Lisbon

The first time they met, it was raining at the train station. They happened to be sitting next to each other waiting for the train, when a hole in the ceiling above dropped a small deluge two feet in front of them. She gasped and held both hands to her chest.

He surveyed the roof to determine if it was going to collapse. But it was just a hole. A new hole in an old roof.

They shared the surprise for an instant and, with a beep, the train doors opened.

"After you," he said. They filed in.

She thought he was well dressed: fitted grey suit and terrifically shaped shoes.

He went to the restroom with his small satchel. She sat down by the window and inspected the rain tracks on the glass.

When he emerged from the bathroom only 60 seconds later, the aisle seat next to her was hurriedly vacated by a young man who realized, in the nick of time, that he was on the wrong train. As the guy scrambled past, the well dressed man stood up straight and almost avoided having his toe trampled by the quickly exiting passenger. Almost.

The man sat down at once in the empty seat next to her. In a modest but sweeping motion, he extracted his powder blue pocket square handkerchief from his breast pocket and vigorously massaged the toe. She couldn't help but notice that this quick jerking motion, as he rubbed the handkerchief into the toe, had the effect of polishing those well designed shoes. As she watched, the big scuff mark disappeared.

"Aie," he said. She realized that she had been staring at his hand rubbing up and down on his shoe, which looked to her like a phallus. She literally burst out laughing, accidentally spitting on her blouse a little bit.

With his other hand, he made yet another flourish, theatrical but fey, and began to smooth his jacket, presumably trying to brush off the girl's spittle.

She was aghast, taken aback, even more so than the near miss with the waterfall back at the station. Her eyes searched for any evidence that she had just spit on him . . . desperately searching for wet spots on his lapel but unable to find a single one.

He had maneuvered his dirty hanky to his rear pocket and was pointing at the bead of bodily fluid hanging on the front of her shirt. She looked blankly at his finger, which was pointing directly to her left breast, as if he was pointing at a preferred stuffed animal he'd just won at a boardwalk game or an avocado in the outdoor market and saying, "I'll take that one" or "Is this for sale?"

All she could think to say was "yes," and without thinking, she said it. She instantly felt stupid at the sound of her positive outcry. Her eyes fell down below his line of sight. Then she realized that he may be trying to tell her that there was a large glob of saliva on her chest. Because her reaction time was so poor, he had a controlled impulse to flick the bead off of her, like lint off of his son's jacket before school. He stopped short and did not make any perceptible movement as if to touch her breast, where the salty liquid ball remained, unhindered.

She let out a soft groan and wiped her spit off of her shirt. She was mortified. She sat back flatly in her chair, rolling her eyes so that she wouldn't let any tears escape. Laughing at herself pathetically like a country western woman laughs about her second husband.

He was extremely handsome. Dapper. Aware. She was growing paralyzed.

He struck up a conversation with her about Lisbon, their destination.

No, she had never been.

Interesting line of work he is in.

He seemed to perceive and process everything that happened in the train car as they talked. He seemed both fully focused on the intersection of her cheekbone and her brown split end while simultaneously tracking every aspect of the people around them. The awkward flapping of the newspaper sections rearranged in the seat behind them. The off balance young adult in the fitted Yankees cap and earbuds who passed through the door between the cars. The track signals reflected in flashes in his eyes through the window as they passed through the tunnel, and the side to side percussion of the train on the track dovetailed with his speech flow, hypnotically. She grew entranced.

The conversation was stilted at times, it broke off in several bits and she was awkwardly self aware. He didn't seem to notice, winding back into and through the conversation, turning and returning her thoughts on his lathe.

She noticed once that just when the conversation seemed to be at a dead end, he tapped a small point from their earlier discussion, which unleashed a geiser of fascinating ruminations, systems and perceptions-in herself-sprung doors in her mind like secret compartments in an antique escritoire, which he plundered and read like philosophical texts on seduction and angst.

He insisted on her contact information as the train trip ended. She was nervous to the point of bodily disassociation, but she gave him her work card. Gently, he kept in touch the very next day.

