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Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 01

By: KillerMuffin



Editor's Note: This is the beginning of a chain story, each part of which is written by a Literotica author. The authors were challenged to create a story that revolves around the image of the lady on our front page. Chapters will be added each week. For a full schedule and more information, click here

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Prologue

I have toyed with the notion of keeping a diary, or a journal, of what I have done, seen, or accomplished from time to time. I have put pen to paper on occasion, and certainly I have exchanged letters with lovers. Points of my life have been vastly interesting and worthy of notation, others dull as a stump. Now that I am of a certain age and find myself at loose ends during the quiet calm of these spring days, I have grown introspective. I sit in the garden oasis I have created on my veranda and stare over the vast, sometimes seething, sometimes playful ocean. Such an activity induces one to thought, and my thoughts invariably return to my past.

So I have chosen to write. Having a memoir has a certain appeal, perhaps it is merely my vanity. Perhaps it is to have some evidence of my existence to leave behind as I have no children. Perhaps it is that I have reached the time in my life where I am looking at my future through my past, and a memoir is my method of re-finding myself. Affirming my identity, if only for myself.

I am not sure how one goes about writing a memoir; I am not given to reading such things. Is it appropriate to consider the present and reflect upon the future before moving to the past? Or should I begin, "Once upon a time...?" I have no true idea, so I will simply work my way about it. Supposedly a memoir ought to be entirely written by the autobiographer, but I will include the correspondence I've had with my lovers. The letters that were written to me, and by me. There is prose that has been dedicated to me, poetry as well. Shall I include these things? Perhaps I might, perhaps not. My memoir does not have to be written by me entirely, it is my memoir. I am writing for my own gratification and I have been known to be capricious.

The question is now, where should I begin? So many things crowd to the front, things that were life altering, or stand out in my memory as special. The dominance games where I played at the darker life at the Cirque du Sensual changed me in ways I have yet to describe. My days with Mirabella in Paris where loving was covered with soft rose scented perfume and even softer skin are indelible in my mind. Of all my lovers, I miss her terribly. What of that American cowboy who taught me different sorts of rope tricks? The engaging Brazilian who delighted in exhibiting our sex in public, however could I forget him? My gorgeous, brooding Italian with the artist's fingers? Or my days frolicking in Amsterdam? Perhaps I should begin at the beginning, where I lost my virginity and discovered that sex was not a shameful act, but instead a wonderful exploration of the senses. Such innocence in my almost juvenile pantings. I still find myself smiling fondly at the thoughts of my naive and delighted virginal loving.

No, now that I think on it, the loss of my virginity was not the beginning of my sexuality. It was later, when I was at the university. There I learned the beginning of sensuality and learned to crave it, to crave all things sensual rather than simply the base act of sex. My introduction to the full eroticness of my body would be the perfect place to begin my memoir, which is really nothing more than a sordid tale of my sexual deviations, should you ask my sister. It is quite sad that people will cut themselves off from their bodies, deny themselves the most basic part of their being in an effort to be better than those around them. Perhaps a debauchery of the flesh is too overwhelming for some, but for me it is the celebration of my life. 

Chapter 1: The Beginning of Sensuality

I had chosen to major in art history because my aptitude for art did not satisfy me. My artistic abilities, while enough to while away the time, were never better than mediocre. I could not abide mediocrity in any arena, least of all my chosen field. Instead, I took my passion for art and channeled it into the academic side of it. It was here that I chanced to meet the professor. He could have passed for any of the young, gorgeous heroes of the silver screen, instead he taught the intricacies of the Masters with a fire that instantly enamored me. I developed a crush, as did nearly every female that took his classes.

As it turned out, we both shared a passion for Martin Russell and his sleek carvings of the human form. Abstract or so full of realism the pieces seemed to almost breathe, Russell drew my attention like no other artist has ever done. Even now, I collect what I can. The professor had a small piece, an early one of Russell's that still had the traces of his unpolished talent, in his office. It was the first thing I'd noticed when I'd the chance to go there. Like all of the other silly, giggling girls, I too had manufactured an excuse, a late paper I believe, to go to his office and speak with him.

After gaining entry into his sanctum and behaving as hundreds of silly girls must have behaved prior to and after me, I locked eyes on "Georgian." It was of a female, naked and sinuous. She was reaching languidly for something above her, stretching up from her knees, and her leg kicked back straight behind her. She arched on her pedestal of marble. My fingers itched to touch her, to trace the graceful lines of her form and drown in the sensuality of her existence. To this day I do not recall what prompted me to do so, the look in his eyes perhaps, but I gave into my impulse. Without begging permission, I advanced on the sculpture and laid fingers to its cool surface.

I lost myself in it, the sensation of touching the sculpture was like none other. I shut my eyes and delicately traced the elegant form. Inhaling sharply, I became very aware of my sudden arousal and the itinerant sexuality I felt. My body reacted, nipples hardening and my loins quickened. I don't know quite how long I stood silently caressing the statue, but through it all the professor sat quietly in his chair, watching me do so with his intense, brooding eyes.

Eventually, I pulled away from the piece, embarrassed and chagrined at my display. My parents were good people and had taught me such things were best left behind the bedroom door with one's husband. I was ashamed of myself. I glanced furtively at the professor and formed an apology. Before the words could leave my lips, he gently asked, "What did you feel?"

His question surprised me. I had expected recriminations, to be reminded that it was a valuable piece of property and an even more priceless piece of art. It should never be handled if possible. The oils from one's fingertips can be destructive as time passes.

"I felt the glass."

"No, inside of you, when you closed your eyes and let your head fall back. What did you feel?" My embarrassed blush stained my cheeks, and I blurted, "Awe."

He stood, never taking his eyes from mine, and came around his desk. I backed a step, my hand going to my heart and my eyes widening. I was such an innocent. The professor was the epitome of the male predator, not the kind that hurts women, the kind that seduces them. Had I been a little more worldly, a little more knowledgeable, I would have recognized his movements as such. 

Gently, so as not to frighten me no doubt, he picked up my hand. "What did you feel when you caressed her? What did you feel here?" He pressed my fingers to the tip of my breast, brushing across the nipple that was still a hardened point.

Helplessly, I stared into his eyes, shocked and languorous all at the same time. "I touched the statue, and..."

"... and your nipples grew hard. Tell me what you felt inside, tell me what it was that made your nipples hard."

I closed my eyes, thinking back to my fingers running over the statue so lightly that every crease was a new experience for the sensitive pads. "It was the touch," I murmured. He said nothing while I remembered. "The coolness of the composite glass and the heat of my fingers combined with the erotic pose of the statue. She has such a leonine grace, such a feline sexuality that touched me. I want to be with her, I wanted to be her."

I opened my eyes again, snapping back from the reverie that had threatened to overtake me again. The professor was contemplating me again. He watched me as if I were some new piece of fascinating sculpture, a piece of art that he itched to touch. I felt helpless against the sheer magnetism of his gaze. I was too young or too naive to understand it, much less defend against it. Reflecting back on the few moments when our eyes locked, I recognize that this was the pivotal moment of my life.

He lifted a hand and extended his long, artist's finger, pressing the digit to my lips lightly. His voice was husky and soothing, not quite as mellow as the tones he lectured with. "What is your name?"

"Erica." The feel of my lips moving along his finger was decadent, wrong, and thrilling. My lips tingled and the sensation flowed through my nerves.

"Erica. Come to my apartment this evening. I have more works by Martin Russell you may like."

"You will just show me more sculpture?"

"Perhaps. It depends on what we discover. Here is the address, do be discrete."

I stared at the little scrap of paper he had pressed to my hand, feeling vastly uncertain and not a little excited. The professor retreated from me, sitting down behind his desk and absorbing himself fully in the papers strewn upon it. I looked up at him, wondering if I should say something, but I had been clearly dismissed. Snapping my mouth shut, I gathered my knapsack and left.

That night, after the sun had descended and dusk had fallen, I got out of my car. It was a little, old Volkswagon that had seen better days and several impoverished college students through their tenure here. I had been sitting, fretting and worrying, wondering when I should knock or if I should leave. In the end there really wasn't a choice. I was going into the professor's lair and if were to become his prey, then I would do so willingly. I knocked on the door, knowing full well what I thought I was doing.

My sheer innocence still astounds me. I had believed myself in control and that I knew exactly what I was getting into. In my ignorance, I had thought that there would be nothing more than sex and that would that. Our bodies joined elementally and then on to our separate ways. I fully believed that I could beard the lion in his den and walk away unscathed and unchanged. If I had known what the professor would teach me about myself, would I have still gone to him? I like to think that I had the courage for it. But I will never know.

The professor wore the same slacks and white button down shirt he had taught in. The only difference was his bare feet, lack of a tie, and addition of a pair of reading glasses. I stood in the warm foyer of his home, unable to look above my own feet. My heart was in my throat and I wished nothing more than to be elsewhere. He hooked a finger under my chin and gently pried my eyes to his face. He was smiling gently. "Come with me. It will be all right."

I followed him deeper into his home, to the den full of wood, books, and priceless art. He had several Russells and what appeared to be an original O'Keefe hanging on a wall. A fire flickered, basking the cream colored rug and furnishings in a glowing warmth.

"What interests you in art history, Erica?" I sat in the chair he indicated, kitty corner to his spot on the end of the couch. He picked up a bottle of deep Merlot wine and poured us each a glass.

"I love art. As a child I thought myself gifted, but later I realized that while I have an aptitude, I was not good enough at it to satisfy myself. I appreciated the art around me, particularly the provenance and history of some of the pieces my father collected. When I reached the university, this was a natural choice for me."

"What interests you about sculpture?"

I covered my nervousness by picking up the Merlot and tracing its stem with my fingers. I stared into the burgundy liquid and feigned absorption. Did I wish to admit to him what I loved about this form of artistry? I hadn't the spine, not just yet. Instead, I prevaricated, "It's tactile."

"Explain that." "Unlike paintings, you can touch sculpture, it exists as a piece of art and as a presence. Canvases are cold, aloof. Sculpture is vibrantly alive, it is a part of my world in a way a mere picture can never be. It is difficult, at times, to keep from touching a piece."

The professor remained silent for a while, considering my words from behind hooded eyes. I twitched nervously in my seat. I hadn't the worldly confidence in myself, nor the knowledge of what he might be thinking that I had gained from experience. When he did reply, his voice was the deep, vibrant rasp of a man in sexual heat. The power of the tone shimmered through me like a thousand butterflies winging across a meadow. "How do you touch the most exquisite sculpture?"

"Michelangelo's David?"

"Ah, no. Yourself," he murmured, regarding me with burning eyes. Even as ignorant as I was, I recognized the sexuality in them. "How do you touch yourself?"

I flushed a deep red and couldn't lift my gaze from my tightly clenched hands in my lap. What should I tell him? Some inanity easily tossed off? That I touched myself as all silly college girls must? Or should I tell him the truth? That I enjoyed touching myself? Tracing my fingers along my collarbone, rubbing my cheek on my shoulder, the gentle caress of my thighs touching, sliding my toes down the length of the opposite calf, or a myriad of other small, daily contact to which I was addicted to?

"I touch myself like everyone else does." I had taken the coward's way and chosen to be non-committal.

The professor smiled gently. "No, you do not. I've watched you. You touch yourself the same way you touched the Russell in my office. With your eyes closed and fascinated with the feel of your fingers on your own skin."

I met his eyes, shocked that he'd noticed me and even more shocked that knew me so well. I had thought the sexy professor was immune to giggling girls, such as myself.

"Stand up, Erica."

Diffidently, smoothing my carefully chosen skirt, I stood up. I felt more in control standing, but more conspicuous. I wrapped my arms around my middle and tried not to run. The professor was disconcerting me and it made me nervous.

"Stand on the rug in front of the fire," he ordered.

After a moment's hesitation, still unsure, I did so. His couch faced the fireplace with the glass coffee table between us. I felt like a statue on display in his living room, a feeling that made me shy at first. The shyness rapidly became a languor. His expression, still intense, darkened even further, perhaps a recognition of my sudden arousal. "Take off your clothes. Slowly, as if you were a statue."

I understood what he had meant. The decision to do as he directed was simple and easily made. It frightened me to feel the clashing of the intense desire to do so and the sudden shame that it was my nature.

Even though I did not know it at the time, with the undoing of the first button on my blouse I was acquiescing to becoming his student. Not an art student, but a student of my own body. I was accepting the new direction in my life. My index finger gently tracing the slope of my skin from the top button to the next confirmed it. The professor knew what I did not, that I was a sensualist.

"The next button, my dear." He sounded impatient to my untutored ears, as if he were as excited about my slowly revealed skin as I was. Entranced by the thought that he might be reveling in my body as well, I slipped the next button from its hole.

With every new button opened, I had new territory to touch. I spread my lapels open and thoroughly explored my chest and my throat, loving the tiny bumps that rose in the wake of my fingers. My eyes shut and my head lolled, perhaps I groaned. More buttons opened until there were no more and my fingers were hampered by the band of my skirt.

Lifting my head, I noticed the professor again. He was staring at, unmoving, his eyes following the paths my fingers took. I paused a moment, fascinated with the silent tableau we represented. Male and female, separated by distance, yet united by arousal. I may have been naive, but my baser instincts were on alert.

I moved my fingers over my belly, watching him intently, then dipped them past the waistband of my skirt. Hesitating a moment, I couldn't find the courage to continue. Cursing myself for a stupid schoolgirl, my eyes dropped to my feet and tears welled. The couch sighed seconds before I felt his presence. The incredible heat of his body came across my back reassuringly.

"You are a beautiful woman, Erica," he murmured, "there is no need for shame."

"I am a slut."

"You are a living work of art. To watch you touch yourself is..." He trailed off, stepping closer. Despite the spare distance between us, he seared me as if he were touching me with a brand. Something brushed the back of my skirt, then pressed more firmly. My eyes widened in surprise as I realized what it was. His erection nudged at my buttocks, then settled comfortably between them.

I shut my eyes when his hands found my bare shoulders. He traced his fingers down my biceps to my elbows, leaving aroused skin in their wake. "You love touching yourself and I love watching you do it. You are a sensual girl, there is nothing to be ashamed of. It's your gift."

Shivering in his embrace, I believed him with all the naive innocence of a girl whose only lovers had been fumbling boys. His fingers found mine, intertwining them gently. Tugging my hands with his, he brushed his knuckles, and consequently my fingers, over my belly. I closed my eyes again, sucking in a sharp breath. The heat of his skin seared me in ways I'd never imagined. I felt a rush of fluid arousal pour through me.

"I want to teach you all about yourself and how to enjoy your body. I want to teach you how to share your body with others," he murmured in my ear. I sighed heavily, loving the feel of his hot breath stirring the sensitive flesh of my neck. My head lolled back against his shoulders and I surrendered myself to him, to his superior knowledge.

"Teach me," I whispered.

"I will change you forever." He was arrogant in his proclamation; he was also correct.

Our fingers moved up my rib cage to brush the undersides of my breasts. I gasped, the nipples tightening almost painfully.

"I will not force you. You must do it of your own free will."

I didn't even have to think about it. I was seduced by my own sexuality and the heat in his. I accepted his challenge, and by doing so, accepted my place as his student in the art of sex.

Taking his hands with mine, I brushed along my skin to my shoulders. I pulled the straps of my brassiere down along my arms, until I had to disengage from him to take it off. His fingers traced designs into my bare back while I tossed the garment onto the blouse already pooled on the floor. My fingers went instantly to my breasts, kneading and caressing them. I loved the feel of them, the firm roundness and the sharpness of the nipples. He kissed the point of my shoulder, watching the progress of my hands. It was thrilling to touch myself in front of him, to be as wanton as I wanted. The shyness I'd felt earlier was rapidly evaporating beneath his approving regard.

I lifted my head in surprise, blinking back to the here and now when he moved away from me to sit on the coffee table. His eyes were even with the swell of my lower belly, reminding me that I still wore my skirt. Suddenly I itched to share myself with him, to show him my body and my arousal. Whether he joined in it or not wasn't a factor, only that he enjoy me. I found the buttons to my skirt and undid them. He smiled.


Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 03



Chapter 3: Smoke From A Hidden Flame

I hear you are singing a song of the past.
I see no tears…

The knock on the door was faint, like a child's shy attempt at a hello.  Erica heard it only because she'd just come into the kitchen to freshen her coffee.  She stood silently for a moment, waiting to see if the knock came again.  When it didn't, she poured her coffee and turned to head back to the terrace, where she'd been enjoying the early morning breezes that flowed serenely off the Mediterranean.

Her path, however, took her by the front door and on impulse she paused and glanced out through the small peep hole.  Of course there was no one there and why should there be?  Her maid had the day off and the mail wouldn't come for hours.  A second impulse grabbed her and before she had given it any conscious thought, the chain was off the latch and her hand grasped the doorknob.

The heavy door slid inward without a sound.  As she expected, her front step was empty, as was the vine-covered corridor that connected her villa to the courtyard and the driveway beyond.  The newly lush vines diffused the sunlight, darkening the corridor.  Was it just her imagination or did the dust appear to be settling back down after a recent disturbance?  She took a sip of her coffee.  Don't be silly, she told herself.  Why would someone come out all this way, knock on her door, and then just leave?

