I see you once or twice a year, not often enough to call you lover, and in between the business meetings where we trip into each other in a Houston or Minneapolis hotel, I drop the kids off at school, drive the station wagon to the office park, run the kids to soccer practice, ladle pasta onto dinner plates, suck my husband's cock. You have a clean-shaven face, brown velvet hair, a tall, muscular physique and a cock several shades darker than your cinnamon skin that, smooth and elegant when erect, looks as if it has been dipped in Port wine. Still, the months pass, and details of you - the lines on your face, the part in your hair - fade.
But I never forget your voice. Every few weeks the phone rings and I pick it up without a glance at the caller ID, tone all workaday, to encounter a conversation that's "How was your day?" meets "What are you wearing?"
This morning, I answered, annoyed at the interruption. I had a meeting in an hour for which I was still preparing.
"Hello," you said, liquid gold. My nipples tightened against my silk camisole. We rambled. An off-white thong, I offered. Going to Los Angeles next week, you said. The conversation rolled, and when I hung up all I could make out was your voice, melting me as if I were butter and you the heat, the tone that turns my clit on as if it were a switch and never clicks it off. I checked my watch. If I moved fast I could get myself off in the private bathroom and fake it through the meeting.
I locked the door, clicked on the light, kicked off my shoes and looked at my reflection in the mirror hanging over the sink. My blond hair, curly and wild, was pulled back in a clip, wisps escaping. I hiked my skirt above the rim of my thigh-high sheers, the tops of which peek out when I sit, and shimmied out of my thong and white slip, which fluttered to the floor. White slips feel childishly virginal. Every fall, when school was about to start, my mother took me shopping for new clothes: Carter's cotton underpants, plaid wool kilts with an oversized pin to hold the leg closed, saddle shoes, a new white slip.
The fluorescent light flickered like a strobe. Have to call Maintenance, I thought, I looked back to the mirror. I wanted to see what you see when I cum.
I lifted my skirt again, placed a foot on the sink, and raised myself on the other foot so I could see my reflection as I opened. I could see the handful that is my outer lips, fair hair partly shaven. The furrows as I widen my thighs, every one of which tells its own story. The tawny skin that gives way to a ruddy pink, glistening, even in the fluttering light. The clit popping outward as if to say, Please hurry.
I parted my lips, then brought my hand to my face and sniffed. I remembered the mustiness in the folds of your balls, the salt pungency of the cum you squirt, moaning, on my belly and breasts. I deposited a mouthful of cum-like spit in my hand, reached past my ass and rubbed my asshole.
I stared at the mirror. What do you see as I become aroused? Even in the vague light I could make out the flush that rose from my chest, up my neck and across my face. The short, shallow breaths. The tongue circling my lips. The dry mouth that craved the moistening of your tongue.
I started circling my clit with my other hand, slow, then fast, then slow again, but hard and rough. Once I'd teased my asshole enough, I plunged three fingers into my pussy. I could have let them slide, but instead I widened them, so I could feel the scrape of my fingernails and their changing shape as I flexed and extended my fingers, an animal running wild.
My little finger stayed outside, but I wanted more. I remembered that I had sliced its tip with a knife a few days before. It was deep enough that I could have gotten sutures, but I chose to bandage it myself. It was taking awhile to close, and I liked the idea that on some small scale I was flirting with danger. I pulled my hands away and removed the Bandaid: a pink, open wound. The wetness of my pussy would sting the cut, I knew. I plunged all four fingers in and opened myself wider. I felt the nails inside my pussy and the burning cut, and I remembered how your thick cock hurts when you fuck me hard.
I could no longer keep my eyes open. I imagined us in a hotel room, several floors above some city, any city. It is late afternoon and the curtains are flung open. Natural light has painted the space goldenrod. The comforter fell to the floor hours ago and most of the pillows soon followed.
Later there will be a dinner reservation, an expensive Merlot, my wild-as-a-storm hair contained in a girl's ponytail, sandals and a short skirt with no panties, slacks with no boxers, tight enough so I can watch the muscle of your ass, the ridge I have run my tongue along, as I follow you to the darkened corner table, yet loose enough so that, as I agitate my stem glass, sniff the wine's bouquet and feel you tease my thighs with your fingers, there is room for me to massage your balls, which seem to float in the fabric.
