If She Wanted
|
|
If She Wanted
She couldn't. Could she?
Well, if she wanted, she could.
The way he had just sidled up to her, speaking softly, nonchalantly in a room full of people listening to a thick–lensed geek read some pedantic horror story. He'd puffed words quietly into her ear, leaning close. The words belonged only to them.
"I want to tongue you."
"What?"
Her first reaction had been -- what?
"I want to tongue you, your nipples, your lips -- between your legs."
Such disgusting words, ribald, bold, lewd, forward, suggestive, -- titillating.
"I'm married."
"I'm discrete."
He smiled, not lasciviously, not arrogantly, but comfortably. Yet, that comfort possessed its own arrogance, compelling, sensual arrogance.
She scrunched her face as if not understanding, a fabricated confusion, for she understood exactly.
She wanted more, for him to say more.
He offered more, or perhaps, less.
"I don't want to do anything to damage your marriage. I just want to tongue you."
She couldn't possibly be attracted to him, not at all her type. Not at all like her husband: tall, dark, a football player’s build, ambitious, attentive – so attentive – dutiful, predictable, and -- expectant. Dutiful in all the husbandly ways, providing the perfect home, family, support, love. Expectant of her to maintain what he provided. Expectant of her to – predictably – maintain him in what he saw as his one unmitigated need. In marriage the bartering of provision often stacks the expectations of duties in a predictable manner. Always, everything, so damned predictable.
Always, in the safety of the bedroom, after the kids were in bed. Kids should never witness the love shared between parents when parents behave as “adults.” Always the ritual: in hand, in mouth, between legs. Thankfully he was a man of size, enough to fill and provide gratification to the physical demands of her libido. It became her adult “ice cream night.” As a child, every Saturday night, the family had butter pecan ice cream, her dad’s favorite. Who could claim butter pecan ice cream to be disagreeable? It tasted good, but there were other flavors, not so suiting to her dad, but certainly available and perhaps more satisfying. So, she dutifully enjoyed ice cream night to satisfy her fathers sense of providing pleasure to he family. Eventually, the façade of appreciation became more arduous than actually enjoying the ice cream and she denied herself entirely, claiming the risk of acne, from indulging in the predictable enjoyment.
She could never claim loving her husband to be disagreeable, but the façade had become more arduous than the satisfaction, pressing it into the list of other weekly duties. Take out the trash, buy groceries, spread legs for husband; predictable, lacking. Eventually, she denied herself entirely, claiming the stresses of other duties. She passed off her duty to the stack of magazines tucked in the basement rafters, ignored to preserve the sanctity of her disinterest. She ignored the extended excursions to half bathroom, also in the basement. At least he kept it at home, predicable and safe, predictably safe.
No, this man with the ribald, suggestive words held no attraction for her. Still, the suggestion, the idea embodied suggestiveness. The suggestiveness embodied a different flavor, the flavor of arousal.
"Do you have a short skirt, or a mini-dress?"
The black one, hanging in the closet, so short it could be mistaken as a top on it’s hanger. Short enough that it required a constant pulling down of the hem, to hide what propriety required to be hidden. So short it waited for an occasion. She nodded.
"Wear it next week. Leave your underwear in the car, hanging from the gear shift lever."
He teased -- with intent, intent the flavor of danger.
"Are you suggesting that I let you -- tongue me -- here. At next week's open mic, surrounded -- surrounded by all these people?"
"We'll go back there -- in that room, as if we are reviewing one of your stories."
A need swam within his eyes, a deeply confident shark-like need, its fin visible at the surface of his corneas.
"I'll think about it."
Think about it she did. She thought about it until she found herself with the smooth plastic handle of a ladle inserted into her where her husband wanted, but rarely found himself inserted. It felt like bringing home chocolate ice cream and eating it in the middle of the week, not on ice cream night, alone, clandestine, impromptu, right in the kitchen. The idea, oh the idea. Just on the other side of the door, in the garage her husband could finish putzing with his tools and walk through the door any minute and…
The following week she wore a sundress, a very short sundress, exposing a lot of legs and shoulders, less obvious than the black dress, denying this to be “the occasion.”. She waited until a young group of men passed her car to slip off her undies, and hang them on -- the rear view mirror. She peered over the parking meter, inserting quarters, smiling a wry smile at the young men who no longer passed, but milled about, waiting for….
His fingers tripped along her shoulders at quick moments when no looked, but could in a heartbeat. Hidden under the table, he brushed and flicked the inside of her thighs, displaying aggravating, damning patience, all just out of view, barely discrete, so unpredictable. She watched the writers step up to the mic. He watched the writers in their chairs, searching for those impromptu moments. A sweet burning anticipation sizzled along her legs.
“Where?”
He whispered.
“In the car. Hanging from the mirror.
"Good."
He smiled.
On mic, the reader droned.
He leaned closer, running his fingers running along the words she’d placed on the paper, touching her -- words. To anyone watching, he commented on those words, but he said nothing of them.