Then she saw the envelope.

She stared at it dumbly for a moment and a small muscle in her eyelid twitched.  The envelope was about the size of your average Hallmark card and it lay half-buried in the soft clay beside her doorstep.  She might have missed it altogether, for it was almost the same color as the clay; the deep, ruddy shade of brown that you get when you mix water with sand, but one corner of it sat propped gently along the edge of her inlaid tile.  It must have been wedged in the door and fallen out when she'd opened it.

Her thoughts were momentarily distracted by the tile; the tile that she'd fallen in love with during her last trip to Morocco.  Under other circumstances, she might have taken a few moments and knelt down, running her fingers over the delicately erotic carvings on it.  And she would have remembered the trader, a stout, swarthy man with heavy eyelids, a brusque and seasoned salesman who knew a mark when he saw one and relished the thought of swindling this petite and fair-skinned woman.

But he had never met a woman like Erica.  And she knew men, especially this one, whose eyes drank up her soft, creamy skin the way the desert soaked up rain.  When they concluded their business an hour later, Erica politely but firmly turned down his offer of marriage and left with the tile and a memory; a memory of sweet cream and jasmine, of dark, work-roughened hands on her smooth flesh, and of a thick, heavy cock that swayed before her like a snake, one that she had coaxed from its hood with her eager tongue.

Ordinarily, a memory like this would spur other memories, and her quiet morning on the terrace would become a reverie of carnal bliss.  Her nipples would harden as she remembered all the men and women who had kissed and sucked them.  The silken flesh between her legs would moisten and swell, aching from the need to be stretched and filled once more.  Memory after memory would wash over her, as her lovers joined her on the terrace, inhabiting her with their essence as they had once done with their flesh.  With the sun bathing her in its gentle rays, beads of sweat would appear and Erica would massage them into her skin with a lover's caress, pinching and pulling her nipples until the sweet-sharp sensation forced a cry from her lips.  Her fingers would slide in and out of her now dripping pussy, avoiding her throbbing clit until the very last moment, when she would lightly scrape a fingernail over it and her juices would gush like grapes in a wine press.

So many of her days were spent in this fashion now that Erica had begun to worry.  Was this truly what her life had become?  Had she somehow crossed a threshold where the present and future eluded her and only the past remained?  Surely she was still too young to be so preoccupied with things she had already done, all the while ignoring the rich and plentiful opportunities for living that existed all around her.

Or was this what it felt like to grow old?

One corner of the envelope was a darker color than the rest, as though something had been spilled on it during its travels.  It was that corner that lay propped against the tile and it gave the envelope a feral look, as though it were an unblinking eye that watched and waited, patient and unperturbed by anything around it, knowing that sooner or later she would come within range and—

Erica stooped and grabbed the envelope with her fingertips, carefully avoiding the darkened corner.  She quickly stepped back inside the villa, kicking the door shut.  She made her way toward the terrace, holding the envelope away from her the way you might hold a dead mouse.  Once outside, she plopped the envelope onto the table and sat down heavily beside it, spilling some drops of coffee onto her robe.  She closed her eyes and sat quietly, waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal.

The gently cleansing winds helped to calm her, along with the scent of the Damask roses as they mingled with the fresh sea air.  Erica loved these summer mornings, when the spicy, nostalgic scent of the roses wafted through her villa.  In a few short hours the sun's heat would leech away the fragrance, but for now she sat, breathing deeply, relishing their ancient flavor.

She opened her eyes and took another sip of her coffee, staring at the envelope warily.  What is it about you, she thought, that fills me with dread?  She set her cup down and shook her head.  Enough of this foolishness.

She picked up the envelope and stared at it closely.  It was thick, thicker than it should have been with only a greeting card inside and it was sealed, not just with glue but also with wax.  Clearly, great pains had been taken to make sure the envelope didn't open by accident.  She flipped the envelope over.  There was no postage and aside from the dark stain in the corner there was but one thing that drew her interest.  A single word, written in a rough attempt at elegance:

Erica.

At the sight of her name, a chill scurried across her flesh and the radiance of the sun fled behind unseen clouds.  Dormant memories stirred in the back of her mind as she turned the envelope over and dug at the seal with her nail.  She had gone only a couple of inches when she cried out and jerked her finger back in pain.  Blood seeped from the paper cut and before she could react a drop of it fell onto the envelope.

She thrust the finger into her mouth and sucked on it, the sharp, metallic taste saturating her tongue.  She grabbed a napkin and, before the wound could start oozing again, wrapped her finger in it as tightly as she could.  Satisfied that it wouldn't drip anytime soon, she went back to working on the envelope.  This time, she went slower and with more care.  The wax hampered her efforts, but at last the envelope rested open in her hand.

The sheaf of papers stuffed inside came out with some struggle.  The pages were small, smaller than a standard piece of paper, but there were several of them and they had been folded over in order to fit.  Whatever had stained the envelope had seeped through as well, and the bottom of the last page was blotted with it.  Erica set the envelope on the table and unfolded the pages.  The writing on them was by the same hand that had written her name on the outside of the envelope, but with an interesting difference:  In writing her name, the writer had used a pen, most likely a fountain pen from the way the ink had smudged.  The writing on the pages, however, had been done entirely with a pencil – Erica scanned all the pages quickly to be sure – and none too sharp a one, at that.

She focused her attention on the writing and as she read the first word, the chill returned once more to her skin, this time burrowing its way inside and squeezing her lungs, making it hard for her to breathe.  Her lips moved silently, mouthing the word, ingesting it, mingling it with the taste of her own blood.  It took several moments, but at last she dropped her sight to the first line and began to read.

Querida, 

I can only imagine your shock and surprise as you read these words.  I am quite certain that you have done everything you could to purge all traces of me from your memory.  But, ah, my sweet, such things are always easier said than done.  For myself, I have lived with the memory of you – of us – each and every day of my confinement, which by now has stretched on for many years.  Memories are such tricky things, my dear Erica.  Like the stars I see out my window each night, our minds make us think they are something alive and of the moment, when in reality, they are only echoes of events long dead and gone.  But like the cold light from those dead stars, the power they possess is enormous. 

The prison where I am interred is in a remote part of Baja Sur, known as the Desierto De Vizcaino.  Very few things live naturally in this desert, and rainfall is scarce.  What little moisture there is comes from the heavy fogs that drift in from the ocean.  When the wind comes from that direction the smell of the Pacific is strong, and that is one of the most terrible things about my confinement.  I do not think I ever got the chance to tell you that I was born on the ocean and lived near there my entire life, except for my time away at university in California.  To smell the water on the breeze and taste the salty moisture in the air is a torture almost beyond my endurance.  The rest of the time here it is dusty and dry, and no amount of water can relieve your thirst.  And when the wind comes from the east, the "Santa Ana" wind you would call it, one often has to breathe through a piece of cloth to keep from choking. 

But the weather, no matter how difficult, is an impassive thing.  There is no malevolence in it, no harmful intent.  One is either strong enough to endure or not.  But there are other things, querida, evil things that walk the earth in many guises.  Since our last meeting and that moment of unbridled passion that led me to this place, I have seen much that you would consider abhorrent and ugly.  And I have learned much, too.  Sad to say, I am no longer the same happy and carefree young man who took pity on a pale gringa that day on the beach. 

Do you remember, Erica?  Do you remember how I was too shy to speak with you, such a beautiful woman not much older than myself, and yet I could not just walk by and leave you there, your soft, white skin turning red before my eyes.  So I stood over you and covered you with my shadow, waiting for you to notice me.  You were lying on your back and the swimsuit you were wearing contained barely enough cloth to keep you decent.  Such a firm, lithe body you had!  Even now, I can see you, your skin awash with perspiration, coating your firm, round breasts, and dripping ever so slowly from your neck and arms.   I confess that I lusted for you from the very first moment I laid eyes upon you.  So strong were those feelings that only my shadow hid my engorged member from your sight. 

Or did it?  I wonder now.  You took so long to give some sign that you saw me, behind those dark sunglasses of yours.  Did you notice my swim trunks swell as I stared at your body or is it only my memory now that pictures the corner of your mouth turning upward in a smile?

Erica paused in her reading, staring into space, as the memory engulfed her.  Without realizing it, she started to smile and for a moment looked very much as she had those many years earlier.  Oh, she had noticed, all right.  How could she not?  Enrique (she didn't know his name then, of course, that came later) was hung like a stallion and the length and thickness of his lovely cock were clearly outlined against his trunks.  His prominent reaction to her beauty and his obvious embarrassment about it struck her like an aphrodisiac and it was all she could do to stifle an impulse to shuck him like an ear of corn and feast on the creamy contents.

But she contented herself with a good long look and only that slight hint of a smile betrayed her interest.  And it was just now, as she thought about their meeting for the first time in so many years, that she understood what had piqued her so about the young man with the sun-bronzed skin.  In the years after she left the professor, her experience had been almost exclusively with older, sophisticated men.  Wealthy men, who could support and keep her in the lavish lifestyle she longed for, but also men to whom she would always be an afterthought, trapped somewhere in a purgatory between being a wife and a lover, between business and pleasure.

Somehow, in the first few moments that he entered her consciousness, the woman in her recognized the boy in him; that despite his imposing frame and God-like endowment, he was still just an innocent, his passion for life as yet untouched by the ravages of time.  And that passion spoke to her, to the girl she had been before succumbing to the woman she became.  And in the deepest, most hidden recesses of her heart, Erica responded.

She set the first page on top of the envelope and continued reading.

Of course, you were very circumspect that first day, greeting me cautiously but politely.  It no doubt eased your mind to learn that I was an employee of the resort at which you were staying, and you were very appreciative of my concern for the condition of your skin.  Still, even in those days one heard stories of American women being accosted, giving all of us locals a bad reputation, and it was both appropriate and prudent for you to be careful. 

But something passed between us, my love.  From that first moment it was present, a vibrating, humming flow of electricity, of awareness and understanding beyond the realm of our senses.  From that first moment it became inevitable that we would meet again and be together, if only for a short time.  If not, how do you explain what happened only a few nights later, when I found you alone and crying, pacing back and forth in front of the angry surf as though you meant to throw yourself into it.  Did I save you from a terrible fate or did some part of you know that I would be there, that it was not your time to suffer but mine, and that our one night of bliss was to lead me to my destruction just as surely as a lamb is led to slaughter? 

I have so many questions, querida.  How much just one conversation with you would ease my mind.  But things happened so quickly in the aftermath; I was arrested and you disappeared.  When I asked for you I was told that you didn't want to see me.  Later, I learned that you had left the country.  I try to forgive, my darling.  Honestly, I do.  But it is so hard when the nights are long and empty and the stars offer no comfort.  You were the one person who might have saved me from this living Hell.  The only other person who was there that night, who could have explained what happened and why.  But you ran.  And I must ask again, as I have done so many thousands of times before:

Why, Erica?  Why? 

I do not expect an answer, my love.  In truth, it will surprise me if you ever read these words.  If you are reading them, it will mean…but I must stop for now.  I have been warned that the prison generator will be shut down soon (a not uncommon occurrence here due to the high winds and blowing sand) and the pitiful candle they bring me at such times casts too poor a light for me to write by.  I will write more when I am able.

Erica felt the sadness closing around her like a fist.  She hurriedly put the second page down and started reading the third.

It is daylight now and even though the generator has not been restarted, the light in my cell is sufficient for me to continue.  If you are reading this, by now you must be wondering about my final words from last night.  Let me explain.  I am writing this letter at the insistence of a Catholic priest who ministers to the lost souls unfortunate enough to have been sent here.  His name is Padre Arturo Ramirez.  I met him shortly after my arrival and he has been a frequent visitor over the years.  He has heard my tale of woe many times and, even though I cannot in truth say that he believes me (you must remember that everyone here is an innocent; unjustly accused and wrongfully imprisoned), he has lent a sympathetic ear and attempted to counsel me to the best of his ability. 

He knows the anger that I hold inside; he feels that this anger is preventing me from coming to terms with my situation.  It is his hope that my writing this letter to you will serve as a way for me to rid myself of these feelings and come to understand and accept the consequences of my actions.  Only then, he tells me, will I be free to feel true contrition for what I have done and avail myself of God's mercy and forgiveness. 

I do not know if I can believe him, Erica.  True, I was baptized in the faith and taught from a very early age by the Brothers at the monastery; still I have my doubts.  Is it wise to expect mercy and forgiveness from the same God who condones a place such as this, a Hell on earth where the only comfort is the howling of the wind because it drowns out the cries of the wretched?  But the good Padre is a patient and persistent man and I agreed, finally, that writing the letter could not hurt and might, in fact, make me feel better. 

Last night I stayed awake after the power went out, staring at the weak shadows my candle threw on the wall.  Confinement gives one time to think – too much time, in truth - for the mind craves stimulation and in the absence of such a sort of madness develops.  Hallucinations appear and then reappear with startling regularity and it is not long before one's senses cannot be trusted. 

Last night, we were together again.  Not here, no, not in this godforsaken place.  As I stared at the shadows on the wall, I saw us, as we were that night. By the rocks near the shore, lost in our reckless passion as the waves thundered and crashed around us.  Heedless of the risk, unaware of the imminent danger, our bodies became as one in the moonlight.  It had been my intention only to make sure you were all right and to offer whatever assistance and comfort I could.  But it seemed so natural to take you in my arms and you did not resist.  And when you lifted your face to mine…

Ah, querida, what a night!  The memory of it both damns and sustains me in this place.  Have you truly forgotten it, my love?  Was it just an act of the moment for you, one more in an endless pursuit of the gratification of the flesh?  You were so sure, so experienced.  You unfastened my bathing trunks and let them fall to my ankles.  You knelt in the wet sand, not caring about the rushing water, and took me in your mouth.  Did you know somehow that you were the first woman to do that for me?  And you looked up at me, your eyes glittering, and you watched the expression on my face as your mouth descended further and further until your lips were pressed against my flesh. 

Dios mio, what a feeling!  Even today, that sense memory lingers still, like being gently nursed in a swirling eddy of hot oil.  And it was not long before the magic of your lips and tongue brought me to the point of flooding your mouth with my essence.  I was afraid that you would be angry with me but I could not help myself.  I bellowed loud enough to be heard above the pounding surf as I filled your mouth to overflowing with my come.  To my great surprise, you were not angry with me at all.  You drank of me hungrily, greedily, as a baby might drink at her mother's breast.  You drank until the sensation of your tongue was so exquisitely painful that I thought I might pass out and I was forced to pull my softening member away from you. 




Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 03



No woman had ever given of herself to me so freely, without any thought of her own pleasure.  I helped you to your feet and started to apologize but you put your hand to my lips and stopped me.  In one swift motion you lifted your dress over your head and then you were standing before me naked, in all your magnificence.  And magnificent you were, Erica.  No woman has ever looked as beautiful as you did that night.  You took my hand and led me to the rocks, where we used your dress and my trunks to make a small pad for you to sit on.  When you were comfortable, you lay back, guiding my face to that most secret and desirable part of you.  And then I was the one on my knees, bent in homage before you, with no thought but to please you as you had pleased me. 

I must confess that this, too, was a new experience for me.  But again, you were so wise, so knowing.  You made sure that my tongue attended to every petal of the wild and succulent flower that lay open before me.  The exotic fragrance drove me wild, and again and again I lapped at your glistening folds.  And when at last I reached the heart of the flower, that hidden bulb which by now was fully as hard and round as a tiny grape in my mouth, it took only one or two passes from my tongue before your body stiffened and you cried out, filling my mouth with the sweetest and most wondrous nectar I have ever tasted. 

You were not surprised to find me fully erect once more and as I stood up, you wrapped your legs around me, pulling me inside of you.  As with your mouth, the sight of my dark and fully engorged organ disappearing inside of your soft, white flesh was incredible.  It seemed almost impossible that it would fit, but it did, and without effort.  The urgency was less now, and our lovemaking was slow and deliberate, almost gentle.  You took my hands and covered your breasts with them.  Though not large, your breasts were full and heavy, and your nipples stood proudly between my fingers.  I took turns suckling them, savoring your moans of pleasure almost as much as I did your delicate texture and delicious flavor. 

I was in Heaven, my darling, and would have happily spent eternity in your warm embrace.  After a time, however, you pushed me back and we separated.  I was confused but you simply smiled and led me to a nearby rock, a ponderous boulder that towered above us.  You turned and faced the boulder, pressing your backside against me, and beckoned for me to enter you from behind.  I was more than willing but the difference in our sizes made it somewhat awkward.  You were forced to stretch your body upwards against the rock, rising onto your toes before we could manage it. 

Once inside you, with my head nestled atop your shoulder, you began to talk to me, telling me the things you wanted me to do to you.  Such words, querida!  Such language!  Talk such as I had never heard from a lady in my life.  Under other circumstances I might have been filled with shock and dismay to hear such things from your lips, but your words and the look on your face as you said them inflamed me.  My urgency returned and I became like the bulls I had seen in Guadalajara and Tijuana, charging the toreador with such intensity that the entire bullring trembled with each pass of his scarlet cape. 