As time unfurled, they developed a genuine deep and trusting friendship. He found her silence and the power of her words to be a revelation. She found their conversations similar to exploring a beautiful long abandoned mansion and estate, passing excitedly through hidden gardens, tower windows and the smokey smell of the fireplace. She found his depth and breadth to be inconceivable. She left her usually demur, if not diffident, stature and entertained the concept of giving herself completely to this man. She considered what it might mean to please him completely. To turn over her will to him without reserve.

At times, they met for coffee at a small cafe. As they spoke, she was taken to extraordinary levels of appreciation and understanding of his mind, and found secret double doors in her own mind, which she threw open fearlessly. Every moment they discussed in the cafe, his vigilance and awareness was undeniable, but his eyes passed over every inch of her as they talked. He stared, unabashedly at her earlobe, the curl of hair behind it, the skin on the underside of her wrist, the tendon on the outside of her knee when she wore her black business suit skirt. He drank in the visual imagery of her body like a vampire at the femoral triangle. At times, it appeared to him that he could have been blatantly robbed without noticing as he stared hungrily at the curve of her lower back.

But to her, he seemed to have mastered every element of the environment. He seemed to own every inch of wall space, to own each interaction with the waiter, to own everything he saw in front of him, including and especially her. His attention seared and blistered, like the hypervigilance of the delusionally paranoid. Or perhaps like that of a man who could completely own her.

After several months of meeting at the cafe, he said quixotically to the barista-"to go, please." This was the last time they would meet at the cafe for several years. She was shocked as he handed her a paper cup with an ounce of dark coffee on the bottom, a skinny inch of crema floating atop.

"Follow me," he said, placing his wrist behind her shoulder to usher her into a leg yield. She moved skittishly down the alley behind the cafe block and her thigh spasmed as they climbed a narrow set of stairs to the 2nd floor. They stood at a red door with a round brass knocker where he inserted a key into his newly rented flat. As she stepped through the threshold, she felt an immense relief.

After feeling utterly powerless in his presence from the moment she first saw him, she revelled in the expression of his dominance over her. He hadn't asked or bargained. His presumption made her wet. She blushed as she thought, he was finally going to lay stake to his unencumbered claim on her, to insert his will into her over and over at his pleasure. The euphoria washed over her, that this was her opportunity to receive a direction and purpose that she could never attain on her own. To eat it up like manna from heaven.

The flat consisted of a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom. It was sparse, the bed was a clean covered mattress on a well built metal frame. The flat had no panache, but like him, good taste seeped from the cracks in the door frame.

He stood in the doorway of the bedroom and glanced back with his hand extended to hers. She had turned around to close the door and catch her breath. His heart tremored. His eyes washed over her as if sopping up the sticky juices that spurted from the peach of her bottom, ripely plucked and cut with a sharp knife.

As she turned the lock on the door, ready to do whatever he might find pleasurable for as long as he would find her useful, she met eyes with him for a split second in the reflection of the small peephole of the door. The occular utility was tiny- if the tarnish and dust did not sit just as it did on the brass of the peephole fixture, no reflection would have been noticed and the actual events of that day almost certainly would have been supplanted by her complete and utter lack of will to control herself around him any longer.

But in that instant, she saw his eyes gazing at her bottom. She felt the focused complexity of his stare, slowly raking over every shaven hair follicle of her inner thigh, peeking out from her skirt. This was the same stare that he had fixed on her since he first narrowly dodged the downpour of rain, just by staying perfectly still. This was the same dense gaze that he held her in every time he saw her at the cafe. Maybe it was the bareness of the room, but for the first time she did not feel that she was an obedient citizen of the panopaly belonging solely to him. In that one instant, she felt not as she had felt before: instead she felt that she was his world.

Something changed for her. She discovered a mysterious corridor of herself in that instant that was unknown to him. And a source of immense power and total control.

She turned on one heel and met his eye contact with a hammercloud of courage.

His hand was outstretched to her, but she did not flinch. Desperate to be with her, to make love to her, he moved quickly toward her and placed his hand around the small of her back to say, "come, come." She was immoveable.

