Janine After Dark

My phone buzzes just as I'm drifting off to sleep. Funny, I thought I'd turned it off as I usually do before bed. I consider ignoring it--who would be in touch at this hour, anyway?--but then curiosity gets the better of me. I grope around for my glasses in the dark then bring the phone close to my face. The unnatural light is harsh on my eyes but I quickly adjust and see a notification: Message from Janine.

The fog of early slumber suddenly clears. I touch the screen to see what might have caused you to send a message so late; it's out of character, and for a second I wonder if something might be wrong. The screen changes color as your message pops up, but it's not a message after all, it's a photograph. But a photo of what, I can't quite tell. There's a yellow-orange glow of the kind a table or bedside lamp gives off, soft and low, illuminating the object of the picture, which is blurred and apparently very close up. There's no distinct feature I can identify to tell me exactly what I'm looking at, but all the same I'm aware--despite the lamp-tinted shading--that this is a photograph of skin.

My first thought is that you took a photo by accident, as sometimes happens when a phone is not in use but otherwise being handled--transferred from purse to table, or pocket to night-stand--but then I realize it would have taken a few more steps actually to

send

the photo, steps that would be impossible to happen all in a row by accident.

So I wait, thinking you might have intended to attach a text but hit send prematurely. In another minute or so my screen refreshes with an accompanying buzz, and there's another message from you, or rather another photo. This time, the camera is focused, and I can make out features. What I thought was skin is now confirmed in this clearer shot, and it's familiar skin that brings a smile to lips. To either side I see the edges of a delicate white lace border angling up to the corners of the frame, and at the top of the photograph there's an exposed throat and the tip of a chin--unmistakably your throat and your chin.

I feel my heart thump in my chest. I type back:

--This is an unexpected surprise. Can't sleep? How's the recovering patient?--

You've been laid up after a minor surgery on your back. You've been living on the ground floor of your house for a week now. No stairs. You're bored and restless, the two states most likely to drive you to get in touch. Especially after dark.

Another minute goes by and my phone buzzes again. Another photo, but still no message. The new shot is from a slightly greater distance than the last. The lacy borders of your nightdress have been pulled farther apart so that your collarbone and shoulders are now exposed. At the bottom in the center is the hint of a shadow of the top of your cleavage. Up top I can see the lower third of your face, the lines of your jaw. Your lower lip is just visible and it's stretched wide: you're smiling.

I gaze at the expanse of skin you're showing me. My cock is already hard; the head is poking above the waistband of my pajama shorts, demanding attention. I type:

--Is this a striptease by text? Please continue!--

Your next transmission is another photo, again with no text, but this time you've returned to the close-up, right up against the lower half of your face. I realize I'm longing to see your eyes but you're denying me, sticking to the slow burn. What I

can

see is your pretty mouth puckered into a little pout, with your forefinger laid across your lips making the 'Shh' sign.

--You're wicked, Janine. You're making me want you right now--

Another minute goes by and my phone buzzes again. My mouth is dry as I tap open the new message. This time you decided to throw a poor dog a bone. The bottom of the photo is framed by your left arm, which you've extended across your ribs to support and contain your unruly breasts. Your left hand is cupping your right breast. Both nipples are erect, and the dark valley of your cleavage calls to me like the Abyss.

--God, so perfect--

I reach down to stroke myself but then a thought occurs to me. Meanwhile another message arrives from you, this time actual text:

--I pinch your nipples--

I immediately reply:

--I'm coming to you--

And seconds later you send back:

--Back porch. Don't say a word--

Within five minutes I'm on the road, in T-shirt and sweat pants and untied sneakers, barreling down more or less empty highways. I have no idea how fast I'm going; my consciousness has raced ahead of me and is already at your place, waiting impatiently for my body to catch up. I'm navigating by pure instinct and fueled by single-minded desire. My heart thumps behind my ribs like a bass drum in a concrete dungeon. The windows are open but it's only humid summer air that rushes in, carrying a hint of fading honeysuckle.

I pull off Thousand Oaks onto your narrow driveway, which threads away into blackness through a deep and thick stand of trees. Your house is in a clearing on the other side of the woods, a couple hundred yards away and invisible from the road: your six-acre suburban oasis. I can sense you waiting for me back in there, a succulent treasure for me to claim. But there's danger, too, the throb of a threat from Alec, your husband, suspicious and vigilant--with good reason--when it comes to his Janine.