Ah, but that was what you wanted, was it not?   You arched your back, crying out with each new thrust, until my voice joined yours and we sang our rapture in unison.  Such bliss, Erica. And such agony now to relive over and over that which can never be repeated.  But I must tell you, my darling, now before the light grows too dim again for me to continue, that regardless of what came later, I would change nothing of what happened that night.  If I am to have but one memory to cling to, no matter how much it tortures me, let it be that one.  And when I fall asleep each night and dream, let it be your face that I see.

Erica closed her eyes and moaned.  In her mind, she was back in Mexico, her body on fire as she was literally caught between a rock and a wonderfully hard place.  She remembered it all now; the way her calf muscles burned from the effort of standing on point, the coarseness of the rock abrading her forearms as she braced herself against it.  Arching her back, Enrique's powerful arms around her, his hands so soft and tender as they cupped her breasts, his cock so hard and thick as it slid in and out of her drenched pussy.

Oh, Enrique, she thought.  What did I do to you?

She had come to the resort so full of herself, so confident in her ability to judge and control the men around her.  When she arrived back in the states a few days later, with one man's death and another's ruination on her conscience, she realized that she knew nothing.  All of her life, her shy and protected upbringing, her explosion of sexuality under the professor's tutelage, the men she had been with since as she honed and refined her skills, all of it had brought her to this point.  And where was she – what was she?

She had thought of herself as a sensualist, bartering her body and her talents in exchange for the right to live life on her own terms.  True, some might describe her as nothing more than a high-class prostitute, but she never thought of herself that way.  Wasn't she only doing what everyone did, offering herself and her abilities and being paid for them?  She made sure the men she dealt with – all carefully chosen – understood and agreed that hers was not to be a lifetime contract.  For the time she was with each one of them, she gave of herself fully and without reservation, and when it was time to move on, she did so without regret.  And while she gave none of them her heart, all of them had touched her in some way and each relationship added a new dimension to the work in progress that was her life.

Ending a relationship, however, always proved to be tricky.  In the end, all the men in her life wanted to possess her, and her companion at the resort was no exception.  He was a cabinet official with the Mexican government, a likeable but petty man who became verbally abusive when he drank.  She had only been with him a short time when she realized how incredibly boring he was, and Erica, who valued stimulation above all else, had been looking for an opportunity to move on ever since.

And then she met Enrique.  She saw in him what the professor had seen in her:  A sensual nature and a raw, untapped sexuality that cried out for discovery and liberation.  And just as the professor had done for her, she knew instinctively that she would be the one to unleash the passion she saw in him, and teach him the first steps in understanding his true nature.  What she didn't know, what she hadn't yet learned, was how brutally swift life could change, transforming those feelings of raw passion into overwhelming guilt and remorse.

Without thinking, her fingers slid under her robe and traced the outline of her swollen lips through her thin, cotton panties.  Her flower, Enrique had called it.  Yes, she thought, the description fit.  And once again, the heart of that flower was full and ripe, awaiting release.  Using her index finger, she stroked her clit, rubbing it quickly back and forth.  The moist fabric chafed her and would, she knew, make her sore afterwards, but the pain felt appropriate somehow.  No, it was more than that, she realized suddenly.  It was necessary.  This should hurt.  She rubbed harder, relishing the way her clit began to sting.

As the mixture of pleasure and pain flooded through her, the image in her mind changed to one that occurred several months after that night on the beach.  She saw herself suspended, with leather cuffs holding her legs and arms, while two faceless men used her for their own pleasure.  Her eyes were closed and her face appeared slack and listless; nothing the men did aroused her in any way.  Another man appeared and shoved a liquid vial under her nose, forcing her to inhale deeply.  Around her neck was a red, velvet bow and the third man began to twist it, cutting off the flow of blood and oxygen to her brain.

After a few seconds, her eyes began to bulge in their sockets and her face darkened.  She tried to shake her head and break free but she had very little strength left.  A few more seconds and she would lose consciousness.  A sense of calm and acceptance swept over her.  Yes, she remembered thinking very clearly.  It's what I deserve.

Just as she was about to pass out, the man released his grip on the velvet bow.  She gulped in fresh air.  Suddenly, she felt prickly and hot, her blood a liquid flame rushing through her.  The two men began fucking her harder, laughing as they felt her respond.  No, she thought.  Yes, her body answered and the molten blood in her veins bubbled and boiled like hot wax.  Her orgasm shook her so violently the man fucking her ass lost his balance and fell, his cock spurting jets of come on her legs like a runaway hose.

That same fire coursed through Erica now, as her body convulsed on the terrace.  And in her mind, the same two words repeated over and over:

Forgive me.  Forgive me.  Forgive me.

It was some time before she felt strong enough to open her eyes and sit up.  She glanced around, looking for signs of damage.  Her cup had tipped, but what little coffee left inside had stayed in the saucer.  One of the deck chairs had taken a spill, clattering loud enough to scatter the cormorants from the nearby cliffs.  A few of them had returned and were watching her warily.  For some reason, this made Erica blush.

She stared at the papers on the table.  Only a few pages of Enrique's letter remained unread.  She remembered the feeling she'd gotten when she first saw the envelope.  It had seemed almost alive, somehow, watching her with an ophidian intensity, waiting for the first opportunity to strike and infect her with its poison.  Only the poison turned out to be more like a truth serum, tumbling her Alice-like down a rabbit hole of buried memories.

Those memories were alive inside her now, racing through her blood, opening door after door and window after window, shedding light on thoughts and feelings she'd kept hidden for years.  There was no stopping it.  And there was no way back.  Like Alice, her only way out lay ahead, and she would have to wade through her own private and personal pool of tears to get there.  She picked up the next page of Enrique's letter and continued reading.

One more night with only a timid flame for company.  I have heard that this time the generator will need to be replaced, which means the candle and I may become old friends before I have the pleasure of electric light again.  Still, even a weak flame has its use.  Last night, as I watched the shadows on the wall, I found myself staring at the column of smoke that rose from the reflection of the candle. 

You were such a bright flame when you came to Mexico, Erica.  You called to me, my love, and I was helpless to resist.  Of course, I knew I was no more to you than a casual affair while on holiday.  I was not such a naïve boy as to think that because of one night together on the beach we might have something else in common or entertain thoughts of a life together.  But that did not matter.  My passion for you was such that I just had to see you again. 

The next night, I heard you and your companion arguing as I approached your room.  As with most nights that time of year, the air was thick and stifling, and would remain so until the wind picked up in the early morning hours.  Your voices carried clearly through the open windows and I am quite certain I was not alone in hearing them.  It is a measure of how anxious the resort was to put this behind them that no mention of your argument was ever introduced at my trial, nor were any witnesses brought forth to corroborate my statement. 

I crept onto your balcony and watched quietly as the argument grew more intense.  I must admit that I did not recognize the man you were with or find out about his position in the government until after I had been arrested.  But anyone could see that he was drunk and my blood boiled to hear him talk to you that way.  And imagine my surprise when I realized that the two of you were arguing about us.  We had been seen! 

The names he called you, Erica!  Names no man should ever call a woman, no matter what her crime against him.  Perhaps if I had known then the true nature of your relationship with him, I might have understood why this venom flowed so easily from his mouth.  Or perhaps it was only his true character that allowed him to abuse you in this fashion.  Whatever the reason, I knew the words hurt you, querida.  You flinched from each one as though from the crack of a whip.  But you held your ground and, in spite of my growing anger, I remained in the shadows. 

Then he hit you and I could stay hidden no longer.  At first, you seemed more surprised than hurt.  Only when he hit you a second time did you cry out.  You fell backwards onto the bed and he came towards you, as though he meant to force himself upon you.  Then I was on him.  I yelled as I charged, to try and distract him, and he turned to me and raised his arms to ward me off.  But I had the element of surprise.  I grabbed him and threw him against the wall. 

For a moment, he seemed stunned by my appearance and more than a little surprised to be manhandled in such a fashion.  But that did not last long.  He roared and came at me, and he was strong, Erica; not as strong as me but strong enough.  We wrestled together and in his eyes I saw madness.  You were his prize and I had taken you away from him.  I believed then, and still believe now, that he meant to kill me. 

Of course, I have had much time to think about this.  I have gone over the events of that night so many times now.  Still, I do not remember any conscious thought process, or any one moment when I realized that my life was in danger.  I only recall that suddenly the knife was in my hand, and then his expression changed as he felt the blade slide upwards into his body. 

This was something else that served me to no avail at my trial.  I have always been good with a knife, Erica.  From the time I was a very small boy, my father taught me the uses for a sharp blade.  I learned how to clean and gut a fish, and how to skin and dress all manner of animal.  I came to understand very quickly how precious blood is and the importance of losing as little of it as possible during a kill. 

If I had meant to kill him, would I really have bled him like a stuck pig? 

But no matter.  He staggered away from me, and as the knife pulled from the wound, his blood began to spurt.  He tried to cover it with his hands, as though he could somehow stop water from flowing over a dam, but it was no use.  He stared at me helplessly, and then he saw you on the bed.  He brushed past me and, reaching for you, he stumbled.  He fell to the floor and lay still in an ever-widening pool of his own blood. 

I will never forget the expression on your face, my darling.  It was as if it had all been some sort of a game of make-believe, and in the next moment you expected him to stand and yell, "Surprise!"  But then you looked at me and saw the knife, and the blood on my hands.  And you started to scream.  That scream has haunted me for many years, Erica.  It desolates me to think that you will always have that image of me in your mind. 

After my arrest, you disappeared.  My so-called lawyer – may all lawyers drown in their own excrement! – told me that he had spoken with you.  He wore a sneer on his face as he described your relationship with the deceased and made it abundantly clear that in his eyes you were nothing more than a puta – a whore.  He said that you expressed no concern for me and only wished to leave the country as quickly as possible in order to put this all behind you.  He seemed surprised that I would expect anything different from a woman such as you. 

You can imagine what it looked like, Erica.  A rich and important man had been killed – murdered, they said – while surprising an intruder in his room.  With no evidence to support it, my version of what happened was summarily ignored and you were hardly mentioned, probably in deference to the man's wife, who sat in the front row each day of the trial, lacerating me with her eyes.  My lawyer deemed it a great victory that they did not execute me on the spot. 

On the day of my sentencing, his wife read a statement to the court, describing her life with him, dwelling in great detail on all the things that I, through my callous and ruthless act, had taken from her and their children.  I could barely believe what I heard, querida.  I had seen this man, witnessed firsthand his drunkenness and his brutish behavior towards you.  How could she, of all people, be so ignorant of his true nature?  Had he somehow kept it hidden from her during their years together? 

It was at this moment that I received what Padre Ramirez would call an epiphany, an opening of my eyes.  For I knew, as I watched her in the courtroom, reciting her grievances and parading her late husband's swollen virtue before the judge, that everything she said was a lie.  And I was not the only one.  There were many who squirmed with discomfort as they listened to her words.  But it was clear to me that she believed them; somehow she had learned or chosen to ignore the truth and instead built her life around a fantasy. 

What an awakening, Erica!  Until that moment, I would scarcely have believed a person capable of such self-deceit.  However, since coming to this place, I have seen it demonstrated again and again.  When faced with a difficult or unpleasant truth, people will lie about it to themselves.  When a lie is repeated often enough, it becomes like the flame from a candle, seducing us with its power and warmth.  And the truth slips away like smoke from a hidden flame, billowing in the shadows, unseen except but for a few, and soon enough forgotten.. 

I must go now, my love.  Padre Ramirez is here and it is time for him to read what I have written to you.  I am not sure, however, that his purpose has been served.  While I understand that I must accept responsibility for what I have done, I cannot, in conscience, resign myself to this fate.  I know in my heart that I still desire you, Erica.  No amount of time passing will change that. 

But I cannot escape the knowledge that it is because of you that I am here.  And so the conflict within me has raged, and continues to rage, unabated.  What we shared on the beach that night was more than merely physical, querida.  For a brief moment, we were given a glimpse into each other's soul.  The woman I saw there would not have willingly left me to this place. 

And so I am left to wonder:  What lies have you constructed for yourself that you may live with the truth of what you have done?  Perhaps, if you do one day get to read these words, they may be of more help to you than they are to me now.  I fear that God's mercy and forgiveness will never reach me in this earthly corner of Hell.  But if you can find the courage to turn away from the flame, querida, He may yet bestow some upon you. 

Always, 

Enrique

Erica set the last page carefully on the table and looked away, blinking at the tears welling in her eyes.  The truth, as always, was deceptively simple.  Despite being in a state of shock, she had told her story to anyone who would listen.  The authorities weren't interested.  To them, the case was cut and dried.  Her companion had been killed when he interrupted a robbery in progress.  They had all the evidence they needed to prove their case and, because of the deceased's position in the government, no small amount of urgency to do so.




Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 03



When Erica became angry and threatened to go public, she received a visitor, a tall man who spoke flawless English and never removed his sunglasses.  In quiet and ominous tones, he gave her a choice:  She could leave the country or she would be arrested and indicted as an accessory to the murder of her companion.   If she left quietly, there would be little or no mention of her at the trial, thus sparing her and the man's family a great deal of embarrassment.

Emotionally and physically drained, Erica returned to the US.  Turning to her own government for help, she was dismayed to learn that the State Department considered the matter to be an internal affair of the country of Mexico and that, with her now safely back home, there was nor reason for them to take action.  Because they could not be responsible for her safety, she was advised not to return to Mexico.

She wandered at loose ends for several weeks.  She spoke to everyone she could think of about the situation but received no help.  Her health declined further, but Erica didn't care.  There had to be something she could do.  On the day that Enrique stood in front of a judge to hear his fate, she sat, despondent and alone, in a small roadside café near the outskirts of Tucson.  After a short time, a man approached her table and asked if he could join her.  She hardly looked at him.  Unperturbed, he sat down across from her and began to talk.

He spoke quietly to her, his voice even and measured, his tone soothing.  As the sound of his voice rolled over her like a quiet waterfall, she felt something inside of her give, and she began to cry.  In moments, she was sobbing; coughing up great, wracking heaves of anguish that had been frozen inside of her.  When it was over she felt more at ease than she had in months and she was suddenly ravenous.

Over a wolfed-down lunch, Erica told him everything.  Not just about Enrique but all the things that had happened in her life to that point.  She felt oddly comfortable telling him about the professor and the other men that she'd been with, and he listened with no hint of judgment or reproach in his eyes.  At last she realized that her plate was empty and that she'd been talking for hours.  She tried to apologize but he stopped her.

He told her he understood.  He told her that he'd known from the moment he saw her that she was in trouble and needed help.   He told her he knew these things because he'd been in trouble once himself, and he had survived it only because someone had been kind enough to reach out to him at a desperate moment in his life.  He stood up and held out his hand.  Let me help you, he said.  Let me give you what you need.

She hesitated, but for once in her life she seemed out of options.  And there was something about this man, the way he spoke and the way he listened to her.  There was calmness in his manner, a tranquil power that soothed her and drew her to him.  She felt she could trust him.  She took his hand, with no inkling that she was making the worst mistake of her life.  On that day, two countries and several hundred miles apart, Erica and Enrique entered Hell together.

Erica angrily wiped her tears on the sleeve of her robe.  There was only one thing to do, now.  She had to go see Enrique.  She had to talk to him, to tell him what had happened, why he'd been left there to rot all alone in that prison.  She knew there could be no forgiveness.  Not now.  Not after so long a time.  But at least he'd know the truth.  And maybe that would be a start.

She picked up the loose pages of his letter and put them in order.  She started to put them back into the envelope and then stopped.  On the back of the last page, almost hidden down near the dark smudges, she saw some more writing.  The words were scrawled, as if they had been written in haste, but it was definitely Enrique's handwriting.  And these words, like her name on the envelope, had been written in pen.  She separated the last page from the others and began to read.

My darling, 

It appears now that Padre Ramirez was more right about this letter than he knew.  Not only has writing it made me feel much better – it has set me free!  I am not sure if this is exactly what the good Padre intended but one should always be careful what one wishes for, no?  Intended or no, he has given me hope for the future, a hope that I had thought lost to me forever.  It is a debt that I can never repay. 

As for us, querida, I now know that someday we will meet again.  I do not know where or when, or what the outcome of that meeting will be.  But I know it will happen.  For now, it is enough for me to know that you have read these words.  The passage of time has done nothing to diminish the power of your flame, Erica.   But do not forget the smoke.  When the time is right, when you are ready for me, remember to turn to the shadows.  I will be there, waiting for you.

The page fluttered from her grasp and landed lightly on the table.  She stared at it absently, her eyes drawn once more to the smudges on the paper.  Her mind whirled, but it was like running in quicksand.  What was it about the smu—and then she noticed the envelope.  The envelope she'd opened with her fingernail, cutting herself in the process.  The envelope decorated with a single drop of her blood, a now almost dry drop of blood that looked remarkably like…well, like a smudge.

Her hand went to her mouth as she remembered Enrique's words:

I have always been good with a knife, Erica…if I had meant to kill him, would I have really bled him like a stuck pig?

Her mind went back to the quiet knock on her door, a knock so soft she almost hadn't heard it.  And the envelope, stuck in her door for her to find.  An envelope sealed in wax with no postage on it.  A part of her wanted to scream, to run through the villa, checking the locks and the windows.  But she knew it would make no difference.  And for now, it didn't matter.  He'd made his intentions clear enough.