"Come with me."
They took her words, a façade for being in that back room. Viki, the open mic hostess, leaned against the jamb of the door. She smiled, perhaps a knowing smile, perhaps just a smile. She passed through the door, crossing a red line drawn in the sand of prudence into the territory of unpredictability and impromptu indulgence. The door closed, not of its own, but by his will. From the pit of her stomach, fear shot raced up her spine, pinging off the base of her brain to settle in the apex between her legs; a moist tropical fear that pooled with tingling anticipation.
He guided her to a table that hadn't so much been placed there as discarded. He gazed into her eyes, a taste this gaze. Then, the hem of her dress went up and he went down.
Just on the other side of the door, more than a dozen people listened to a man read about carnal indulgences with a parrot. No one could predict anyone walking through the door to see her exposed as he had just exposed her. See him bent to her, providing her pleasure. The sharp taste of risk piqued her arousal.
She fought an urge to pull her hem down, remember this is what she had come for. This had been her choice, to indulge in what she had only tasted in the kitchen. It had been his idea, but her choice. He lifted her, setting her on the edge of the table – of her prudence.
There was a tart fruity taste of tension, that melted into the comfortable taste of acquiescence. A time, once, once when she’d snuck a bowl of ice cream for breakfast came to mind. At the peak of her pleasure he stood, and filled her as her husband did, but not quite, yet more so, in a way. It filled her with the taste of anticipation drizzled with fear. What if someone were to come in and watch. Frigid hazard slid down her throat, cold enough to cause brain freeze, a sharp pain behind the eyes. She closed her eyes, shutting out him, and her husband. She saw someone else, faceless, nobody, anybody, everybody, standing to the side watching, admiring. She opened her eyes.
Viki stood just inside the door! Watching!
She reacted predictably, wonderfully, undutifully, extemporaneously predictably and spasmmingly, the way she had in the kitchen, only ten times stronger.
Crossing the threshold of her home, she held her undies crumpled in her hand. Would her husband be awake to witness?
He slept.
She bathed.
Sliding under the sheets, filled with a satiation that begged for more, she reached past the waistband of her husband’s pajamas. In her grip, he filled before he woke. His eyes stared at her in some unnamed emotion.
"What? What is it"
"Tongue me."
"What?"
His first reaction had been -- what?
"I want you to tongue me, my nipples, my lips -- between my legs."
Several weeks later he would inquire about the break in the old ritual, inquire about the new ritual. Why always a bath and a hunger for making love after each open mic. What was wrong with waiting until Saturday night?
She couldn't. Could she?
Well, if she wanted, she could.
The way he had just sidled up to her, speaking softly, nonchalantly in a room full of people listening to a thick–lensed geek read some pedantic horror story. He'd puffed words quietly into her ear, leaning close. The words belonged only to them.
"I want to tongue you."
"What?"
Her first reaction had been -- what?
"I want to tongue you, your nipples, your lips -- between your legs."
Such disgusting words, ribald, bold, lewd, forward, suggestive, -- titillating.
"I'm married."
"I'm discrete."
He smiled, not lasciviously, not arrogantly, but comfortably. Yet, that comfort possessed its own arrogance, compelling, sensual arrogance.
She scrunched her face as if not understanding, a fabricated confusion, for she understood exactly.
She wanted more, for him to say more.
He offered more, or perhaps, less.
"I don't want to do anything to damage your marriage. I just want to tongue you."
She couldn't possibly be attracted to him, not at all her type. Not at all like her husband: tall, dark, a football player’s build, ambitious, attentive – so attentive – dutiful, predictable, and -- expectant. Dutiful in all the husbandly ways, providing the perfect home, family, support, love. Expectant of her to maintain what he provided. Expectant of her to – predictably – maintain him in what he saw as his one unmitigated need. In marriage the bartering of provision often stacks the expectations of duties in a predictable manner. Always, everything, so damned predictable.
Always, in the safety of the bedroom, after the kids were in bed. Kids should never witness the love shared between parents when parents behave as “adults.” Always the ritual: in hand, in mouth, between legs. Thankfully he was a man of size, enough to fill and provide gratification to the physical demands of her libido. It became her adult “ice cream night.” As a child, every Saturday night, the family had butter pecan ice cream, her dad’s favorite. Who could claim butter pecan ice cream to be disagreeable? It tasted good, but there were other flavors, not so suiting to her dad, but certainly available and perhaps more satisfying. So, she dutifully enjoyed ice cream night to satisfy her fathers sense of providing pleasure to he family. Eventually, the façade of appreciation became more arduous than actually enjoying the ice cream and she denied herself entirely, claiming the risk of acne, from indulging in the predictable enjoyment.
She could never claim loving her husband to be disagreeable, but the façade had become more arduous than the satisfaction, pressing it into the list of other weekly duties. Take out the trash, buy groceries, spread legs for husband; predictable, lacking. Eventually, she denied herself entirely, claiming the stresses of other duties. She passed off her duty to the stack of magazines tucked in the basement rafters, ignored to preserve the sanctity of her disinterest. She ignored the extended excursions to half bathroom, also in the basement. At least he kept it at home, predicable and safe, predictably safe.