That's part of the thrill, of course. Especially for you, lover. I know how long you've wanted me to sneak into your house and take you right under his nose. You told me how much it would turn you on to know the scent of my stale come on your thighs in the morning would trigger his suspicions while driving him crazy with uncertainty. You told me he might kill you if he found out for certain, and somehow it's this extreme reaction that fuels your fantasy: the real possibility of physical obliteration as the ultimate declaration of ownership. You told me you love how possessive Alec is. You love

him

all the more for it.

It's your fantasy, Janine, not mine; but God damn if it doesn't stir me to my depths. And I wonder how two people this messed up find each other in the wide world. Or are there more like us than we might think?

In any case, I can't risk discovery (I'm not suicidal) so I turn off the headlights barely two car lengths in from the road. The darkness is sudden and absolute. No more driving from here, so I kill the engine and step out into the dense midnight air.

There's a hint of moonlight making its way through the clouds and, as my eyes adjust, the clearing beyond the trees becomes just visible, faint blue-white streaks like slashes through a black curtain. I make my way slowly down the driveway, sensing rather than seeing the adjacent trees. My breathing is hard, almost a pant, as anticipation and hyper-awareness wrestle in my gut, the urge to turn and run choked into submission by irresistible desire.

At the edge of the clearing I see your house, half in shadow, half ghostly and insubstantial in pale moonlight. It's still a hundred yards away across open grassland, but I can feel you in there, round back, tucked up in your recliner on the back porch, posing for yourself by the light of your phone. Did you send me more pictures since I left? Did you get bolder with the slow reveal? I left the phone at home so you couldn't change your mind and call me off. This dog has a scent in his snout and nothing short of shotgun blasts will keep him from tracking the quarry to its den.

Talking of shotguns, I'm suddenly alert for signs of movement over at the house, inside or out, that might hint at Alec doing night patrol, monitoring the perimeter while his restless woman writhes inside, his bitch in heat baying for a special kind of attention.

And I wonder for a second if he's in on it.

Did you and Alec coax me here? Janine, did Alec tell you what to show me on your amateur-hour snaps? Was he there on the porch with you, shotgun loaded and cocked, resting across his forearm while he urged you to push your tits together? "Make him drool, Jan. Make him salivate for you. Get that dog good and horny and bring him howling to me."

Well if that's the case, I guess it worked, didn't it?

But you know what, Janine? Fuck Alec. You're worth it. You're worth those final few seconds with hard metal against the back of my skull while I'm a yard inside you, mashing my balls against your asshole as you wail in my ear that no one gives it to you like Freddie gives it to you.

Did I guess it, Janine? Did I guess how you'd want it to end? Did I guess it right for all three of us? Yeah, you know I guessed it.

Or perhaps not. Maybe I'm getting a little delirious out here with all the anticipation. Maybe my mind's playing tricks.

I set out from the cover of the tree line, keeping to the edge of the clearing, running at a half crouch. For a second I imagine being shot at from an upstairs bedroom window, picked off like a stag in rutting season, brought down at the final moment of maximum anticipation and minimum caution, driven forward only by a delirious lust. But not even a bullet to the heart could subdue the erection swinging back and forth inside my sweatpants as I finally make it to the shadows of the house.

Around back I carefully mount the wooden steps to the back porch and slip through the screen door. The interior house door is closed but not locked. Inside, you've turned off the lamp and there's barely even a gloom to see by. The air is warm and close and filled with your scent and I know I can find you in the dark with the most primitive of my senses. I take off my shoes, pants, and T-shirt and pile them near the door. My cock sways like a divining rod and leads me to you. Up close I can just make out your form, propped against a pile of pillows, half-reclining. My eyes adjust some more and I can see the halo of your hair, the areolae of your nipples, the generous swoop of your glorious tits, and the crazy-making curves of your hips and thighs. I step close and reach out to stroke your cheek with my hand. In turn your reach up and squeeze my hand, and I push two fingers into your mouth, wanting the hot wetness of you everywhere on me. I'm looking where your eyes are and I can tell you are looking towards mine but really we're sensing the connection rather than seeing it. Had we been blind and lost in a football stadium we'd still have found each other through vibration, scent, and the sound of our breathing.

I feel your fingers delicately flicker across the underside of my balls and then softly squeeze, tugging lightly. With your other hand you take hold of my shaft and begin a slow roundtrip from base to tip. I am so hard my skin could burst.