Her gaze fell upon the nearby cormorants, huddled together on the cliff that overlooked the green waters of the Mediterranean.  One of them stared back at her, cold-eyed and unblinking, disdainful of her petty problems.  For a few moments, neither of them moved and the setting might have been a picture or a still-life painting.  

I am no longer the same man…

No, she thought.  How could you be?  But I am no longer the same woman, either.  Hell comes in many forms and the Devil wears many guises.  I survived my trip through the wasteland and now it appears that you are free as well, at least for the time being.  The irony is that we both endured that awful journey by clinging to the same thing:  Thoughts of each other.

The sea bird squawked suddenly and flapped its wings.  This startled the other birds and all of them took flight, soaring upward into the piercing blue sky.  The scent of her cherished Damask roses was gone now, dissipated by the swelter of the mid-day sun.  Tomorrow in the cool of the morning the fragrance would return, investing her villa with its old world essence.  The most precious things in life always seemed to bloom for such a short time, Erica thought.  And yet, despite their brief and brilliant life, you could always count on them to thrive and return to bloom again, sometimes from the most unlikely of places.

For the first time in several hours, Erica smiled.  Yes, she thought.  It's time.  Come to me, my love.  I'm ready when you are.

FIN



Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 04



Chapter 4: Serifos

The night sky was clear and littered with stars above the haven of my garden tonight. After a quiet dinner alone I slipped into the garden to enjoy the rich scent of my lovely Damask Roses, in a swing under the trellis. I smiled up at Orion's belt high in the spring sky and realized it was the second time today that my mind had recalled the echo of a nearly perfect month so many years ago. 

The first time, a single sheet of yellowing paper had fallen from a book. I found myself musing over a simple drawing of a beautiful young girl, arms up-stretched, her sensual, round bottom arched proudly. In the corner was the neat signature "Jan-Dirk." 

The smile lingered as I lay there, carried back in time by the same stars as had astounded me as if seeing them for the first time. It was a first time for many things, so many things, that eventful trip with Etienne and Jan-Dirk.

My first-discovered "truth of life," for example. And that is, that it is not possible to plan your life, nor to set out to find adventure. Not possible to plan the wonders that life will bring you. But, it is essential, I realized, to allow them to happen. The joy of life awaits us and we must be sure to place ourselves where joy can find us.

And so it was on my Griechischer Abenteuer.

It began just at the end of my stay with Christoforo. I loved my stay with him, but there came a time when it was right to move on, just as there had been a time when going to him was perfect for me. He had wanted to go to Athens one last time. We had explored together the beauty of Athens and even watched Mephistopheles performed in the perfect acoustic splendor of the ancient theater. Then on the last day, as we stood on the rock outcropping of the Acropolis I knew that it was time to move on.

The previous night, a casual conversation in a Taverna had led to an invitation - perhaps an adventure, I wasn't sure. Their names were Etienne and Jan-Dirk; he was Dutch and Etienne was Flemish. His beard was salt and pepper gray and she was lovely, athletic, with long blond hair and an immediate smile that lit her face. I was attracted to them immediately by their open, yet subdued friendliness. In the end they asked if I wished to join them on a sailing cruise in Greece. 

When we returned to our hotel, I said: "It is time for me to go, Christo, isn't it?

"Yes, I know! Time. It always comes so. Too soon, but life calls you, my dear." His hand was warm against my waist and I put my hand on his.

We spent our last night together there on the balcony of a little hotel with all of Athens at our feet, enjoying our now practiced and perfect sexual pleasuring of each other. 

The next few weeks were to be an immersion into sensuality that would be a guide and a standard for the rest of my life. I had never been on a boat in my life. That filled me with trepidation as I stood looking out over Kalimara harbor to the sea beyond. What did not occur to me at that time was that life itself was just such a huge sea, filled with wonder, occasional danger, and things which touch all the senses and mobilize them into a palette of pleasure. My guides would be Etienne and Jan-Dirk, waiting for me someplace here, along this long pier.

Olympus was a Fifty-four foot yacht, sleek and beautiful, lying in slot 144. There was no one aboard, so I sat on the little house-like structure of the cabin and waited. The sound and smell of the sea filled my nostrils; a light breeze cooled my cheek. Etienne and Jan-Dirk were soon strolling toward me, she in a light green dress he in a crisp looking blue blazer, a tie hung round his neck. Her high heels were strangely out of place, yet made her look elegant. 

My heart leapt and I felt strangely attracted to her. Why was I suddenly struck dumb by her smile? For the first time in my life, I realized I had fallen in love with another woman. The thought shocked me. Yet, there was little to dispute the fact. I had all the symptoms, my hands shook slightly, I simply could not take my eyes from her, I was aware of the tiniest details of her beauty. Could this be? My mind was thrashing about to explain it.

"Sorry, we are so late, Erica, dear. We had to go to one last fancy luncheon. One of Jan-Dirk's buildings had it's grand opening today, you know, ribbon cutting and all that. They don't even let the architect cut the ribbon, but he has to attend. Have you been waiting long?"

"Oh, no, no. Just a few minutes."

"Take my shoes, will you? A bit impractical on the boat, don't you think" her laugh was self-deprecating and melodic. I was to find it completely captivating in the next few days.

Jan-Dirk re-emerged from below, already changed into ragged shorts and a loose shirt and inspected me quietly with blue-grey eyes. 

"Ready?'

"Ready!" I said, not so convincingly.

"Don't worry, we have a nice light breeze, right?" His Dutch accent and husky laugh were somehow reassuring as he went about readying the boat.

I sat in the gangway to the cabin, watching as Etienne changed her clothes and chattered questions at me. She slipped the dress over her head and hung it in a closet and then unsnapped her stockings and rolled one and then the other down her long legs. She slipped off the garter belt and tossed the stockings and belt into a bag hanging in the closet. "Looks like you came prepared for a cruise! You bought deck shoes, good." She muttered idly as she unsnapped her bra and scooped her hands around her breasts, rubbing away the tight lines. She slipped a bright green t-shirt over her head, pulled tight white shorts over her hips and smiled up at me. She signaled me to go up on deck.

The two of them began working as a team to get under way and we were soon moving along the line of boats and out toward what looked to me like a terribly big ocean. I was, for the first time in my life, genuinely frightened. I wondered if I had made a huge mistake accepting this adventure.

"Sit here on the high side with me, Erica. You'll get used to the boat leaning this way." She had noticed my tense clutching of the boat railing.

It was beautiful, just beautiful, the way the boat slipped silently and smoothly along. My fears slowly ebbed and I felt the exhilaration of ocean sailing that I was to feel so often in the coming weeks. 

After a few hours, we anchored in a tiny bay below the temple of Sounien set high on the overlooking hill. Dinner was lovely and lazy, the smells of cooking surrounded us in the combination kitchen, lounge, dining room of the main cabin. Under the table, our bare feet touched in the close quarters. I felt awkward, but soon realized that the closeness of a boat inevitably brings a bit more contact than you are accustomed to on land.

I realized that Etienne's toes had begun to play with mine as she talked. It was as if she were extending the intimacy of her words. I found myself responding in a surprising way, tentatively at first. My toes moved in a caress of hers and we toyed with each other in a sensual dance. It sounds like nothing now, but the intimacy of the cabin, combined with the warm glow of the wine, heightened the sensation and I knew that I was becoming moist with anticipation of something more. From the other side of the table, Jan-Dirk's much larger and very masculine foot touched my other foot. This was truly a shock to have both sensations with me in the middle. 

When I realized that his accidental touch had changed to a lingering presence on the top of my foot, I felt my nipples stiffen under the thin shirt and a shudder of pleasure went down my backbone. It was a pleasure loaded with erotic nuance that was new to me. I wanted dinner to last all night, I realized. 

"It's wonderful, eh?" Jan-Dirk asked.

I could hardly speak, but managed to smile warmly. "Yes, ...."

"MMmmmmm, yes, darling, you have done well bringing us here." Etienne smiled. Her words were for him, but her toes burrowed under my instep as she said 'us.' I found myself pressing her foot in response. 

Under the spell of the cruise, I slipped my other foot to the top of Jan-Dirk's and slowly let it slither over his ankle. The beginning of the coarse hair of his leg teased my toes. And so, our erotic relationship began. There under the table. I was now looking forward excitedly to where it might lead.

I took both their hands in mine. "Thank you for ......... all of this. It is lovely! I feel so very happy here."

The telling of it, as I sit writing so many years later, seems pallid by comparison. But at that moment, it seemed impossible that such a scene could be as deeply sensual as it was. I was thrilled beyond words. All my senses seemed open to feelings that I was only then beginning to understand.

The lapping of the sea at the side of the boat near my ear was like a comforting lullaby. I lay staring into the night sky. The stars were brilliant. Many more than I had ever seen before. I seemed to be floating there between the black sea and the infinite black emptiness of a sky dotted with brilliant jewels. 

They had gone to bed leaving me alone, stretched out on the seat of the cockpit, the sail boom shifting over my head with a rhythmic, soft clunk. I heard them moving about the little cabin beneath the cockpit where I lay. 

The boat swung on her anchor, softly rocking with the slight swell of the sea. I did not want to go below and lose the sensation of floating amongst the stars. The wine still warmed my stomach and made the scene as erotic as van Gogh's "Starry Night" which has always mesmerized me. Then quietly, it began, the boat moving under my body, almost imperceptibly at first. The motion of Etienne and Jan-Dirk's lovemaking were joined the gentle sway of the boat.

"Oh,........ " I heard her sigh quietly. I felt my own heart pounding as I eavesdropped shamelessly.

I lay directly above them and though they may have tried to be as quiet as possible, their motions added a private rhythm to the boat's motions. I lay holding my breath, eager to hear their loving, to hear their breathless sounds. I picked Arcturus from the night sky, following the pattern of the dippers along until I found it. But the ruse could not keep my mind from the beauty I imagined as Etienne gently fondled his cock and his hands found her breasts. I imagined that his hand closed over her mound and a finger separated her pussy lips as my own hand slipped under my panties. I was already soaked by my own pleasure juices. I lay enjoying my thoughts, and in my mind, Jan-Dirk's finger, not my own, was toying gently with the nubbly clitoris between my wet lips.

"Yes,.." I heard him whisper. 

And the boat lurched as his weight shifted. I tried to imagine the scene below, to sharpen the image in my mind's eye. The stars bounded back and forth over the swaying mast, tall and rigid, and jutting into the sky as his cock would be jutting erect for her pleasure. The sound of the cables slapping the mast was loud in the silence of the night, like a bell warning others away.

The finger probed deep into me and I squirmed with our shared pleasure.

"Nice. Mmmmm." I heard Etienne's pleasure-soaked voice breath heavily into the night air. "Yes, more. There, ... yes." She spoke in a louder voice now, and I knew that she realized that I would be here listening to them. "Yes, hurry!"

The boat responded to their increasingly powerful thrusting and I rode the gentle, nearly imperceptible extra movement that they imparted to the boat. My fingers, deep in my vagina, fondled the wet thickening behind my clitoris and I felt the bathing honey lubricant letting them slip sensuously and so smoothly against each other.

The stars made love to me as I thrust against my hand. My movements fell in with theirs as I felt the tremors of the boat under my bare bottom, my panties pushed down and out of the way. The night air felt delicious on my exposed tummy and mound. My thrusting became more urgent and the stars seemed to shower down around me scattered by the waving arc of the mast as it sliced the blackness of the night.

"Oh, Jan,....." I realized it was my voice this time and bit my lip to stop the cry.

"Yes, now!" I heard Etienne's voice from below as my own orgasm tensed like a streak of gentle lightning through my body. My hand fondled my right breast in happy gratitude for the release. I relaxed again amongst the stars and listened as the boat quieted from the small rocking motion. A light rain had begun to fall, refreshing on my cheeks. I slipped down the steps as quietly as possible, but bumped into Etienne as she stepped from the tiny toilet. 

We stared silently at each other through the darkness. My breathing stopped for a moment. She leaned close. Her lips were soft and inviting as they brushed mine. 

"Bonne nuit!" she whispered, and slipped quietly back into their cabin as I heard Jan-Dirk's movement rustle the bed clothes. The door snapped shut behind her and I was alone again.

"Good Night," I whispered belatedly, my throat dry with the excitement of the moment. There were so many questions in my mind. What did my feelings mean? How could I be in love with ......... another woman? I had not expected this. It had never happened like this before. Still, I had called Jan-Dirk's name in the throes of orgasm. I had a lot to think about that night.

But I was to find that a boat has a way of lulling the cares of the day as it cradles you in the sea. That first night was reassuringly calm and I slept well as the boat rocked slowly at her anchor. 

We fell into a comfortable, unhurried routine over the next few days, stopping in tiny fishing ports one night and then a small nearly deserted cove the next. We swam in the crystal clear water and lazed about in the bright afternoon sun. The farmers on the mountainside went about their tasks as we watched them perform as in a distant movie scene or perhaps a dream set up for our pleasure. 

Jan-Dirk called down to us, "What say, Erica, ready for your first 'night-sail?'"

"Might as well say 'yes' Erica, that's his way of telling us he has already decided!" Etienne laughed at my side. Her hand took mine and she pulled me toward the ladder. 

I didn't know it, but the night-sail would prove to be erotic beyond anything I could have guessed, and change my life forever. After dinner, we raised anchor and set off in a steady breeze and sailed into the setting sun's brilliant changing colors. It was sensationally beautiful, of course, and the wine from dinner enhanced my reactions. Stars began to appear and then slowly flooded the darkening sky. I had learned to love the starry night sky. 

We skimmed along over the sea, as if floating in absolute darkness. The line between black sea and black sky was hardly visible at all. The nearby island's form could only be found with difficulty. The sound of the water shushing past the hull as we cut through the water was soothing. We spoke in hushed voices, not wanting to disturb the beauty. I must confess that sailing at night scared me a little. Well, actually, it scared me a LOT. We seemed to rush headlong through the night without seeing anything but an occasional blinking light far off on a lonely island. We were approaching a harbor called Serifos, but would pass it and go around the bottom of the Island before we slept tonight. But first we must find our way between very large rocks in the darkness. It was thrilling. An adventure, pure and chilling in a suspense I had not felt before.

"We should see the harbor light, low on the horizon, but deep in a bay. Let me know when you see it." Jan-Dirk was reassuring with his calm voice, but my skin was crawling slightly as we scudded past the huge, round shape of rocks looming out of the blackness.

"We have to be careful here, there are several of these rocks!" That didn't help me much. I sat next to Etienne and felt her thigh reassuringly snug against mine as we stared into the darkness, searching for the light.

"Don't worry, " she said quietly, "we have done this many times. It is safe, but we must be careful" 

Etienne draped her arm around my waist. We continued to search for the elusive light to peer out from between the rocks obscuring the coast. First one and then another would loom before us and then pass silently, as Jan-Dirk stirred with firm confidence.

"What is wrong? Are you cold, Erica? I feel you shiver."

"NO," I laughed half-heartedly. "A little scared, I guess." Her arm tightened around me, and then I felt her hand slip up under my windbreaker and gently squeeze my breast. I felt my nipples brisk with excitement. I sat a little more erect on the edge of the seat, then leaned closer into the shelter of her arm. 

"Is that it?" I said. Then, "no, I guess not."

Etienne giggled beside me and squeezed my breast again.

"No, not yet." She whispered. I squirmed against her like a large Siamese cat happily secure against the warmth of her body. I pressed my breast into her hand and she responded by a gentle fondling motion as if we were in a bath. It felt delicious. My nipples had surely never been so ripe. Between the sensation if her fondling hand and the excitement of searching for the navigational light, I was near the tension level of a really good orgasm.

I could feel my nipple jutting into her palm and she soothed it with a circular motion and then squeezed it between thumb and finger.

"OH!" My sharp intake of breath caught Jan-Dirk's attention.

"Not yet?" he muttered quietly, all his attention on the shore and the missing light.

"There, Jan-Dirk, there it is!" Etienne called out, her hand squeezing me reassuringly. I relaxed against her and felt her relax as well.

"Aha! So you were a little tense too! I thought it was only me."

"Ha, .......... Yes, it is a little tense at times like this. I could feel your tenseness ...." She said, a smile spread over her lovely face. I giggled, and her hand slipped low on my back and looped inside the belt of my shorts and just touched the crease of my bottom.

I don't think I had ever been so happy. And yet, I was unsure of what this was all about. Her hands on my body were delightful, but I wasn't sure if I should be allowing myself to enjoy it or not.

"Ya! We are past the rocks now!" Jan-Dirk whooped his relief. "Now who wants to steer the boat? No one? Then, Etienne, you should show Erica the fireworks! Eh?"

"Oh, ....... Yes. Want to see the fireworks of the boat, Erica? Come!" She lead the way along the safety wire toward the bow. We stood together, hanging onto the forestay for balance. Etienne stood behind me, her arms around me as we stood on the bow the cool night breeze blowing our hair. And there, surrounded by her arms and leaning against her warm body, I saw it. The phosphorescence streaking back along the bow wave like a thousand tiny fireflies swept aside by the prow of the boat. It was exquisite. Beautiful. Exciting. I wasn't sure what was the most exciting, the tiny microorganisms being swept aside, excited into glowing light by the boat's headlong flight, or by Etienne's breath against my cheek.