No, this man with the ribald, suggestive words held no attraction for her. Still, the suggestion, the idea embodied suggestiveness. The suggestiveness embodied a different flavor, the flavor of arousal.
"Do you have a short skirt, or a mini-dress?"
The black one, hanging in the closet, so short it could be mistaken as a top on it’s hanger. Short enough that it required a constant pulling down of the hem, to hide what propriety required to be hidden. So short it waited for an occasion. She nodded.
"Wear it next week. Leave your underwear in the car, hanging from the gear shift lever."
He teased -- with intent, intent the flavor of danger.
"Are you suggesting that I let you -- tongue me -- here. At next week's open mic, surrounded -- surrounded by all these people?"
"We'll go back there -- in that room, as if we are reviewing one of your stories."
A need swam within his eyes, a deeply confident shark-like need, its fin visible at the surface of his corneas.
"I'll think about it."
Think about it she did. She thought about it until she found herself with the smooth plastic handle of a ladle inserted into her where her husband wanted, but rarely found himself inserted. It felt like bringing home chocolate ice cream and eating it in the middle of the week, not on ice cream night, alone, clandestine, impromptu, right in the kitchen. The idea, oh the idea. Just on the other side of the door, in the garage her husband could finish putzing with his tools and walk through the door any minute and…
The following week she wore a sundress, a very short sundress, exposing a lot of legs and shoulders, less obvious than the black dress, denying this to be “the occasion.”. She waited until a young group of men passed her car to slip off her undies, and hang them on -- the rear view mirror. She peered over the parking meter, inserting quarters, smiling a wry smile at the young men who no longer passed, but milled about, waiting for….
His fingers tripped along her shoulders at quick moments when no looked, but could in a heartbeat. Hidden under the table, he brushed and flicked the inside of her thighs, displaying aggravating, damning patience, all just out of view, barely discrete, so unpredictable. She watched the writers step up to the mic. He watched the writers in their chairs, searching for those impromptu moments. A sweet burning anticipation sizzled along her legs.
“Where?”
He whispered.
“In the car. Hanging from the mirror.
"Good."
He smiled.
On mic, the reader droned.
He leaned closer, running his fingers running along the words she’d placed on the paper, touching her -- words. To anyone watching, he commented on those words, but he said nothing of them.
"Come with me."
They took her words, a façade for being in that back room. Viki, the open mic hostess, leaned against the jamb of the door. She smiled, perhaps a knowing smile, perhaps just a smile. She passed through the door, crossing a red line drawn in the sand of prudence into the territory of unpredictability and impromptu indulgence. The door closed, not of its own, but by his will. From the pit of her stomach, fear shot raced up her spine, pinging off the base of her brain to settle in the apex between her legs; a moist tropical fear that pooled with tingling anticipation.
He guided her to a table that hadn't so much been placed there as discarded. He gazed into her eyes, a taste this gaze. Then, the hem of her dress went up and he went down.
Just on the other side of the door, more than a dozen people listened to a man read about carnal indulgences with a parrot. No one could predict anyone walking through the door to see her exposed as he had just exposed her. See him bent to her, providing her pleasure. The sharp taste of risk piqued her arousal.
She fought an urge to pull her hem down, remember this is what she had come for. This had been her choice, to indulge in what she had only tasted in the kitchen. It had been his idea, but her choice. He lifted her, setting her on the edge of the table – of her prudence.
There was a tart fruity taste of tension, that melted into the comfortable taste of acquiescence. A time, once, once when she’d snuck a bowl of ice cream for breakfast came to mind. At the peak of her pleasure he stood, and filled her as her husband did, but not quite, yet more so, in a way. It filled her with the taste of anticipation drizzled with fear. What if someone were to come in and watch. Frigid hazard slid down her throat, cold enough to cause brain freeze, a sharp pain behind the eyes. She closed her eyes, shutting out him, and her husband. She saw someone else, faceless, nobody, anybody, everybody, standing to the side watching, admiring. She opened her eyes.
Viki stood just inside the door! Watching!
She reacted predictably, wonderfully, undutifully, extemporaneously predictably and spasmmingly, the way she had in the kitchen, only ten times stronger.
Crossing the threshold of her home, she held her undies crumpled in her hand. Would her husband be awake to witness?
He slept.
She bathed.
Sliding under the sheets, filled with a satiation that begged for more, she reached past the waistband of her husband’s pajamas. In her grip, he filled before he woke. His eyes stared at her in some unnamed emotion.
"What? What is it"
"Tongue me."
"What?"
His first reaction had been -- what?
"I want you to tongue me, my nipples, my lips -- between my legs."
Several weeks later he would inquire about the break in the old ritual, inquire about the new ritual. Why always a bath and a hunger for making love after each open mic. What was wrong with waiting until Saturday night?