Fallen Ch 1 Pt 4

4.

Nina, the floor receptionist, smiled broadly when she saw me. But a look crossed her face when I told her what I wanted.

“She’s in a meeting-” she said, turning her head, but keeping her eyes pinned on mine. “Do you want me to let them know you’re here?” Her hand hovered above the phone.

“No,” I quickly said. “I’ll wait.”

I took a chair, but realized I couldn’t see from where I was. I moved it halfway across the room. Maria watched me through her long dark lashes. When I looked up, she looked away. She pretended to be busy. I watched her typing on her keyboard. Every once in a while she’d glance up at me.

Finally she stood up. “I’m going to take my lunch,” she said. But instead of heading for the door, she came around to me. She leaned down, and pressed a torn off piece of paper in my hand. “Call me,” she said quietly, glancing down the hallway. “If you want to talk.” I watched her head out of the room. She did not look back again.

I opened up my hand. “Call me,” her note said. She’d written down a number.

At one twenty I got up and walked slowly down the hallway. The door was solid, heavy, like it had been in my dream. The handle was burnished steel. I stood there. I couldn’t hear a thing. I touched the handle, but I didn’t try to turn it. I stood there, and then I turned and walked quickly back to my chair.

She came out at one thirty-one. She paused, at the doorway, looking back. The sun from John’s picture windows washed her face and body, lighting up the hallway where she stood. Her lips glistened in the sunlight. She touched them lightly with her tongue.

Her hair was mussed. She wore a pair of gold rim glasses. She was listening to something he’d said. She nodded, and turned to go. The back of her skirt was badly crinkled. As she shut the door, I saw one of the dark stockings that she’d worn had ridden down her leg. The whiteness of her thigh between her stocking top and her hemline flashed briefly in the sunlight, before she shut the door. Then she was gone, walking quickly down the hallway.

I hadn’t even known she owned a pair like that.

I confronted her at home, feeling angry and afraid. I couldn’t quite bring myself to say it; to tell her what I saw.

So I asked her about her stockings.

We were in the kitchen. She was standing by the sink. She whirled at the tone I used, looking angry, and concerned. “I bought them,” she said. She put her hands on her hips. “I told you that.”

“Why-” I demanded, “Are you wearing them to work?”

She stared back at me a moment, before she dropped her eyes. She turned around. She said something I couldn’t hear.

“What?” I demanded. I noticed the back of her stocking top was still showing underneath her skirt. “What?” I demanded, louder.

She put her hands on the counter, and lowered her head.

“He takes pictures,” she said. “I was going to tell you-”

I took a half step forward, so I was standing inches from her back. “Don’t hit me!” she cried. She hunched her shoulders, as if bracing for a blow. I held my breath, angry with her for saying that. “Maria-”

“No,” she said, “Please don’t.”

I stood over her, breathing hard, watching the muscles in her neck.

“Maria, turn around.”

She looked up at me, like a frightened little child. “That’s all it is,” she said, “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid it’d be like this.”

“Maria-”

“No,” she said, “I mean, I’m sorry. I should have told you before. It’s just – I don’t let him touch me, so we do – other things instead.”

I stared at her, afraid to ask. “You don’t let him touch you?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “Except, you know, my mouth.”

I turned away. It was like a punch in the gut, to hear her say it; though of course I’d already known.

“Maria-”

“No,” she said, “We’ll talk later.” She was creeping from the room. “You’re too angry now.”

I watched her turn her back on me.

“Maria,” I said, “Your stocking top is showing.”

She craned her neck to look behind. I watched her face turn red. She looked at me. “All day?”

I sat down and watched as she adjusted it, pulling up her skirt to pull it up.

“I’m so embarrassed,” she said. She stared at me. Then she came and sat down at the other end of the table.

“Michael,” she said, “They’re just pictures. I promise.”

I shook my head, not looking at her face. “Why,” I finally muttered. I looked up. “Why are you doing this?”

“Michael,” she said, “You know that.” I stared at her and then I got up and left the room.

I got up quickly and walked away. I headed for the bedroom and shut the door. I sat there, staring at my hands; I was trembling.

After a few minutes she knocked lightly and came in. I glanced up and then looked down again. She knelt in front of me. “Michael,” she said, staring up at my face. “In the future I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Promise. Anything at all.”

Her eyes were watery, dim. “Maria-”

She took my hands. “Don’t talk. Look at me.” She put my hands on her chest. “Feel my heart.”

I did.

“You know I’m telling the truth to you, don’t you?” she asked.