"I am sorry," she said into my ear. "We were too noisy last night. You heard, yes?"

"It's OK," I murmured. "I should apologize for listening, shouldn't I?"

"No, of course not!"

We stared at the fireworks show, hushed by the beauty of it all.

"Actually, .......... Uhhhh. I enjoyed it. Is that ...terrible of me?"

"Did you? MMmmm, no I like that. I mean that you enjoyed it too. You knew I spoke loudly ...... so you would hear?"

"Yes, I was sure. It was, somehow, very exciting, ... thinking of you."

Etienne's hands were over my tummy and mound now, pressing me close. 

"Jan-Dirk was a little mad at me. He does not like to be such an exhibitionist as I am sometimes." She giggled. I laughed at her teasing. "But I forgive him, he is good at making love except for that!"




Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 04



Suddenly confident, I moved one of her hands up to my breasts and languished against her, loving the pleasure of her firm caress on my breast.

"Come on, you don't look like a suitable decoration for the boat with that windbreaker on. She unzipped it and tossed it through the hatch into my cabin, then stripped off my shirt - amid mild protest - and then quickly unsnapped my bra. I was bare in the cool night air, my nipples jutting out, leading the way through the night. Her hard nipples let me know that she too had tossed her clothes below. We stood enjoying the cool air sweeping over us. It was like a lovely cool bath on a hot summer day, only much more refreshing. It was truly exhilarating.

Etienne unsnapped my shorts now and slipped them down by legs. She gently fondled me through my panties. Her hands coursed over my mound and then squeezed my bottom sensually, slipping over my ample roundness. Her thumbs hooked under the waistband and slipped the silky garment to my feet and tossed it below. 

I turned toward her and made a big show of stripping her of her blouse, exposing her lovely breasts, their dark nipples contrasting even here in the dark. I unbuttoned her shorts, and slipped them off, kneeling before her. My face was close in front of her mound, bulging so opulently in the white panties. I could smell her scent mixed with the freshness of the sea breeze. Slowly, I pulled the panties down her body, staring at the patch of curls which I exposed. I pressed my lips against them and nuzzled against her body, sucking in her scent. I felt wonderfully naughty and refreshingly in love.

We clung to the forestay, our naked bodies touching, watching the waves scudding under our bow. It was a feeling of intense freedom, enhanced by the twinkling of the distant stars.

"Here, let me show you ......... a new experience." 

Etienne helped me up to sit astride the bow pulpit, facing toward the back of the boat, my legs spread and hooked in the railing on the side. 

"There, how is that, my dear?"

"Wow! I love it." The spray from the bow cooled my bottom and Etienne knelt before me, holding my waist, reassuring me.

I realized that I was open to her, and yet I felt completely comfortable and secure. It was spectacular. I lay back looking up into the whiteness of the sales, ghostlike, sailing on the wind. 

"Erica. You are so lovely, my dear." 

I heard her say it and another kind of shiver rippled down my body. While I watched the stars disappear and reappear behind the huge sails, I felt her lips on my pussy. Not looking down, I opened my legs even more welcoming her. Her tongue fondled me, sliding down along the length of my labia and then up the other side, washing my clitoris in the rich moisture her tongue brought from deep along the crease of my body. Again and again, I felt her warmth, exploring me, teasing me, loving me. I moved forward happily, urging her for more. The pleasure washed over me like the ocean sweeping past below us. I felt my wetness increasing and surrounding her face, I was practically flowing now, so excited was I by her caressing tongue. 

My legs clamped tight on her cheeks and a deep, throbbing orgasm gripped me. I felt her hands sooth me, fondling my bottom as she twisted her head slowly from side to side urging more pleasure onto my eager, sopping vulva. As the spasms of my orgasm subsided, I felt limp as a dishrag and welcomed her helping hand as I disentangled myself from the railing and slipped into her arms. Our breasts pressed together luxuriously. 

"It was good, .... Yes?" she said, not quite a question.

"Wonderful!" I clutched her closer, feeling my nipples rewarded with the softness of her breasts against me.

"Come, we have to see if the Captain needs anything!" she said. "I think he may want us, what do you think?" she laughed and grinned mischievously at me.

We rejoined Jan-Dirk in the cockpit. Etienne was obvious in her happiness. "We had a nice time while you steered through the night! The phosphorescence was delightful and so were we!" Etienne's infective laughter engulfed the three of us.

"I can see that there must have been some pleasure involved!" he said, his eyes probing our nakedness. "So, come here then, I let you steer awhile!" His Dutch accented English was charming and endearing, I thought. I sat behind him as Etienne joined him at the wheel. They stood kissing, both holding the wheel. 

"You don't mind us getting comfortable, then?" she chided.

"Mmmmph, no, not me. I like it!" he laughed.

Somehow I felt tender about this big silent man and I slipped my hand up along the inside of his hairy leg, exploring just under the leg of his shorts. We sailed on for awhile longer, the Captain being fondled and pleasured by two nymphs from the sea, as Jan-Dirk phrased it. And then at last we found our anchorage and began the quiet business of picking our way into the darkened cove. The moon had risen now and we had a little more light, so we were quickly secured and sitting in a path of moonlight, enjoying wine and snacks under a favorable sky full of twinkling stars. 

"Time for bed, you think?" Jan-Dirk said at last when we had been silent for fifteen minutes or so.

"Yes, I think so, too." She said. "Erica, would you, ........ would you like to come too? I mean, we could be quite comfortable in the main cabin. No need to be lonely up in the front. You think? OK Jan-Dirk?"

"Uh, yes, sure," he muttered quietly. "Yes."

Etienne looked at me questioningly. 

"What do you think?"

I thought a moment before replying. 

"Well, ..... yes, I think so, I think I would like it, really." 

I wondered exactly what this would mean, but decided it would just happen naturally and followed them below.

We went about our teeth-brushing chores, milling around and bumping into each other in the close quarters of the cabin. Etienne, stood before Jan-Dirk and opened his shirt. She invited me to help and we alternated buttons, our hands fondling his hairy chest, until his shirt was discarded. Each of us unlaced and removed one of his shoes and knelt before him, unsnapping his shorts and dropping them down his legs in the dim overhead light of the main cabin. His excitement was now obvious, as his prick prodded against the snug knit bikini briefs which emphasized his considerable size. 

The pouch was round and extended with his balls and cock all in a package before us. Etienne took one side and I took the other and his briefs were slipped slowly away from his body, letting his cock leap like a coiled spring, suddenly freed. It jutted straight out, long and thick between our faces. Etienne leaned forward and kissed the looming head as it menaced us from above. She took my hand and I watched as her lips opened to invite Jan-Dirk's cock into her mouth. His breath was sharp as he gasped slightly.

"Ohhh, ...... yes!"

One of the things I have discovered over these many years is that you must always be sure to allow happiness to find you. The only things I have regretted in my life have been times when I allowed my conservative inner self to talk myself out of an adventure. Where trepidation took over, I have lost an opportunity. 

This was the first time I recall understanding this lesson. I was unsure what this was to be like, all three of us together in a bed. Obviously we would make love, but how, and who, and so forth. I was terribly excited by the possibilities, but I hardly knew what those possibilities were at that point in my life. My heart was pounding as I watched Etienne make love to Jan-Dirk's lovely cock, which now glistened in the subdued moonlight streaming in through the open hatch above his head. The hatch was like an open door to the universe, his shadow outlined against the bright bespangled sky.

Now Etienne stood and pulled me toward the cabin and Jan-Dirk followed. We lay apart on the Queen sized bunk and watched as Jan-Dirk climbed between us. Softly we snuggled against him as he lay face down on the bunk. I felt his hand find my bottom and roam over it. It felt thrillingly sensual; he was gentle and made light tickling passes back and forth across the crease of my ass. The first of many shudders of pleasure ran from my groin through the rest of my body.

Etienne at last urged him onto his back and his cock stood tall like the mast. I watched as she bent over it and took it into her mouth once again. Jan-Dirk moaned with pleasure. Etienne's breasts hanging straight down from her chest looked lovely and I reached to lift their weight in my two hands.

"Mmmm, " she murmured.

I pulled her pendulous breast toward me and kissed along the lovely curve until I found the long nipple. I happily suckled at her breast and listened as her moans throbbed around his shaft.

We played together, touching softly, exploring each other. Soon, Etienne lay between us and our hands joined under the softness between her legs. Jan-Dirk's hands were strong and masculine and he slowly fondled my hand as the two of us fondled Etienne's soft, plump pussy. I could feel her pulse throbbing against my wrist and then her moistness as the length of our hands slipped into the open split between her legs. It felt lovely, and Etienne moaned softly against my lips as her hands squeezed my breasts.

My arm was around Etienne and I felt Jan-Dirk press his hairy chest against my hand. My fingers found his nipple and I squeezed firmly and felt him wriggle against Etienne. 

Etienne's tongue was in my mouth and I welcomed her exploration, sucking on the length of her, deep in my mouth. She fucked her tongue back and forth slowly and sensually. I tingled with pleasure as the sweetness of her tongue twirled around my own and her hands taught my nipples what it meant to be properly loved. Her thigh slipped between my own and I snuggled the pouty lips of my pussy against her warmth.

"Erica, dear, put him inside me now, darling; stay close to me, my darling!" 

Etienne's voice was hoarse and urgent, her breath sweet in my nostrils, and once again I shuddered at her suggestion. She moved over him, her legs straddling him; obediently, I reached between her legs and found his large, firm cock. I smoothed and fondled it, feeling the ridge deep and taut just behind the bulging head. Then, taking the bludgeon-like bluntness in the palm of my hand, I soothed the pre-cum over the head, preparing it for Etienne's precious pussy. 

I smoothed it along the length of her soft lips. The taut curls of her mound brushed against my wrist. My fingers straddling the crease behind the knob, I brought his big cock slowly, deeper into her wet slit. His cock spread her lips, touched her clitoris. I rubbed the deep cleft at the tip of his prick against my darling's jutting clitoris, teasing both of them with pleasure. I heard him moan with urgency and felt Etienne reach for him with her body. I guided the tall shaft properly to the gates of her opening. 

"OH!" 

I heard my own excitement as he suddenly pressed into her. It was a quick thorough move and his cockhead was gone, deep into her softness. I held my hand so that he thrust between my fingers and into Etienne. Her wetness flooded my fingers and I felt her body pressing my hand between her wet mound and his pubic bone.

"Yes!" she moaned rather loudly. "YES!"

With my hand holding her mound, I became a part of their fucking, as Etienne thrust against both of us, pleasing both of us at the same moment. Etienne was thrusting wildly now, her breasts bobbing with the enthusiasm of her movement. Again and again her pussy swallowed his shaft and each time I squeezed my love against her pussy. With my other hand, I found his balls and toyed with them, feeling their tension. I slipped a finger into his anus and heard his gasp of pleasure. With my urging, he thrust deep into her pussy, meeting her thrust with an equally aggressive invasion of her deep vagina.

I felt him tense his legs, thrusting harder against her. I knew he was about to spurt his cum deep into my darling's pussy. Then his body went rigid with the tension of his raging need and the release as his balls propelled shot after shot up the long shaft and deep into her. My hand was soon covered with Jan-Dirk's hot cum dripping from Etienne's still thrusting vagina. She screamed her release and relaxed to a slow movement against his softening cock, my hand still pressed tightly between their damp bodies.

She rolled off his now-satiated body and into my arms. Her body was slick with the perspiration of her exertion and her breath came in short pants against my cheek. Her lips found my ear. 

"Ohhh, cheri!" she whispered, "you are wonderful!"

I held her close and fondled her as her own rocketing orgasm slowly subsided. She writhed gently against my thigh as I slipped it between her legs and felt more of Jan-Dirk's cum slipping from her moist softness. 

Jan-Dirk was spent and no good to her now. 

It was me that she needed now to soothe her and bring her down to earth slowly.

I caressed her breasts and suckled nipples, my hands trying to express the gentle love I felt for her at this moment. Our pubic mounds pressed against each other. Etienne kissed me again and again I felt once more the rough sensuousness of her tongue dueling gently with my own.

There were to be many, many more nights to come as our love and pleasure were deepened and honed to a fine easy purity there in the Agean sea. 

And, ...oh, yes, the sketch that prompted my reverie tonight? That was one that Jan-Dirk drew as I stood hanging onto the forestay musing over the pleasure I had found. It is the same one I use as the logo of my website which is dedicated to the beauty of sensual love.



Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 05



Other pleasures...
And I've known many...
Afternoons
In warm Venetian squares,
Brief encounters,
Long siestas...
Pleasures old and new
Can't compare with you.

Wearing only a white silk peignoir, Erica entered her study. Playful mid-morning breezes fluttered the sheer drapes as she moved toward the long windows. She rested against the sill, looking out over the calm blue-green Mediterranean Sea and watched a small white sailboat glide lightly over the water. 

From the depths of her memories came the joy she’d felt during her few unencumbered and carefree days on the Olympus with Jan-Dirk and Etienne so long ago. Ah! How hedonistic they’d been for that short time, the three of them. She slid the tips of her fingers over her suddenly erect nipples, remembering how the watery sounds of the desolate cove in which they’d anchored for the night had mimicked the wet slapping sounds of their bodies coming together and parting. This remote part of the Italian Riviera had some of the wild beauty of that unnamed Greek cove and was part of the reason she’d chosen to live here.

A glad smile lit her face as her gaze settled on the roses growing just below the window. Planted in masses all over her property, they were finally blooming. She always looked forward to the early summer show of silvery pink blossoms that characterized her prized Autumn Damask roses. Leaning out the window, she inhaled delicately, delighting in the deeply scented air. She’d long had their essence incorporated into her personalized perfume but nothing could compare to the real thing.

Settling lightly into the embrace of the antique cane-backed chair, she took her place at her desk. The day would be special in some way, she was sure. After all, the roses were in bloom! Smiling again, she reached out to touch one of the perfect Damask roses in their heavy crystal bowl at the corner of her desk.

The mail had come, and her assistant, Suzette, had placed it on an etched silver tray in the center of her desk. She sorted through it quickly before slipping a large manila envelope from the pile. It bore the return address of Andrew Norton, a man she hadn’t thought of in many years.  

Erica touched the handwritten name in the upper left corner. Deeply emotional thoughts surged forth from a long-closed compartment in her armoire of memories, from the niche that contained her still-powerful feelings for Andrew. She remembered a tall, broad-shouldered man with emotional green eyes and thick black hair. His air of calm confidence had attracted her from the moment she’d met him.  

Using the mahogany-handled letter opener with fluid grace, she opened the envelope. She sucked in a startled breath when a small white T-shirt slid from the envelope and dropped into her lap. Pressing the shirt to her face and nuzzling into it, a flood of bittersweet memories washed through her, memories so real and strong that the room around her dimmed. Standing, she impulsively pulled her silk garment off and donned the soft cotton T-shirt. Her fingers lingered over the tips of her breasts, remembering his touch there. Settling back into the chair, she fastened hungry eyes on the brief letter.

The handwriting was boldly masculine, the ink a stark black against the creamy thickness of the paper. 

My dear Erica,

I trust this message finds you well. I hear news of you every so often from people we know in common and trust that your life is as good to you now as it was when we spent our few days together. Can you believe it’s been so many years since then? 

I’ve always hoped you would remember our time together with joy and that you never regretted leaving me to fulfill the obligations you had to another. I wished I could have kept you by my side forever, Erica, but the more honorable course lay before us and we never had a real choice in the matter. I’ve missed you, though, and believe you’ve missed me too. Ours could have been a great love. 

What is done, however, is done. All those years ago, I opened my hands and let you fly away. I didn’t want to do it, and hated having to choose to let you go, but I did it nonetheless. For you. 

Recently, I was sorting through a box of old mementos and came across the enclosed T-shirt. It’s most definitely yours, darlin’. You must have recognized it when it came sliding from the envelope with this letter, didn’t you? It’s where we began, this T-shirt, with this and the roses. 

Off and on through the years, I’ve wondered if there might be another chance for us. If so, might that which passes between us be a match for our first incredibly emotional and erotic time together? People only get a few such hours in their lives, you know, Erica, hours stolen from the Gods themselves. 

Love always, 
Andrew

With a slightly trembling finger, Erica again touched the thin cotton as it clung like a kiss to the swells of her breasts. Oh yes, she remembered Andrew.

She’d been so young then, and still so innocent in the ways of passionate men. During their last angry and sad weeks together, the professor had sent her to the wilds of the southwestern United States. He wanted her to be a friend to his friend, a landscape artist of international repute, while the man was recuperating from a serious surgery. She knew, however, that she was being sent away to begin the separation process from the professor, a process that would culminate in her joining Cristoforo De Medici, he who would be her new benefactor.

Summer was just beginning when she went to stay with Albert Windings, the professor’s friend. During her long journey from the professor’s side to Albert’s home, she cried until she was empty. She shed aching tears for lost love, wept feelings of furious abandonment, and sobbed brokenheartedly like a hurt child.