He didn't care if they made it to the bed. He needed her atomically. He began to touch her back, just under the hem of her jacket. He moved his finger into the waistband of her skirt. She turned her head on a downward incline to look at him touching her. Her breathing was steady and deep, and she felt a thin bead of moisture track down her inner thigh. He moved the flat of his palm to the indentation where her belly meets her hip and pressed it there, squeezing her in his large hand and running his other fingers along the waistband to the zipper in the back. Her neck muscles sharpened and released and her head fell forward, brushing the tips of her hair against his shirt collar.

"Is this how you want me?" she asked, her voice deeper and more steady than he had ever heard. The skirt fell to her ankles and he stepped squarely on the fabric on the floor between her feet, pushing her against the door and supporting her back as her heels cleared the hurdle.

"You belong to me," he said.

She felt his rigid quadricep pressing in between her legs like the broad crusty baguette she had once bought in Portugal, unable to get her fingers around its dusty breadth when the baker passed it to her over the counter.

She felt the transfer of moisture to the fabric of his suit pants and she pushed an index finger into the fold of leather inside his belt buckle. He kissed the triangle of her neck, just above her clavicle as she moved both hands to his zipper. She bent her knees deeply and slid his pants to the floor as her head dropped down the length of his body.

"Is this how you want me?" she asked again, her eyes straining against her sockets to look up at his face.

He kicked off his shoes, stepping on the toe of each sock and kicking his foot back as she stripped away his pants to a crumpled pile in front of the stove. She fingered the tight outline where his bikini briefs held his sac, slipping her index finger just under the edge. The manicured sharpness of her fingernail sent extracorporeal spasms in radiant waves from his achilles tendon to his cranial hair follicles. Her finger hooked and pulled the hem down hard, scraping the fabric over the skin of his shaft until it ricocheted free and smacked her on the bottom of her chin. She let him see her small smile. He held her hair in his right hand now, on the side of her head, above her ear and mashed her face into his lap. Her nose engulfed in his scrotum, she breathed in sandal and sweat. She opened her mouth as wide as she could and kissed his balls, like a little girl trying to eat an enormous grape.

Balanced in a squat, with her ass a few inches off the ground, she held onto his hand and slowly kissed his balls. He moved his bare right foot under her left thigh and traced long lines there with the dorsal fin of his instep. She could feel how wet she was each time his foot touched her. He moved the tip of his toe against her panties, crushing the wetness of the fabric against her, as if it were his tongue, slowly licking her crotch, over the underwear, the side of his foot bristling against the inside of her left thigh.

All of her blood and her awareness fell with gravitational acceleration to her clit and her head had fallen forward into his sex. Her mouth and nose had collapsed into the skin of his scrotum and she couldn't breathe. She moved her hand to the base of his cock and pulled the skin up over her face, drawing up his heavy balls. She flattened out her tongue and licked the bottom of his sac in a wide circle. He made a half circle turn with his wrist to secure his grip on her hair and guided her mouth in a forehand turn up the shaft of his cock, her lips moving up the length as if she was licking warm butter off a corn cob. Myofacial impulses shot like heat lightning throughout his back when he felt the edges of her lower teeth pass by the underside of his glans. He pushed her head down on his cock as soon as she got to the top. He felt like he'd reached the end of a long, hilly waterslide on the beach, finally plunged into the warm seawater, fully engulfed, with the undertow sucking him in deeper.

He stood, squarely flatfooted, with her unabashedly riding his foot now, grinding herself back and forth over the large bone connecting his ankle and his big toe. He let his right hand hang in the tangle of her hair and spread his left hand straight above his head, anchoring it in the top of the door jamb as she pulled his cock deeply into her mouth. She curled her fingertips around his balls, as if presenting an egg for inspection before a magic trick. Her filed nails made the skin draw tight around his sac and she pulled down gently at the bottom of his balls while she sucked his cock.

He commanded her in a low growl, telling her exactly what to do in a brutal language they spoke though neither of them knew. She pouted and whined, frustrated that she couldn't swallow him any deeper into her body.

