I'm Harper and this is my story. This is hard. First, I haven't written anything since leaving college. Second, what I am about to relate is intensely personal. I've changed names. I've altered details. But the essence of what happened is all there. I think it will be good for me to share this tale. It might help me to process things, maybe even to learn from my decisions and the consequences of them. I hope so.
Back in the day, my creative writing professor said we should never start a story with either biography or description. Instead you need to leap straight in with your brother getting his arm broken. I mean fuck that! I'm not after a Pulitzer Prize here.
So, I'm in my late thirties. I mentioned already that I went to college. You can probably tell, but I didn't major in English. I ended up focussing on Urban Planning and now work for a public college, essentially helping to run the place smoothly. I'm not passionate about my work, but the people are nice and I feel I'm doing something useful. Work is far from the center of my life.
What is at the center is my marriage. We met at college and have been together ever since. It took us a while to get round to actually marrying, that was just a few years back. But it's just a piece of paper really. It's been a fulfilling relationship. Companionship. Overlapping interests. A shared group of close friends. No children; we decided that wasn't for us. The fucking? Well here's the thing. At college, it was starbursts and swelling classical themes as we explored every inch of our sexuality. Then it settled into a lovely, intense, close intimacy. Understanding each other's needs, wanting to meet them. It was that way for years.
But things don't always last. The intimacy became familiarity. The intensity waned. It was still nice, still comforting, the occasional starburst still happened. But the frequency dropped. One or other of us was tired. One or other of us was preoccupied. Then there were things we did separately in the evenings. I took an art class and helped arrange readings at a book store. My spouse was involved in a local charity, which had been taking up an increasing amount of time. We still loved each other, still cared deeply for each other. But the excitement had leaked away.
We talk. We talked about this. We agreed it was less than ideal. But neither of us had much of an idea what to do. We tried to spice things up a little. We attempted to understand each other's fantasies. We even gave enacting some of them a go, but it felt awkward, embarrassing even. For me, at least, there were some fantasies I was too scared to share anyways. So we essentially focused on other things. Life was not bad. We were partners, we were best friends, we fitted each other. Except in this one area. But was that so bad? Nothing is perfect. I wasn't happy with this one aspect, but I was a grown up. I could deal. I told myself to emphasize the positives. And I did, for the most part. Until the new girl joined.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm going to make my Professor cry by following biography with description. My body isn't what it was in my twenties, let alone my teens. I like wine, I like food and I am less enamored of exercise. But it's not like I'm morbidly obese. I'm actually close to dead on the median weight for my height. My height? I'm pretty l tall I guess; 5'7" -- Tom Cruise's height, or so his agency claims. I'm not one of those tall girls who revels in it and holds her head up high. I normally try to make myself a bit smaller. Is my hair color really relevant? OK, if you insist. It's red. Well orange more accurately; language is so strange sometimes. It probably is superfluous to add, given my hair color, but I'm pale skinned and of course I have freckles. I might get into more personal stuff later, but that's more than enough for now.
So back to the new girl.
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She was young, early twenties. Just out of college and this was her first proper job. Her height was what caught my eye, even taller than me, maybe 5'8", if I had to hazard a guess. Skinny though, like I used to be. Long, black hair with a curl to it. Not tight, more Pre-Raphaelite. Dark eyebrows, so I assumed the hair color was natural. Nose ring, then she was twenty something, I think it's now mandatory. I guessed she also had tattoos, but not any on display. Paler skin than me, which takes some doing, and a face with delicate, if not entirely symmetrical, features. Short nails, I'd seen her bite them, but with dark polish. Purple, claret, black. Her eyes were dark brown and she was fond of eyeliner.
Clothing-wise, thrift store chic. Often floral dresses, over leggings and with big boots. Loose shirts over Ts. A studded leather jacket. Flared jeans that were probably circa 1973. Beaded necklaces. The overall impression was hippy chick crossed with goth-lite. One more detail, a rainbow button. Different ones. Some with text, some plain. But always somewhere. On her jacket, on her dress, on a shirt, on her bag; she had many different bags. Mia was her name, she made me feel old.
As a new starter, she was on rotation. In the first two months, I only saw her in passing. We'd chatted briefly a few times, I learnt she was from Rockaway, but had gone to Rutgers. She was house sharing with some other girls, not too far from campus. She smiled when we passed each other. Hi Harper. Hi Mia. And that was that. Then she moved to my area for a month and my manager asked me to take care of her. That was the beginning.
