testimony of the recently converted.

But that's all really beside the point. There's another, far less complicated reason I can't possibly say I didn't intend this, and it's got nothing to do with it being cliche.

I can't say it because it's a lie.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but Bonnie is the most supremely fuckable woman I've ever seen.

And when I say "fuckable", I certainly don't mean "pretty" or "beautiful" or even "sexy". I know what those words mean, and they're not what Bonnie is. That's not so say that she isn't all of those things, because she is.

Pretty freckles dotting her little upturned nose? Absolutely.

Beautiful, strawberry blonde hair? Without a doubt.

Sexy hips constantly churning beneath too-tight skirts? Most assuredly.

But the trouble with these words is that they're tiny. Like pebbles dropped into a well. They are insufficient to capture the enormity of her sexual presence. So she is those things, only not.

Somehow.

Like taking photographs out the window of a moving car. You'll get an image or two if you're lucky, but you'll never capture the motion. That dizzying, belly-twisting euphoria you get when you stick your head out there at sixty miles an hour.

Bonnie is like that.

Pure instinct. Her body an instrument of purpose, tuned by nature to animate her primitive cravings.

Her legs, hips and mouth.

Her breasts.

They are all extensions of her innate desire. By themselves, they might somehow be mistaken for ordinary, but only by those unaware of the ravenous beast at her core which orchestrates their every movement.

That's why looking at her--as I did for the first time that day--it's actually quite difficult to intend anything other than to fuck her. Not to make love. Not to have sex.

To fuck her.

To lift her skirt. To slide your palm down her back and slowly nudge her over the side of your desk. To patiently reach down between her legs and urge her thighs apart. Further. A little bit more. Her soft, white thighs. Thick. Coated with a sheen of sweat and the tang of adrenaline. To trace your thumb up from the back of her knee and nestle it into the crease of her buttocks. Silky fur tickling your knuckles. To then hook your thumb into her panties and slide them delicately across her hot, slippery pussy. To listen to the soft moan bubble up from inside her and escape sweetly from between her parted lips. To feel the anticipation radiating off her like a warm glow and then to quench it by plunging deeply into her. Cupping the cool white globes of her ass firmly while she looks back over her shoulder and whimpers. Eyes rolling back. Biting her lower lip. Hair fanned across her sweating, pretty face.

And she does more than simply understand this. She assumes it. She relies on it. It's the rhythm which thrums from her and captivates those lucky enough to become entranced with it.

So.

While it is technically true that in the beginning it was impossible for me to fathom the precise depth of the depravity which was to follow, it would be ridiculous for me to suggest that I didn't intend to follow her wherever she led.

So I won't start that way. Instead, I'll start at the beginning.

I met Bonnie in an elevator a few minutes after nine o'clock on a rainy Monday morning. It was my first day at my new job and I was late. I was also soaked to the skin.

An hour or so earlier, I had left my apartment without an umbrella, but with what I thought was plenty of time to navigate the trains and get to work early.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Ready for my closeup.

What I didn't anticipate was the rain. Like any one of the millions of other young people living in too-small New York City apartments, I saw the world through a couple of dirty windows and rarely considered anything I couldn't see. It also didn't help that I never watched or listened to the morning news. I was a cartoon man from way back.

Tom and Jerry. Heathcliff. The good stuff.

So forecasts be damned, I bounded eagerly down the steps and out my front door. Feeling a little sprinkle, I happily disregarded it. What was the worst that could happen?

By the time I was halfway to my subway station, I found out. The skies darkened and then opened up in a torrent of water. I sprinted the remaining few blocks and then darted down the stairs to the turnstiles. I boarded the train without too much delay, but the rain was doing its business upstairs and everything was wet and slow.

Two stops away from my destination, my train stalled. As we idled in the station, I bailed and decided to take my chances on the street. Seemingly everyone else in Lower Manhattan had that exact same idea at that exact same moment, but I was different.

I had forgotten my umbrella.

Undaunted, if not more than a little annoyed, I elbowed my way aggressively through sidewalks choked with people, puddles and filth. After two blocks, I was utterly defeated. The rain devoured me. My shoes and pant legs were covered in mud. Any lingering first-day-of-work excitement drained weakly from my body and was replaced by a slow-rolling wave of black dread.

Today would be a terrible day.

After fifteen more blocks, I finally trudged up to the front of my building. Smart looking men and women nodded curiously and condescendingly at me from beneath looming black umbrellas.

All clean.

All dry.

How many of them would I meet later inside? How many would remember that wet idiot from the street?

I scooped a handful of limp, wet hair from my forehead and pushed it back over my head. Determined to make the best of things, I waited as a dour old man passed in front of me, then spun through the revolving doors into the cool, chill embrace of the lobby. Across the marble expanse, I spied an elevator with its doors open and walked quickly toward it.

All I needed was to get upstairs quickly and find the bathroom. Then I could dry and fix my hair and maybe straighten my clothes a bit before anybody noticed. I couldn't be the only one. Surely everyone else today was wet?

As I hurried along, my hair flopped back down over my eyes and my face was once again awash in a slick of fresh rainwater. I stepped blindly into the open elevator as the doors closed behind me and crossed to the far corner of the car. I was alone as far as I could tell.

For a long moment, I stood still to better assess the nature of my predicament. Panic. That was surely the answer. It rose in my belly and I tasted it in the back of my throat. My shirt--formerly clean and pressed but now reduced to a soggy, wrinkled mess--clung to my skin over a thin mortar of sweat and rain. I couldn't even remember my floor, let alone where the bathroom was. Didn't I use it at the interview?

I breathed in deeply and felt a warm droplet of water slide over my neck, under my collar and down between my sweat-slicked shoulder blades. The elevator bell dinged and the doors began to softly close.

A feminine voice mercifully broke the silence.

"Wow."

Startled, I looked up. My hair flopped once again down over my eyes and I pushed it back over my forehead and behind my ears again as I turned to what I thought was the direction of the voice.

"You look pretty lost," said the voice. After stifling a giggle, it continued. "First day?"

Of course it was Bonnie, though I didn't know that yet. In my surprise, all I could tell at that moment was that she was impossibly dry and fresh and apparently expecting some form of reply from me. She stared patiently at me with soft brown eyes peeking out from behind her bangs.

I was a speechless, dripping wreck, but as I gathered my thoughts, I had the opportunity to focus them on the woman now standing before me--on the woman who would come to dominate my every thought and action in the months to come.

She was tall, only a few inches shorter than I was, but that was likely the effect of the heels she wore, which I noted approvingly were at least 3 or 4 inches high. I loved the way women looked in heels, and she was doing nothing to convince me otherwise. Her best features, however, were restrained in the confines of her clingy blue dress. Long legs leading into full, rolling hips, sloping down into a slim waist and taut belly before blossoming once again into heavy, voluminous breasts which she displayed proudly. It would be woefully inadequate to say that she had a great body. She had a sublime body, and at that moment, I was sure she was making sure I knew it.

"Yes," I said. "First day."

"Well you look like you could use some help."

"Yes," I said, trying to compose myself. My appraisal of her, though quick, was thorough, and I was developing the beginnings of a fantastic erection which I was already having little success in controlling. Soon, I'd need to sit down. "I think I actually do."

"OK, then, let's get started. My name is Bonnie. What's your floor?"