He lifted her up and back away from his cock, martingaling her by the hair and the side of her ear, her hand desperately clamping onto his wrist to keep her balance as she rose up and back from her squat.

He spun her face around and pressed her forehead against the door. With his free hand he twisted the fabric of her underwear at the side of her hip, which broke in his hand before he could slide it over her ass.

"This is," he groaned, "how I want you," he said as she whimpered against the door. She felt him tighten his grip on the side of her face and felt his cock sliding towards her pussy. The metal casing of the peephole cut into her eyebrow and she clenched her body in pain. He felt the mouth of her vagina pursed closed before his erection like a reluctant first kiss. He squeezed an extra burst of blood into his cock, causing it to swell and surge past the closed doors and force her pussy to open to him. She gasped and tears grew in the corner of her eye.

"This," she said aloud, not knowing whether she had formed a whole thought. He kept forcing his way into her, straightening out the angles of their body as his cock went deeper, shaping her body to accommodate him. He pushed her hard against the wall and then drew back, leaving her pussy empty like the pool at Talbot Bay, at the rushing recession of the tide. In shell shock, her mind looked for sensate data to verify that all systems were in tact, but could only place the burning wetness at the hood of her clit. She winced again from the pain of her face pressed into the door and moved her hand between her legs to check if she was bleeding. He felt the contracting muscles of her pussy trying to keep him out and ploughed into her again, this time harder. One hand groping for clues of what had happened to her clit, she fell off balance even more and her shoulder and neck crashed against the door, which rattled on its hinges. He scooped her torso back with his left hand and pushed her body away, the way Tyson pushed off his opponents in the 80's... as if for their own protection. He clamped his grip on her hair again and clawed her left hip towards him, pulling her off the door and swinging her around to the kitchen table, where he bent her breasts onto the flatness of the wooden tabletop.

"Aie. Aie. Whaoh, aie," she was out of breath and beaten. She arched her neck and looked straight ahead, searching to find a reflection in sink or backsplash that would connect her feelings to this man. He held her there in front of him, assward presenting and prone. He felt completely powerless to do all but one thing. He crossed his left arm over their bodies and twisted her left leg, by the ankle, up towards the ceiling and past his face, rotating her onto her back, suspended off the floor and laying on the kitchen table. He moved his left hand down to her hip and pushed his cock back inside her. She laughed greedily and slid her hand over the side of his face. He kissed her fingertips and pushed himself gently and fully inside of her pussy. Time suspended there as he moved almost imperceptibly inside of her. Molecules, bacteria, cells exploded on the surface where they met, inside her body, trading information at an astronomical rate.

But outside, their bodies hung like dust particles in the echo of a newly rented flat. His glans pushed into her interior walls, their skins learning the secrets of each other's sweat, her body becoming his sheath, warm gloves for his powerful hands. He couldn't stop moving, rocking gently into her as she hungrily sucked his tongue into her mouth and bit it sweetly. He moved his hands all over her. He squeezed her nipples under her fraying blouse, which she felt to be the pain of his war flag, piercing her body, saying, "you are mine." His right hand never released the reins of her long hair, continually sending the message to her entire body that she was open right now. He held her miserly, rocking into her pussy and speaking in the low growl of mating wolves. She felt covered in his semen, completely debased, violated and controlled. She floated in his sex like the floating gauzy white blossoms under cherry trees in the spring. She felt his breath like the overly warm, steady breeze that wore glaciers into canyons with no conception of the price of time.

Her need grew steadily under his weight and her hips began to switch and spasm with his rotation inside her. She scratched her nails into his abdomen and he pulled her hair back sharply, pushing her breasts up and out.

He moved back and forth with longer strides, raking the base of his shaft against the back wall of her body, until the shaft popped out and slapped against her clit. He rubbed his cock up and down her vulva, then positioned his head back at the entrance of her. With no warning, he moved his left hand under her hips and placed his thumb at the entrance to her anus, which had been hungrily absorbing the moisture of her excitement ever since she'd been turned.