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Working together, Mia and I found we had a shared sense of humor, a slightly absurdist one maybe. We also had a common interest in movies, specific movies. Classics like Kurosawa's canon and the best of Humphrey Bogart. Miyazaki obviously. More recently, Greta Gerwig and Wes Anderson.
My other half was away for most of the week on business and I suggested that Mia and I go and see
The French Dispatch
, or, if you were an Anderson devotee like both Mia and me,
The French Dispatch of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun
. We could walk to the theater together after work, but had time to sit and have a coffee en route. We got an outside table and enjoyed the early Summer sun. It was nice to chat over our espressos. The movie was almost the director performing a caricature of himself. But we enjoyed it. We had one glass of wine each at a nearby bar and ended up discussing LÊa Seydoux's body for maybe longer than was appropriate for colleagues. I would have happily stayed longer, but Mia said that she had to meet someone. I went back to my empty apartment alone.
That was Monday evening. Tuesday morning, Mia thanked me again for a lovely evening and briefly kissed my cheek before sitting down at her desk, next to mine. I had some meetings elsewhere on the campus that day and didn't see her again until going home time. Her soft kiss had been on my mind much more than I was comfortable with during the day. That and the scent of patchouli oil. I got back to my desk as she was leaving hers and she waved a smiling goodbye.
It was still just me at home, my partner and I FaceTimed of course, then I made myself food and decided to catch up on some reading. But I was distracted. Some TV maybe. I couldn't settle with that either. Maybe I just needed something else. Instead of sitting on the sofa, I lay along it, head on a throw cushion. I closed my eyes and put a hand between my legs, stroking the material of my sweatpants. I wriggled to get more comfortable and started again, now with more pressure.
I pursed my lips and pushed harder with my finger-tips. I didn't think of anything much at first, just visualizing my clitoris as I played with it. I began to feel nicely warmed up and so slipped my hand inside my pants and then panties. Moving a little further down, I felt juice on my lips. I took some on my fingers and used it's slipperiness to rub more urgently across my clit with three fingers held together. I settled further into the sofa and raised one leg to rest it on the back. I pushed down hard on myself with my hand and up to meet it with my glutes and abs. I wanted pressure, pressure and speed.
I peeled off my pants and wriggled my panties down my legs. Spreading wide again, I licked my fingers and, better lubricated, went back to massaging my clit. With my other hand I played with my vaginal opening. Sometimes it was nicer to do that than to penetrate myself. I imagined it was my spouse's tongue flicking over my pink flesh.
But it wasn't working. I was feeling tingly, stimulated, even aching. I wanted to cum. But I couldn't seem to find that little extra I needed. It was frustrating. I could get my bullet vibrator, but it was in the bedroom and I didn't know that I could be bothered. Instead I licked my fingers once more, let's try again. My feelings started to build nicely. This was good, just a little more. I rubbed my clit frenziedly and dipped shallowly in and out of my pussy. Nearly. Nearly.
Then, unbidden, Mia came into my mind. Her face as she bent to kiss me. Her dark hair flowing over my thighs as she went down on me. Her tongue probing me. Part of me recoiled in horror. The bigger part welcomed the heat, the pounding of blood, the panting and moaning. I climaxed screaming her name. The release was astonishing. I'd not cum like that in years. Not since our early days at college. I opened my eyes, panting, sweating. And suddenly guilt-ridden. What the fuck just happened?
I quickly dressed and wiped the sofa down, before the moisture from me could stain the leather. Then I grabbed my iPad and pressed call in FaceTime. I waited nervously as the ring tone sounded.
"Oh, honey. Sorry to bother you again. It's nothing really. I just wanted to say I miss you. I love you and I'm looking forward to Friday."
I got comforting, if slightly puzzled, words in reply and we said good night again. I told myself that it was nothing. We watched porn together occasionally, it had been one of the ideas for reigniting the spark. We both knew that the other sometimes watched privately. You can't keep secrets easily in a marriage and neither of us seemed to mind. It's no different is it? There is no problem here. It's not like I cheated. I told myself these things, but knew they were not entirely true.
Secretly, I also knew that the allure of the forbidden was a thing for me. This was one of the fantasies that I had been unable to share. It made me feel bad about myself, but that didn't make the desire go away. Orgasming while imaging Mia's tongue sliding in an out of my pussy played right into that. I knew I was being a bad girl. Then when else in my life did I ever think of myself as a girl and not a boring, middle-aged woman?
Confusing and contradictory thoughts ran through my mind. Well at least I had tired myself out a bit. Time for sleep.
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