Three days later, Maria’s voice rang out from the bedroom when I came into the house. I’d forgotten she’d been to the hospital. “Honey,” she called out, “we have pictures!”

She’d left her bag lying on the table in the living room. The top of the bag had fallen open, and some of her things were spilling out. There was a hairbrush and a compact. There was also a stack of cards, black squares with white borders.

“Honey,” she said, “Look.” She handed me a series of grainy black and white images; she’d had her first sonogram. I saw her glance down where I was looking as she handed them to me. I examined them smilingly as she pointed out the little body parts.

“Wait,” she said, “There’s more.” She started to turn, reaching down for her purse, but I stopped her.

“What are these?” I asked, picking up the cards.

“Michael,” she said.

“What are they?” She blocked my hand, crossing my arm with hers.

“Don’t look at that.”

We stared at each other a moment, but I took her arm in my other hand and squeezed, dropping the sonograms to the floor. “Michael,” she said, “Don’t.” She paused, staring at me. “I told you about them.”

I gently moved her arm away.

“Don’t get mad, ok?” she asked, still staring up at me.

The first one showed her just standing there, in front of the windows in John’s room. She wore her conservative Dior business suit, the one I gotten her in New York. She was standing casually, partly turned away but facing the camera. You’d think it might be a candid shot. She wore her gold-rimmed glasses. “When did he take these?” I asked. She said nothing, but shrugged. “A couple days ago.” She started to turn away, but stopped when she felt the pressure from my hand. “Do I have to stand here?” she asked. I let go, but she didn’t move away. “Do you have to?”

I studied the picture. She looked good. Her hair was neatly put up, and the suit still fit her perfectly. Her glasses gave her a look of professional competence. You’d never guess she was an entry-level worker.

In the next one she’d taken off her glasses and let down her hair. She was smiling. I glanced up at her. “Are they all like this?” She shook her head.

In the third one, she was looking down, unbuttoning her blouse. A lacy white teddy was showing underneath. She put her hand up, covering the picture, but when I looked at her, she quickly put it down again. “You don’t have to look at these,” she said.

I shook my head and turned to the fourth. She was mostly naked now, wearing only her stockings, bra and panties, and high-heeled shoes. I felt my face begin to flush. She was leaning up against the windows, giving the cameraman a kind of sultry smirk. I glanced up at her. “You look like you’re enjoying this,” I said. She shook her head, staring down at the photo.

In the next one, she was lying on her back on the sofa. Her right leg was lifted onto the sofa’s back; the heel of her left shoe was on the floor. The camera angle was from between her legs. Her eyelashes hid her eyes, though she appeared to be looking at the camera. Her right hand was in her underwear; her left clasped a heart-shaped necklace around her neck. Her necklace and her wedding and engagement rings reflected light. I’d given her the necklace for mother’s day. “Proud of that?”

I turned the picture so she could see. She flushed more deeply, but lifted her eyes to mine.

“Do you?”

I felt the heat rising to my face as I turned the picture back.

The next photo showed her from behind, completely naked. She was leaning forward, with her hands pressed against the window, legs apart. She wore only shoes and stockings. The light from the window filtered through her pussy hair.

The next one was the same, except she was looking back, smiling.

I grimaced. I didn’t want to show it, least of all to her, but the pictures were--affecting me.

I shifted on my feet, uncomfortable with her body heat. She was standing so close to me.

She held my hand, steadying the photo.

“Michael?” She glanced up. Her lips were parted and I could see her tongue. “You like them, don’t you?” I looked back down at them.

Her nails were a dusty shade of pink. She moved her finger out onto the image.

“It’s ok,” she said. “So do I.”

I was weakening. I moved to turn it to the next one, but she spread out her hand.

“Not yet, Michael,” she said. “Not yet. Take me to the bedroom.” I looked at her hand; it was trembling. Her wedding and engagement bands were tight around her finger. She was gaining weight, due to her pregnancy; her rings needed to be re-sized. She pushed the pictures down and leaned into me. She kissed my face. She rubbed her breasts against my chest. I felt her little belly pressing against me. I dropped the photos to the floor.

With a shy, mischievous grin, she took down my pants. She took my cock out and led me by it to the bedroom.

She fucked me slowly on the bed. She fucked me with her stockings on. She bottomed out on me several times, but did not complain; instead she wiggled her hips in pleasure. As I felt her climax coming on, she leaned close and kissed my lips. “Of course that’s only some of them,” she said, “John still has the rest.”

Her pussy clenched and squeezed my cock, slippery in her juices. I came and came and came, and felt her come on top of me.