In a sudden instinctive move I straddle your midriff so that your breasts are tight up against my thighs. You're still holding my cock as I push my hips forward, aiming for your mouth. You sense my intention and rather than decline the advance you guide me onwards and soon I feel the blissful envelopment of your soft hot mouth. Your tongue writhes underneath and the sensation is so overwhelming that it's a matter of mere seconds before I am pumping my hot come down your throat. When I withdraw you let out a breathless gasp but there's barely any sound beyond a little "oomph" as you swallow my first offering.

I take my time working my way down your body, first pushing your breasts together (as you'd done for me in the photo earlier) and slipping my still-hard shaft between them, then gradually inching down your body and kissing you at every available touch-point, from the top of your head to your eyelids and cheeks and lips and chin, on down to your clavicle, your armpits, your nipples and ribs, your belly, and eventually to your pelvis where I lick and kiss your crevices and mound, working in toward your sacred points as you open your thighs to me and I'm filled with the essence of you through my nose and mouth. I lap at your clitoris until it stirs from its pouch, and when I feel you claw at the back of my head more and more insistently I know you need and crave to be filled up.

I lift myself from you for a moment so you can adjust your position as needed to receive me, aware that your mobility and pain levels won't permit too much in the way of gymnastics. I know you're ready when I feel your hands clasping my upper arms and drawing me to you.

I take a full minute to enter you, allowing the sensation of your engulfing tunnel to spread slowly down the length of me. Your breathing is shallow and quick and you barely move as though in a kind of paralysis. This persists until the base of my penis nudges your mons, then it's as if a switch has been thrown. Your hips suddenly spread as you claim the last of me and your calves come to rest on my lower back. You take in a long slow and deep breath, at the end of which you let out a low "Mmm" of complete contentment. I reach up and place a forefinger across your lips to remind you of the rule. You bite my fingertip playfully, and then harder as you feel me begin the first of a thousand strokes that will go on to last a full hour, and which inch you closer and closer to a mind-emptying climax.

Thirty minutes into our splendid fucking we both freeze as we hear first movement overhead, then footsteps. I am deep inside you when time stands still. Without risking an inch of movement we share a long deep kiss, our tongues entwined. We gently bite each other's lips, then hold tight as we listen for further movement. I am impatient to resume and begin to swirl my cock inside you with tiny gyrations of my hips. You reach down to grab my ass and I feel you evaluating my glutes, knowing I've complained of muscle loss back there. Finally we hear from somewhere upstairs the sound of a toilet flushing followed by receding footsteps. You pat my ass approvingly, and I begin to gouge you deeper than ever as the taste of your sweet mouth has renewed my straining erection. From now on nothing--not even an eighteen-wheel truck busting through the porch--will stop our momentum as we approach the inevitable summit of our lust. We spin together in the ether for a time, uncertain as to our true identities, merged as a new combined personality, from which we finally collapse back into ourselves as the spinning slows.

After a few minutes I withdraw from you and let my cock draw a trail of our combined excretions along your inner thigh. I help you back into your nightdress and you settle back into the recliner. We share a prim kiss. Not a word has been spoken.

As I stand to leave, two things happen almost simultaneously: your phone vibrates on the side table by the recliner, and you begin to wave your hands at me signaling you want me to come closer. The phone continues to buzz as I lean towards you. You cup my chin in your hands and guide my head to one side until your lips are tight up against my ear. Then a third thing happens: a heavy

whomp

from upstairs, something hard striking the floor. You inhale sharply and my ear is so close I can actually hear the fear in your indrawn breath. A second later you say directly into my brain, "I think you better run."

I spring from the recliner like it was suddenly electrified. I grab my pants and T-shirt and sneakers from the floor by the door, and I'm out of there. Naked and bootless, I sprint across the clearing to the darkest sliver of black in the treeline up ahead, to the driveway, and to the car, where I figure my odds of escape have improved, if only marginally, from 'dismal' to 'heavily stacked against.'

The pedals are like daggers in the arches of my bare feet, but I ignore them as I slam the car into reverse and plunge backwards through the night and out onto Thousand Oaks Road. The tires squeal in protest as I quickly shift and hit the gas and spin the wheel in a single motion fueled by adrenaline and panic, peeling away from there in what I can only hope is the right direction. I'm shifting up into third before I realize I'm laughing hysterically and panting for breath and sweating torrents onto the leather seat.

Laughing and panting and sweating.

But mostly laughing.