The serenity and beauty of her small study faded away under the painful recollections of that bitter journey. Long suppressed bereavement stabbed into her soul, still a wounding anguish.  

Surrendering to the memories, she again stood on the platform of the dingy little railroad station in Baker, California, watching the train vanish into the desert haze. Or was it just the tears blurring her vision? Erica took a deep breath, and looked around for her promised ride.  

The only person in sight didn't look much like a chauffeur. While Erica looked at him covertly, he started toward her, smiling.

"Señorita Erica, por favor?" the scruffy little Mexican asked.

"Yes. Yes I am Erica. Are you to take me to Mr. Windings?"  

"Si! Si! Señor Windings! Usted vendrá con mí, por favor? You come with me, yes?"

Erica nodded and watched listlessly as the driver gathered her bags. He led her to a large dusty Cadillac parked by the station house and opened the back door for her with a flourish.  

Since she spoke no Spanish and his English seemed to be limited to, "I take you Señor Windings, maybe six hour," she settled into the spacious back seat, resigned to a long, lonely ride. A fitting end to this entire trip, she thought, the words a distressed rippling through her mind.

Exhausted, emotions raw and sore, she let her eyes slide, unresisting, along the alien desert landscape as the driver delivered her into exile. Heart-sore and weary, she barely noticed when the car turned off the highway and began rolling down a well-maintained dirt road. The lights that twinkled from a long, low house as they pulled up in front of it caught her attention though. It was the first sign of habitation she’d seen in a while.

The taciturn driver slowed the car, stopped it, and turned it off. He faced her then, smiling over the seat at her. “Éste es Señor Winding's casa, Señorita. You come, yes?” 

Erica nodded soberly to him and gathered her things. “Thank you. You were a good driver.”

He leaped out of the car and opened her door, taking her hand to help her out. He looked at the sky and pointed up. "Hay una tempestad grande que viene. Bad rain. You come quick, yes? Venido rápidamente, Señorita, por favor. "

Erica nodded and clutched her thin sweater closer around her body. “I’m coming,” she muttered to his back as he disappeared down the long walkway into the house with her luggage.

Following him, she was surprised to feel a couple raindrops pattering down on her skin. By the time she got to the door, it was sprinkling steadily. The driver sprinted by with another wave and was gone as Erica entered the house.

“Mr. Windings?” she called, stepping over the threshold and into the foyer. “Albert?”

Silence.

Cautiously, Erica moved further into the house. “Mr. Windings?” she called, entering a room whose walls boasted paintings of the desert landscape in all its moods. Exhausted, she sank into the softness of a richly upholstered sofa and wondered if anyone would mind if she slept right there. She heard shuffling steps behind her, though, and got to her feet, trying for a smile as she turned.

A very old man with the gray skin of the infirm smiled kindly at her as he continued into the room. An ancient robe clung to his thin shoulders and covered his cheerfully striped pajamas.

“I’m Albert,” he said with a sunny smile. “Welcome to Tecopa Springs, Erica. Well, close to Tecopa Springs anyway. The Hot Springs are only another ten miles or so that way." He gestured vaguely towards the front of the house. “I want to thank you for coming to keep me company. Please excuse my informality but, well, you know about the surgery. I don’t have many visitors these days, so you just make yourself at home, okay? Juan put your bags in the first room down the hall. That’ll be your room, dear.”

Erica did her best to return the smile. “It’s my pleasure to be here, Mr. Windings. And Juan was very nice to me.”

“Call me Albert, dear. The other makes me feel old.” He laughed at his joke, his eyes twinkling at her. His face changed and his tone sobered. “I know, Erica, that you’re here under duress but I want you to know that I appreciate your company nonetheless.”

From almost over their heads, a brilliant slash of lightning lit the deep dusk outside the windows, a wildly threatening growl of thunder following almost immediately. The lights flickered several times before burning steadily once more. Erica glanced at her companion apprehensively.

He dropped tiredly into a worn and comfortable-looking armchair. “It’s going to be a bad one, Erica. I have a neighbor coming in to help get all my animals into the barn. Might need some help tightening things up in here, too, windows and such. Of course, what I’m most concerned about are all my paintings out in the studio. Wouldn’t do to have them flooded.” He coughed raggedly, moaned deeply, and a hand slid down to clutch into the robe over his stomach.

Erica nodded in agreement, feeling warmed by Albert’s kindliness and alarmed by his frailness. “How can I help you, Albert?”

More lightning, thunder immediately atop it. The lights went out.

“Albert?”

No answer.

“Albert?” She was scared. “Albert? Are you here?” She put her hands out into the deep gloom and took a few unsure steps over to his chair.

He was still there, but slumped over and unconscious. She heard the front door crash open, and heard the wild fury of the storm raging outside before it slammed closed again.

“Help!” she yelled, her voice sounding too small in the darkness. “Albert is hurt. Help me please!”

A large body wielding a bright flashlight shouldered her out of the way. “Hold this,” he told her tersely, his tone one of someone who is used to being obeyed, as he shoved the light into her hands. She grasped it tightly, reassured by his presence. Careful to not shine it in his face, she watched the shadowy form of the man, large wet and calm, despite the raging storm and Albert’s condition, ease Albert out of the chair like he was a small child. As the man headed back toward the door, he told Erica to “keep the light in front of my feet, please”. Erica hurried to catch up, to try to do that. Within a few minutes, he’d gotten Albert out the door and handed him off to someone with terse instructions to, "Get the old man to Doc Denney’s place. Now.”.  

Erica stood nearby, shivering in the driving rain, flinching at each booming explosion of thunder and lightning but unwilling to go back into the dark empty house alone.

The man set a few others to rounding up and securing Albert’s animals and insuring that the contents of his studio were safe from the fury of the storm. Then he turned to Erica.

“You’re that art student girl, right? Erica?” He’d pulled her into the dark foyer and was standing closer than she found comfortable, even in the dark.

“Yes,” she answered, stepping back.

“Well, Erica, you can’t stay here. Albert’s gonna be staying with Doc Denney for a while, I think, and there’s no power here. I’ve got heat and light at my house. You want to come spend the night there until we can decide what to do with you in the morning?” He moved toward her and wrapped a big arm around her shoulder. "You look like you could use some sleep, darlin’.”

Erica was close to crying again. Her heartache over the professor seemed almost distant in the midst of such immediate drama but she was far too exhausted to be dealing with all this in any case. The traveling had been so difficult and all the weather-related anxiety was making her feel jumpy and skittish. She needed some sleep.

“Thank you,” she answered simply, a tremulous edge of deep weariness apparent in her words. “Yes. I’m really tired.”

He guided her to his jeep and then picked his way through the crashing wild weather to a solidly built home about ten miles further up the road.

Running through the rain and into his house was almost too much for her. Fatigue was definitely affecting her ability to function. She felt awkward and clumsy as she tagged behind him into a bedroom off the living room. She waited, silent and immobile, while he turned the bed down for her and made sure there were towels in the bathroom. Distantly, she noticed her wet clothing dripping all over his carpet but couldn’t work up the energy to care about it. Her head was hanging low, her eyes were half-closed, and she was wavering into sleep where she stood.

Returning to her side, he placed a steadying hand on her shoulder and extended the other hand under her nose so she would see it. “Hi, Erica,” he greeted her quietly. “I’m Andrew.”

Startled by his touch, roused from her almost-sleeping state, she summoned the dregs of her strength, grasped his hand, and lifted her head to offer him a wan smile. “Hello Andrew. Do you think Albert’s going to be all right?” To her horror, tears began to slide down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m pretty much all worn out.”

Andrew simply shook her hand, lending her warmth and strength, and ignored the tears. “Albert’s had these spells before. He’ll be fine in a few days. But we'd better get you to bed, Erica, before you fall over. You want one of my shirts to sleep in?” He squeezed her shoulder gently and released her hand. “There’s a robe in the bathroom you could use, too.”

Erica managed a weak smile and used the freed hand to scrub at her face, trying to mop away the tears. “I don’t know right now, Andrew. Please, I really just want to go to sleep.”

He leaned over to kiss her cheek gently. She stilled in surprise at the stab of heat that accompanied the light brush of his lips against her cold skin.  

“Good night, then, darlin’,” he whispered, each word warm against her cheek. “Everything will be better in the morning. I promise. Trust me, Erica. Trust me.”

He strode out the door. Erica stripped her wet clothing off, piled it into the bathtub, and slipped into bed nude. She was asleep before her eyelids dropped closed.

~~~

Upon waking, Erica took a short bath and worried about where she would be moving today. She wondered if she should call the professor to get his advice. Her cheeks flared with a stabbing sense of rejection when she remembered that he’d gone to Florence to finalize the arrangements with Cristoforo. Her tummy rumbled, prosaically reminding her that it had been some time since she’d eaten. She slipped into the robe Andrew had left her before setting out in search of the kitchen.

Passing through the expansive, light-filled living room, she stopped suddenly. A strikingly detailed terra-cotta nude reclining on a pedestal had seized her attention. She moved closer. Careful overhead lighting illuminated the signature. It was a Casarotti, an extremely rare example of the work he’d done in this medium. She’d never seen this piece outside the pages of specialized art history books. No one had.  

Andrew came up next to her and stood quietly, his body almost touching hers. “It’s called ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ Appropriate, don’t you think?” 

He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her lightly back against his body. She was shocked at the intimacy of his touch and stood very still. The warmth from his lightly caressing hands set her nerves aflame. “It was finished in 1917 and has been in the hands of private collectors since then.”

She decided to make no mention of the touching when she finally found the courage to slip from his grasp. Instead, she turned to face him with a pasted-on smile. “You’re a collector?” The smile died and she gasped audibly at the flame of desire that leap from him to her as she met his eyes.

"I collect many things, Erica,” he murmured, raising his hand to touch her cheek, stroking over her suddenly sensitized skin with gently caressing fingers. “I collect the secrets of weeping women, too -- and make the nightmares go away.”

Wanting to cool the flaming intensity that was flowing from him to her, she took a step back and bumped the pedestal. “Oh God!” she swore, turning to steady it.

He reached around to cover her hands and pressed her body between his and the pedestal. She went still again, his weight requiring it of her. “It’s bolted to the floor, darlin’.” Easing her hands off the marble structure, he turned her to face him. He loomed over her, the intensity banked but still smoldering.  

“Want some breakfast? I’m good with omelets.”

Erica nodded cautiously in response. Feeling oddly emboldened by his touch and her reaction to it; she took her first real look at him. He was rather ordinary in appearance though he possessed elements of the exceptional. His green eyes were expressive and intelligent. Long, coal-black hair flowed down to his shoulders. A diamond twinkled from the lobe of one ear. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and well-developed arms. Clean, smooth nails tipped his large hands. 

He watched her watching him, allowing her the time. “See anything you like?” he asked quietly.

She blushed and tried to pull her hand from his but he slid an arm over her shoulder and led her into the kitchen instead.

Over breakfast, they discussed the fact that she had nowhere to go and no one waiting for her to get there. He offered her his guestroom for as long as she desired it. She worried that she had nothing to wear because her clothes were still back at Albert’s. 

“You know,” he said, his hand brushing over hers as he passed her a basket of croissants, “there might be some women’s clothing in your room”.

“Yes?” she asked, her eyes fixed on a place just to the left side of his head. He’d caught her staring at his face a couple times already and she was determined not to let it happen again.

“Valerie was about your size, Erica, and I think she left some clothes in the room you’re using.”

“Valerie?”

“The last resident of your room.” He smiled and reached out to tuck a stray wisp of her hair back. “She’s been gone for awhile now.” His finger traced the shell of her ear and she shivered away from his light touch. “She wasn’t of great importance to me.”




Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 05



Her eyes flicked to his and saw that he was watching her closely while his fingers played with the place where her robe met the skin of her neck. “I’ll make a run to Albert’s for your things in a while, okay? For now, please feel free to wear whatever you can find in your room.” He smiled, a predatory sort of smile, and reached beneath the table to tug at the sash holding her robe closed. “Or you can just keep wearing this robe.”

Pulling against his fingers, pulling her robe tighter around her body, she accepted his offer of the clothes she might find in her room. “But only,” she warned, “until I get own things.”

They continued with breakfast companionably enough, even though an odd and hard-edged sexual tension flexed between them and grew more pronounced with each passing minute.

Once, without asking, he leaned over to slide a finger across her lips and down her throat. “Crumbs,” he whispered, his eyes holding hers, “are tragic on such beautiful lips.”

She lowered her eyes to her plate, alarmed and aroused at the wild response his light touch and few words had immediately incited.

When they were finished eating, he came around behind her and brushed the robe off one of her shoulders to kiss where the robe had been. His lips moved possessively over her skin while she sat completely still, barely breathing. Gooseflesh followed his touch. She was chaotically aroused but sat quietly, fingers knotted into her napkin. Her body was responding to the need surging between them but she tried to deny him the knowledge of her response. He licked across her racing jugular with the tip of a hot tongue.

“You will be mine,” he promised, the words little more than warm breath against her frantically throbbing pulse.

Erica could barely think coherently, let alone formulate a politely worded refusal.

“I’m going to Albert’s,” he informed her, stepping away, a warmly intimate tone in his words. “I need to be sure everything is okay there.” His voice dropped to a low growl. “You’ll be mine when I return, Erica.” 

Erica gasped aloud at the arrogant presumption of his words while internally, her pulse soared and slippery fluids surged and collected between her thighs. 

“Make yourself at home, darlin’.” He brushed a soft kiss across her parted, startled lips before he disappeared out the kitchen door.

Erica remained seated, lifting her fingers to move them across her lips for a few seconds. Her hand slid under the shoulder of her robe and rubbed gently against the spot he had kissed. Distractedly, she got to her feet and returned to her room, pausing only briefly to look at the glory of “Sleeping Beauty” once more. 

Remembering his suggestion, wishing for some distraction, she inspected the clothing in her room. Dismayed, she concluded that there was very little here and certainly nothing except some sexy workout-type stuff. Reluctantly, she slipped one of the small white t-shirts over her head and then pulled on a pair of clingy Lycra shorts.

“Oh no,” she breathed, staring at her reflection in the mirror on the closet door. The tiny shirt hung trembling from the tips of her erect nipples, leaving the under swell of each creamy mound completely exposed. “I can’t wear this.”

She brightened. Andrew has clothes, doesn’t he?  she thought with a sense of triumph. He’s got real clothes, regular clothes.  

It doesn’t even matter that he’s so big. A too-big T-shirt is much more comfortable anyway.  Her hands slid up from her hips and came to rest on her waist. Besides, a big shirt would cover these skintight shorts.  

Turning, watching her reflection in the full-length mirror, she frowned at how the T-shirt clung to her body. I can’t wear this with all that wild sexuality flowing between us. 

Taking a big breath, she turned toward the door. Since he’s out checking on things at Albert’s place,  she decided. This is the perfect time to take a quick look through his closet and grab a shirt.  

Not giving herself time to chicken out, she moved down the hall and peered into each room as she came to its door. As she’d expected, his – and it had to be his – was the last door she came to. Looking back up the hallway guiltily, though she knew she was alone, she slipped through the door into his room. She leaned back against the closed door, paused to catch her breath, and looked around curiously.

A few carefully chosen art pieces hung on the walls and Erica’s eyes widened to see a Modigliani on one wall. That can't be an original!  she thought, and then, Can it? 

He cares about art, approval threaded through her thoughts. She detoured to smell the delicately pink roses massed in a cut-glass bowl on his desk.  And he likes roses.  She smiled, surprised by their perfect scent. I wonder what variety these are? 

Turning away, she moved purposefully toward what had to be the closet. What an interesting man Andrew is.  She felt her unexpected attraction to him warm her soul, like a down comforter in the deep winter night. She stopped in mid-stride as a wash of guilt swamped her brighter emotions.

They were from different worlds, she and Andrew. Besides, she belonged to another, one who was giving her to yet a third. Her honor required that she proceed with the contract already formalized between the professor and Cristoforo De Medici.

Aching for the kind of deep and mutual bonding with a man that must be possible; she pressed her palms to her eyes and wiped away the hot tears spilling down her cheeks. That sort of alliance, that mutual flowering of trust between two, was likely very rare. She would never have such a love. Squaring her shoulders, she reached for the closet door.

The light came on as she entered and the rich scent of cedar enveloped her awareness. The large closet, deeper than wide, was paneled with the wood. Erica breathed in deeply; cedar was one of her favorite scents.

To her right, a number of drawers were built into the walls of the closet. She opened and closed a few of them in her hunt for shirts. Pausing, heat rising into her cheeks, she stilled when she opened one near the bottom that contained…well, she wasn’t sure what the items were, quite frankly, but they were made of metal and leather, and had straps and buckles and big rings attached. Closing that drawer, she couldn’t contain the frisson of excitement that wound into her body at the sight of those…fastenings. She’d played a few gentle bondage games with the professor but he wasn’t interested in more. She thought she might be.

Suddenly she felt distinctly anxious; her foray into his closet wasn’t right. She didn’t have his permission to be here and shame scoured through her. No self-respecting guest would engage in this kind of activity. Technically, she was going to steal from him.  

Another quick glance down at the skimpy little T-shirt convinced her that she needed to borrow one of his shirts. She was just going to borrow it, not steal it. She decided to get one and get back to her room before he came home. She’d confess the minute she saw him. He’d know anyway.

At random, she opened a drawer near the top and breathed out a relieved, “Yesss…” when she recognized neat stacks of plain, work-type T-shirts. She inspected a couple of tags; all the shirts were 100% cotton and size XL. Good.

Stripping off the wispy little thing she’d found in her room, she tossed it over her shoulder toward the doorway, her attention fixed on the shirts in the drawer. Near the bottom, she found a white one that felt good against her hands. Holding it up, she saw that it was worn and soft but free of stains and holes. 

“Perfect,” she purred. Shrugging into the soft garment, she rose to her feet and turned to check her reflection in the mirror against the door.

“Oh no,” she shrieked taking a large step backwards and bumping into the tie rack. Andrew, his arms crossed, was leaning against the frame of the doorway watching her. “How long have you been there?”

“I have a question for you, too,” he replied evenly. “What are you doing here?’”

She straightened her shoulders and tried not to look guilty. “Did you watch me when I changed?”

He just cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Don’t you think you should have let me know you were there,” she asked quietly, feeling like a thief, “instead of just…just…peeping at me?

“Don’t you think you should have asked before you went rummaging through my closet?”

“Yes,” she admitted, her eyes finding a resting place on his chest, “and I beg your pardon for being here without your permission. I should have asked, Andrew, but you were at Albert’s and I needed to borrow a shirt. I didn’t think you’d mind.” She flicked a glance up at him. “It wasn’t right of you to stand there and watch me like that.”

“Did you check the closet in your room before you decided to make a raid on my shirts?”

She bent to scoop the little shirt from the floor and extended it toward him as it dangled from her fingers. “This is from the closet in my room but I felt a little uncomfortable in it. Sort of exposed, if you catch my meaning. There were no other shirts from which to choose.”

His eyes stroked her body. “Maybe if you wore something between your clothes and your skin every once in a while you wouldn’t feel so exposed,” he suggested softly.

Flushing, she stepped toward him and poked a finger into the middle of his chest. “It was wrong of you to watch me like that, Andrew, and you know it.”

He pressed her hand flat. Through the soft denim of his shirt, she felt the heat of his body and the heavy thumping of his heart. The scent of clean male skin filled her nostrils. He groaned, quietly. She looked up, startled by the sound. He was looking down at her steadily, heat flaring in his eyes.

His free hand trailed up her arm leaving puckered skin in its wake. “You have beautiful breasts, Erica,” he said. Slowly and deliberately, his eyes holding hers, his fingers whispered down over the front of the worn tee shirt to touch and cover one of her breasts.

Her nipple peaked hard against his palm through the thin material. Her dismay was overtaken by the immediate and pressing surge of arousal flooding her senses. She was intensely aware of Andrew’s palm on the tender tip of her breast. He moved his hand and then it was his fingers stroking her nipple through the worn shirt. Still holding her eyes, he bracketed the hard point between two fingers and pulled. Heat flooded her in great waves and she gasped his name.

Swiftly, not giving her time to pull away, he leaned to fasten his mouth over the erect bud. Through the thin cotton, she felt his teeth scrape and pull the sensitive nub, once, twice, three times, and she shivered at the wild desire that radiated from his mouth to her core. He raised his head, his fingers again teasing where his teeth had just been, and lowered his mouth to hers.

“Andrew, we can’t! I can’t!” Erica whispered, confusion and alarm fighting a tsunami of desire and the urgent demands of her body.

Andrew slid his arms around her waist and cupped the softness of her buttocks as he pulled her body tightly against his. She felt the length of his arousal pressing into her hip and the wild throbbing of his heart under her fingertips.  

His tongue teased the corners of her closed mouth and demanded her response. “I’ll bring you great pleasure, Erica, and ask only your honest response in return. She felt his words thrumming into her body and feeding her arousal.

His lips heated the skin along her jaw. Her heartbeat raced to match the one beating under her hand. She wanted to stroke over the hard planes of his chest, to kiss him the way he was kissing her, but she couldn’t. She didn’t really know him and he was so intense, so demanding. Besides, she belonged to another, even if he didn’t want her anymore.

He kissed along the edges of her face and she shivered with excitement at each caress. “Albert told me all about you, Erica,” he whispered, the words and kisses merging, “including the facts that the professor no longer wants you and you’ve never even met Cristoforo.”

Gasping, she struggled to free herself from his arms but he held her more tightly, his body serving as both a prison and a refuge. His words came in waves then, powered by currents of arousal and heated need.  

“Erica. Listen to me. You’re here with me now and I want you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.” His words were plain and urgent. “Open to me.” 

He leaned into her and his body pressed hard against hers. Again she felt the swollen length of him through their clothes and ached for the release he was offering. “I won’t hold you here when it’s time for you to go. I know you’ll go, and soon. But live with me for this short time. Live Erica, for yourself and for me. Be selfish, if only for a few days.”

“Oh God,” she moaned, tears of aching hurt and frustrated need coursing down her face. She turned to him, just a small movement, seeking the tenuous security of the pleasure he was offering.

“For now,” he whispered, taking small bites against her lips and tasting the corner of her mouth with his tongue, “you will be mine. Let me teach you a new way to love, darlin’.”

He slanted his mouth over hers and closed the gap between them. Wildfire pulsed from Erica’s lips to the core of her body and she gasped at the mounting, spiraling pressure of his kiss. 

“Oh God, yes,” he rasped into her mouth, his fingers kneading almost painfully into her bottom, “open to me. Give yourself to me.” His tongue probed, questing, smoothing, and hunting an answering need in her. 

She whimpered; trapped by the hungry urgency and fierceness holding her against Andrew’s body.

He heard the small sound and his body tightened again. “I need you,” he grated, the words rough and bald. Lowering his head, he took her mouth almost savagely, tearing past the slight part in her lips, opening her to his deep, hard kiss.

Erica shivered as waves of passion that crashed and boomed through her body. He felt good, tasted good. She needed him, too.

One hand moved up her hip and under the hem of the shirt. “I’m going to touch you in ways you’ve never been touched,” he promised thickly. “I want your response, freely given. I want your submission, for now, for what will be between us for these few days. Give that to me, Erica. Give me your obedience and your passion.”

“What’s happening here, Andrew? What are you talking about?” she asked wildly, the words pouring from her lips into his mouth.

He held her tightly with one arm while the other hand moved under her shirt, smoothing, touching, nails scratching and biting into her skin. 

“I’m the storm, Erica, and you’re the reed bending as I pass.”

She moaned, the sound a mix of confusion and arousal. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get enough air. Her legs were trembling and she felt like she was falling.

Then he grasped her nipple tightly with a thumb and finger. She almost came apart. Waves of sensation like colored lightning flashed through her body to her very core.

She screamed, a high, thin, short sound, and Andrew dropped his mouth to hers.

“Come on,” he urged into her mouth. “For me. Now.”

He twisted her nipple again, moving her from pleasure into pain, and she cried out again. His other hand snaked down and stroked hard between her shorts-clad legs, unerringly settling against her erect clit. She shouted hoarsely, her body undulating and her arms wound tightly around him. Fiercely pleasurable contractions robbed her of all coherent thought.

After she had calmed a bit and was resting more quietly against him, he steadied her and stepped away. “Strip, please,” he ordered quietly, tersely. His chest was rising and falling, his tight control over the arousal boiling through his blood was obvious.

Still shaking from the last errant tremors of her pleasure, she obeyed, though her fingers fumbled and her movements were slightly clumsy. When at last she was naked, she stood before him, head down, trembling.

“Look at me.”

She obeyed, blushing. He was standing very close and he leaned down to kiss her the way a man sure of his woman kisses. 

“You’re beautiful, Erica,” he told her, and she knew he meant it. “I’m going to teach you about the part of your sexuality that you probably don’t know much about, a part of you that needs someone like me to be whole.”

“I don’t really know what you mean,” she confessed, her voice barely a whisper.

He opened a small drawer and retrieved a length of black velvet. “You already and naturally bend to the wishes and desires of the one who holds your allegiance, darlin’. When that one also knows how to control and use your eroticism, and knows how to push you into a tandem exploration of the wild edges of your sexuality, he’s called a Dominant.”  

He brushed the soft black velvet strip across the tips of her tightly budded nipples. She gasped and stepped away but he pulled her back to her original position with one hand on her arm and stern look.  

“You’re a sexual submissive, Erica, at least now, with me, here. I’m a Dominant. Together, we’re whole. Together our needs match.”

He fastened the length of velvet around her throat and she shivered with a return of hungry need. His fingertips brushed lightly against her skin before he palmed her breasts and squeezed hard into her pliant flesh. 

 She gasped and trembled but didn’t move.

“Good,” he whispered, releasing her. “You learn quickly.”

Hesitantly, she reached up to touch the length of velvet. “What is this?”

“It’s a collar, Erica, an item of great importance to both submissive and Dominant. It signifies my commitment to do you no harm, to use you for our mutual pleasure -- and to release you a more fully sexual woman at the end of our time together.”

Her finger stroked the velvet. “And my responsibilities to you?”

He brushed an errant strand of hair from her face and she shivered at the trailing heat from his fingers. “Honesty, Erica. That’s all. I require only your honesty in every way during every moment we are together.”

Reaching into another drawer, he pulled a small pile of objects from it. He fastened her wrists and ankles into soft suede cuffs, speaking to her soothingly all the while and touching her nakedness with knowing fingers.

Erica trembled under the sweeping tide of her turbulently sexual feelings and her need to submit to this man. His fingers pulled desire from her as though it was his by right. His words produced a dizzying current of throbbing response in her body. She’d never expressed her submission desires aloud to anyone and had only fantasized about them alone in the dark of night.

Andrew was so assertive, physically and emotionally, and took from her an answering intensity as if it was his by right. But how could he know the darkest corner of her sexuality so easily, so intimately?

When fully cuffed, he laid her on the floor of the cedar closet. The warmth of the thick Berber carpeting cushioned her nakedness but opened her body. It was obvious - to him, to her - that wanton desire ran madly through her flushed and overheated body. 

He attached lengths of chain to each cuff and fastened the ends of the chains to stout hooks set into the walls of the closet. Eventually her limbs were stretched out tightly in four directions. She could barely move.

“Andrew, please, I’m confused and…and I want you.”

He ran the edge of his fingernail up the inside of her leg, from her foot to her thigh. His lips and teeth followed it, and she gasped, undulating under his touch.

“You must accept what I want to give, sweet one,” he murmured, nipping into skin high on the inside of her thigh and then licking the spot with a wet, slippery tongue, “when I want to give it.”

Standing, he stripped with spare economy of motion before kneeling next to her again. He stroked up one leg and she moaned deeply when his finger paused and circled lightly over her clit.




Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 05



“You cannot alter my touches, Erica. Accept that."

She shuddered, pushing her pelvis toward his finger. “Harder, please, Andrew,” she gasped.

He removed the finger and cupped her whole sex, one finger parting and nestling into the slippery heat between her labia. 

“Accept what I offer, respond to my touches, and relax into your bondage, Erica. Feel what I want you to feel.”

She whimpered wordlessly as his finger slid deeply into her body, then out, then in again, in a rhythm as old as time. Her body clenched tightly and she panted, “Yesssss…oh yes, more, please, Andrew, more.”

He added another finger and she whimpered at the intrusion, absorbing the additional sensation. 

“Relax,” he whispered, his lips on her mouth as his fingers continued their unabated movement. “Open yourself to my touch, however it comes. Feel what I want you to feel. Respond. Reflect. Obey.”

She was gasping and her body was undulating obscenely but she couldn’t control it, didn’t want to control it. The cuffs were tight on her wrists and ankles and the chains pulled her widely open but she craved the tight embrace of the cuffs and didn’t want to be able to close her legs. 

“Let go,” he ordered her after another drugging kiss, his fingers moving restlessly. “Feel my fingers, my mouth. Know that you can’t change what you feel. I give and I take away. Let go, Erica. Give yourself to me.”

Her continuous moans rose to a scream as she began to peak. Her emotions, her body, were entirely under his control. “Now please now,” she pleaded, aching for the tiny bit of sensation she needed to fall over the edge. “Please, please, please,” she moaned almost incoherently.

He flowed up her body then, the heat of his skin singeing hers, and bracketed her face between his hands. His eyes bore down into hers as she ground herself up against him, gasping, imploring.

“I am your Master, Erica.” He pushed against her, the engorged length of his cock almost entering her. “Say it.”

She bucked up against him and shrieked, intensity and pounding need slashing into the sound.

“Say it.” His words were an order and tore response from her.

“You are my Master,” she panted raggedly, dazedly. “Fuck me.” Her hips bucked up under his.

He pulled back a little. “Again.”  

“Master. You’re my Master.” She screamed the words, her body trembling violently as she lay beneath him. “Please, now, now, now.”

Bracing himself, he slipped into her tight heat and watched her go still but for the tremors that raced through her body.

“Again.”

She thrust up against him, wild need pushing into her mind. “Please. Please, more. Please, Master,” she rasped. “More. Now. Please, Master. Now.”

“I control the sex, darlin’, and your response,” he panted, his words ragged.

He pulled out of her then, and she wailed, a high thin sound of shocked frustration. “No!”

He laughed, and the sound had an edged violence to it in the tensely sexual atmosphere of the warm cedar closet. 

“Yes, Erica. You asked for more and I will give you more. But I’ll do it the way I want to do it.” He leaned over and kissed one of her nipples and she jerked at the touch of his tongue. “Accept, Erica. Respond. Reflect. It’s mine to give, or not.”

Reaching into a small jewelry drawer, he dangled a chained something above her. “Clamps, Erica. Nipple clamps. Shall we see how well you walk the edge of the pain-pleasure fence?”

“Oh God, Master, please touch me!” She was panting, her pupils dilated and her body glistening with heated need. “I’m so close, so very close. Please! Please touch me!”

He slipped the first clamp over her nipple and closed it, the rubber tips pinching firmly her tender flesh. She quieted and stilled, shocked. He touched between her legs, his fingertips stroking her open and rubbing small circles against her slippery clit. She shuddered and her panting breaths resumed.

“Tell me how it feels, Erica. Use words. Tell me now.” 

He slipped the second clamp over the tip of her other nipple. Again, she stilled, just a delicate moan issuing from her throat.

“Tell me.”

“I’m afraid,” she whispered. “It feels hard and…and…and hard and it hurts but not really…“

He tightened the second clamp and she shrieked.

“Tell me.”

“It hurts! God! It hurts. Too tight. Crushing.”

Again his hand whispered down her body to stroke circles into her clit, this time with more pressure.

She screamed. “Yessss, God, yes! Master, yes!”

He removed his hand and she lay panting, moaning, shaking, her body covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He moved to cover her body with his and entered her smoothly, in one flowing motion, rocking swiftly into and out of her several times.

She cried out again, her limbs held tightly open, metal jaws tightly embracing her nipples, and thrust up to meet him.

He stopped, trembling, his heart racing, and looked down at her. “Pain and pleasure are the same, darlin’. They’re both just heightened sensation.” His words were a low growl.

He leaned down to tug on one of the clamps with his teeth and she hissed and thrashed against him. Swiftly, he forced a deep kiss into her mouth, his cock plunging into and out of her pussy over and over, fast and hard.

She panted harshly and thrust back against him.

“Pain and pleasure. Pleasure and pain.” He pressed his chest against her clamped breasts and she screamed sharply, her pussy thrusting up against him, wordlessly begging for more.

He lifted off her breasts, his cock plunging as deeply into her body as he could go. Stilling, he looked down at her, at them, joined so closely. His arms were trembling and his words were thick and had weight against her eardrums. “Pain and pleasure. Pleasure and pain. Obedience. Response. You are mine.”

She gasped, shaking. “Yes, yes, yes,” she promised recklessly. “Master, yes. I am yours.”

Shouting triumphant pleasure, he thrust wildly into her again and again, his movements faster and harder as her wild pleadings urged him into the insanity of sensory overload. Losing himself in her body, he gave them both what they so badly needed as they spiraled into panting, begging, hoarsely screaming orgasm.

Later, after they’d both calmed, he released her and gently massaged her wrists and ankles. She was still while his hands rubbed circulation and feeling back into her limbs, and his quietly spoken words of desire and approval lit a hot determination within her to please him.

He pulled her to her feet, holding her close until her legs were strong again, and then lifted her into his arms and carried her from the closet like a precious child.

She nuzzled into his neck. “Master?”

He deposited her on his bed and sat down next to her, stroking through her sex-mussed hair and then along the skin that edged her collar. “What, darlin’?”

“That was wonderful.” Her words were shy and she pinked saying them.

“I think so, too.” He leaned down to kiss a blushing cheek.

She started to speak but he pressed a long forefinger across her lips. “Quiet now,” he told her, withdrawing the finger. “Don’t speak until I say you can. Understand?”

She parted her lips but he shook his head. A smile lit her face and she looked into his eyes, nodding.

“Good,” he whispered as his hand slid down to circle one of her nipples. Her areola crinkled, her nipple rose to meet his fingers, and she moaned.

He stood then, and returned to the closet. The vibrant, husky strains of a cello filled the air. Bach, she thought distractedly, as the sound kissed her skin. A few moments later, he carried a few small items back to the bed. He looked down at her lying on his bed and smiled. She saw heat in the smile, and a glittering, predatory sexuality in his eyes. “Don’t move,” he said, and went out the bedroom door, then came back in, coffee cup in hand.

“Sit up, Erica,” he ordered. She did, and he fastened a blindfold around her eyes. After he ascertained that she couldn’t see, he began touching her. He used his fingers at first, laying her out flat on the bed, face to the ceiling, and touched her from the bare pink of her sensitive toes to the shining crown of her long hair. He talked constantly, telling her the names of the places he touched and how good she looked or smelled or tasted there.

Enjoying his touches, she purred like a petted cat but startled and shrieked when something cold dripped into her navel. Again, he laid a cautionary finger across her lips.

“It’s just water,” he told her, removing the finger as the drops continued up onto her breasts and centered on her nipples. She shivered. “Ice water.” His long fingers dipped a piece of ice from the cup and circled her rigid nipple. She moaned and shrank back.

“You may speak, Erica. Is it hot or cold?” 

“Cold,” she answered immediately, shivering. His fingers dragged the tiny bit of ice down her body and pressed it against her throbbing clit, letting it melt into water as he pressed it there, circling the erect bit of tissue. “No,” she moaned, “it’s hot. It’s hot.”

He fished another piece of ice from the cup and slid it around and around each breast, passing over each nipple in turn. 

“Cold or hot?”

Without giving her time to answer, he pushed the melting ice cube into her pussy and up inside her body as far as it would go. His hot mouth latched onto one nipple.

“Cold or hot?” he demanded, his teeth pinching the tip of her tightly erect nipple, his long fingers thrusting in and out of her body. He sucked hard on her nipple, biting and pulling it in time with the movement of his fingers.

She pressed toward him and then pulled away as her body writhed under his touch. Her hand came up to push at his, the one that held the melting ice cube to her skin.

“Keep your hands at your sides,” he growled, transferring the ice from her nipple into her pussy and thrusting, in and out, fast, with his fingers.

She whimpered and moaned, jerking to meet his fingers’ thrusts, her hands forming fists at her sides as she struggled to obey.

He moved away suddenly and she lay trembling, panting, bathed in a light film of water and sweat. He returned and dragged something smooth and soft over her forehead, then held it beneath her nose.

“What is this?”

She breathed in deeply, trembling at the strength of her desire to please him. “A rose,” she whispered.

He slid it over her body, his other hand wiping her skin dry with a soft towel. “Concentrate on how it feels as it touches you.”

The softly cool petals dipped between her legs and she widened them reflexively and then relaxed into the touch of the rose. Heat rode along its trail and steady arousal tumbled along in the wake of its passing. She heard him breathing next to her, smelled him, and ached toward him as he continued to stroke her, rose in hand.

He leaned down and fastened his lips over hers, and she felt the sharp prick of many small thorns pressing into the place below her breast. He levered her mouth open with his tongue and plunged into a deep kiss, the thorns rolling from the skin below one breast to the same place on the other.

She moaned into his mouth, his deep kiss inciting her response, the pricking thorns lighting her desire. 

Over and over he kissed her, the rose orchestrating her response. Its thorns scratched lightly or dug deeply. In between kisses, its petals caressed her skin like eyelashes, like butterfly wings. She writhed and moaned and kept her hands at her sides.

He mounted her finally, thrusting swiftly, sheathing his engorged and twitching cock in her slippery heat in one violent movement. She screamed, “Master, oh God, yes,” and thrust back. The union was fast, furious, and wildly pleasurable despite the multitude of small bleeding scratches on her body.

Afterward, he removed the blindfold and then stripped the petals from the rose, dropping them one by one over her naked body.

“This is an Autumn Damask rose,” he told her, the petals like fragrant pink snow on her pale skin. “It’s an ancient rose and the one from which most modern roses were bred. This rose still knows the old ways, though. It still smells like a rose and it’s gorgeous, though not in the showy artificial way of modern roses.” He kissed her and added in a whisper, his lips still touching her, “It only blooms once a year, Erica, for just a few short weeks, and only for a select audience.”

She felt tears prick into her eyes. She was like his prized Autumn Damask roses. She was blooming under his guidance and care, but only for a short time, and only for him.

He retrieved several roses from his desk and dropped those, petal by petal, over her body, murmuring his admiration for her. When she was covered with rose petals, he made love to her tenderly, the petals cushioning the place between them and scenting their lovemaking with its unforgettable aroma.

~~~

And so Erica learned beginning steps in the intricate dance of sexual trust. She learned about the interrelationship of pain and pleasure, and how each is simply and only heightened sensation when applied within an erotic context. She learned how to yield her sexuality into the hands of one who could use it for the benefit of both.

Eleven days later a phone call came summoning her home. Immediately. After acquiescing to the travel plans arranged for her, she wept in his arms. 

He held her, saying nothing. There was nothing to say. Honor demanded she go. 

They stood together the next day, his arm over her shoulder and hers around his waist, watching the porters load her luggage into the train. The platform was almost empty; there weren’t many travelers from this place and those who were going were already boarded.

“And Albert will be fine?” she asked quietly, her voice shaking a little.

“He’ll be fine. Doc Denney says he’ll outlive us all.” He turned her to face him and leaned in, kissing her deeply, committing her taste to memory.

She returned the kiss with desperate abandon, clinging to him, keening quietly in the back of her throat.

“I’m afraid,” she confessed when he broke the kiss. She pressed her face into his shirt and whispered, “I’m afraid to leave. Don’t make me go, Master. Let me stay. Please. I love you.”

“You’ll always live in my heart, darlin’,” he told her, his words stumbling a little. “I’ll love you forever.” He pulled her back so that she could see into his eyes, into his heart. “Maybe we’ll have time together some day that belongs to us, Erica. Time that isn’t stolen from other people.”

“No one will ever love me the way you do,” she whispered.

“No,” he agreed, smiling sadly. “No one will ever love you as I do. But it doesn’t mean that no one will ever love you. You know that.”

The train horn sounded, a long low mournful wail.

He reached out and unclasped the velvet collar, pulling it from her throat almost violently. “I release you, Erica,” he whispered raggedly, crushing the collar into his fist. Kneeling, he scooped up a big bouquet of Damask roses and pressed them into her hands. “Now go, darlin’. Go.” 

Stumbling backwards, her eyes holding on to his as tightly as her hands held the roses, she boarded the train. Her tears ran unchecked down her cheeks and were swallowed by the deep black velvet night of her mourning dress.

~~~

Erica felt the warm morning breeze brush over the moistness on her cheeks and slowly opened her eyes. She was sitting on her front step, her bottom resting on the delicately erotic carvings of the tiles that surfaced the entry to her villa. She shivered, her whole body shaking violently, the way a dog does to rid itself of water. During the overwhelming immediacy of her memories of Andrew, she must have moved out here.

Andrew. The name was an ache of longing in her heart, in her mind, even after all these years. Gathering herself, she drifted back into her study, one hand holding the letter, the other lightly stroking over her T-shirt-covered breast. 

She settled into her place at her desk again, her eyes drawn to the Damask roses in their perfect cut glass bowl.

She looked at the return address and touched his name with the tip of a finger. Slipping a sheet of creamy embossed stationary from its box, she took up her black fountain pen.

Dear Andrew, she wrote, determined not to allow the wild beating of her heart to spoil her penmanship, 

Do the roses still bloom as vibrantly for you as they do for me? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My thanks to BrainyBeauty, CreamyLady, Ray Dario, and Ulyssa for reading through this story while it was in appallingly rough form and offering valuable suggestions toward its eventual betterment. Additionally, I deeply appreciate Lit Volunteer Editor Extraordinaire Weird Harold for the application of his editing skills to this story. His time and efforts on my behalf far exceeded the call of duty. Anything wrong with this story is entirely, of course, my fault.



Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 06



"As for us, querida, I now know that someday we will meet again. I do not know where or when, or what the outcome of that meeting will be. But I know it will happen. For now, it is enough for me to know that you have read these words. The passage of time has done nothing to diminish the power of your flame, Erica. But do not forget the smoke. When the time is right, when you are ready for me, remember to turn to the shadows. I will be there, waiting for you." (Smoke From A Hidden Flame by Gaucho.  Reprinted with permission.)


I waited. I looked in the shadows.  I sought him in the smoke.  I waited. Was he playing me like a finely tuned instrument? Was he there at all? The moon waxed, waned, and turned full again. I waited. Still, he refused to show himself.

A storm was building, bringing a gunmetal sky and sending the surf crashing onto the narrow beach at the foot of my cliff.  It was going to be a bad one. I filled the oil lamps and had dry wood brought in for the fireplace.  As the wind rose, my thoughts turned to other lovers, other times.  I went to the small box that held so many priceless memories, tied up in satin ribbons.  The alchemy of time turns scraps of paper into treasures more precious than gold.

A letter from Sam almost leapt out to me, begging to be read. Sam and I were always good for each other. Uninhibited, carefree, and knowing how to give as well as to take pleasure, Sam became more than a client. He is now my friend, the only one I trust with my secrets, the executor of my estate. 

Our Parisian spring is so long ago, so far away. I let his words wrap around me like a blanket, taking me back to our first tryst.





Memoirs Of A Lady Ch. 07



Chapter 7: A Past Life

**My thanks and my unabashed admiration to Sonia de Beaumanoir for forcing my characters to speak proper French.**

* * * * *

January 14th. Around us the skies were so gray as to be black.

If God herself were to speak over the airplane intercom to inform all of us passengers that we were being diverted to the next to the last airport on the face of the earth, She couldn't have said it better than: "Ladies and gentlemen, for your safety, Northwest flight 2671 has been temporarily diverted to land at the Gerald R. Ford international airport in Grand Rapids, Michigan."

Our stewardess, the lovely Chief Stew Barbie, came down the aisle stopping every few rows to tell us all the official company line. "We're sorry for the inconvenience but I'm afraid every major airport from here to Oklahoma City has been closed down due to the blizzard in the great plains states." Did I mention that if ever a grown woman really looked like a Barbie, she did? Like Summer Blond Barbie, she had those frozen blue eyes which gleamed in fashion photo perfection including a star burst lens flare right at the perfect spot for a highlight tucked carefully into each eye. It was uncanny. "This January snow storm has tied up every state in the midwest for the entire night--Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, Minnesota and Wisconsin, umm...the Dakotas and more."

I wanted to tell her how proud I was of her. The lovely Chief Stewardess Barbie could name almost as many states as the lovely Elementary School Teacher Barbie could. l really should write a nice note to her mother.

"But Michigan is open?" My assistant, Suzette queried, remembering what I'd told her about the midwestern United States. 

This little remark irritated Barbie because she'd been ready to dismiss the two of us so that she move forward to see all the smiling Kens lined up and waiting in the seats behind us. I could tell by their eager faces that every single Ken seated in No Smoking Business Class had his cigarette lighter out and ready to flick as soon as the Chief Stewardess pulled out her pack of Fetish Barbie's Virginia Slim Ultra Lights (sold separately).

"Only the Gerald R. Ford, and that only for another hour or so," Barbie informed us. "Then they think the entire center of the nation may be snowed in solid for at least a day and a half." She moved passed us to speak to the rest of the plane's business class looking for just the right Ken doll to latch on to for the next day and a half's layover. God! I made a pun!

The landing was happily uneventful. I was thankful for that, but Suzette would have kissed the tarmac itself, if we didn't have to travel through that artificial accordion gangway tunnel which lead us from the artificial environment of the plane into the artificial environment of the terminal of Gerald R. Ford International. Something inside me expected to see a statue of Chevy Chase tripping over a briefcase.

It was then that I saw the advertisement for the Leonardo da Vinci Horse exhibit. My god, I'd forgotten that it was here. Of all the places in the world to have to land in a winter storm warning, it was Grand Rapids. But it was here on permanent exhibit, for God's sake. The first original bronze casting Il Cavallo stands in Milan. The second casting of the Leonardo da Vinci Horse The American Horse was purchased and shipped to Grand Rapids, Michigan by Fred Meijer, a local multimillionaire, and placed within one of those monuments which millionaires start to build and then coerse the public to pick up the rest of the price tag. Thus Grand Rapids is blessed with both the Frederick Meijer Gardens and subsequently the American replica of the Leonardo da Vinci Horse.

The airlines put us up at a hotel on 28th Street which is the strip mall area on the city's suburban east side. From there the desk clerk told us that the Gardens were just a few miles away up some highway called the Beltline. Cab fare there and back would cost as much as a day's car rental, but I've never been enthusiastic about driving in snow, and Suzette wasn't much of a driver period.

"Our bags are still on the plane," I said. "I wish I could change."

"You want to change clothes to visit a statue?" Suzette queried.

"Don't you?"

"We could go shopping first," she suggested, twisting her little sardonic blade deep into my psyche. "Maybe Frederick's of Hollywood has something appropriate."

"We're running out of daylight, minx," I teased her. "Let's see the horse first. Once we return to the hotel all we'll need are some terry cloth towels and those percale sheets." 

Suzette's eyes flashed, but I made her put her coat on and out we went. I enjoyed teasing her, but she was my assistant, and I have strict rules about sleeping with the help.

The cab dropped us off in front of the Meijer Gardens. A long array of welcoming sculpture bedecked its entranceway. Some of the pieces were nearly tolerable.

"Do you know how the Guggenheim Museum in New York became a great museum?" I asked Suzette as we threaded our way through some cookie cutter pieces. "First, the family purchased whatever the hell they felt like buying for years until they had enough stuff--good and bad--to open a public museum. Then they went out and bought more stuff."

"So what's your point, Erica?" 

"Finally the museum hired some professionals who kept the real art out in the museum and slowly but surely put the junk stuff back into storage." I told Suzette that it was obvious that the Meijer Gardens were trying to do the same thing with their sculpture. Except they didn't have enough good stuff on display to hide the junk back in storage.

I really don't see this as a fault though. Some potentially good artists had some mediocre works purchased for good money. Still I rushed Suzette past some fairly dreadful pieces as we paid our admission and glanced off to the south side of the main building where the botanical gardens were housed. One thing about nature, she could always sculpt a flower far superior to many of the pieces we saw strewn about the exhibit.

"Hey," Suzette pointed toward the gift shop. "We can get Leonardo da Vinci tee-shirts and sweat shirts. Maybe they've got American Horse panties."

"Oh sure, and then I get in a bad accident and have to go to the hospital in my American Horse panties. The ghost of my mother would appear at my bedside and tell me how ashamed she was that the paramedics had seen me in American Horse underwear."

"Really?" Bless her heart, Suzette always took everything I had to say as gospel truth. "But, Erica, what about the time you told me you wore crotchless underwear to that party on Oxford street?"

"That was London, dearest. An English paramedic would've raised his eyebrows, but not said a thing," I reminded her as I opened my purse and fumbled for the Visa card.

"What if your paramedic had been a woman?" 

"Then she probably would've rung up my mother," I answered. "C'mon, we're losing the light."

Naturally being twenty-four feet tall, the horse is not inside the main building. My fashionable boot heels crunched softly against the dry crystalline snow as it began to dust over the recently shoveled sidewalk leading to the horse. Where there was a dry spot on the concrete, my three inch heels clacked down brusquely. That sound echoed ahead, to the side, and behind. You know how it is when you walk through a quiet snowfall and you find yourself wanting to turn around to see who's following you?

A celestial reaper hidden in those bleak gray clouds continued to harvest a new crop of snow crystals and fling the dusty white chaff to the ground in a drifting pattern of blowing and swirling which almost looked like a waterfall of snow crystals floating down lazily but relentlessly from above.

"If we don't get to it soon," Suzette called out. "It'll be buried under a ton of snow."

I shook my head. "This wind should keep these flakes stirring around enough to see the horse okay."

"I can't believe my eyes and ears. If someone had told me that I'd be following you through the snow to see a horse, I'd have laughed in their face! What shape shifter has stolen your identity, Erica?"

"Don't be absurd, Suzette, this isn't a horse. It's a sculpture--a Leonardo da Vinci sculpture."

The difference in presentation between Milan and Grand Rapids is the placement of the Da Vinci Horse as well as the climate. In Milan Il Cavallo stands on raised base platform pedestal, so that it can be seen unencumbered by distant viewers and so that observers may walk respectfully around it. The American Horse stands on the concrete and a spectator may walk directly beneath it.

"Oh, my God! Look at it, Suzette!" I called out. "It's gorgeous."

There defying the blowing snow and windy weather, ignoring the wet and the cold, impervious to the impending dark and to approaching visitors stood Leonardo da Vinci's Horse casting number two. And all I could think of doing was to remove my gloves so that I could place my bare fingers upon its raw, chilling, brass patina of the lifted hoof. In a hundred years my finger oils could damage the patina, but I think not. There must be some sort of new cleaning and protecting chemical which they use to protect the plating from the vehicle emissions not five hundred yards away or the smoke of factories and smog.

Too high to touch more than just the points where its legs stretched up from the ground or where its lifted hoof held forever suspended, I walked in and around the horse just to experience the unusual views from directly beneath. The dimness of the season encroached upon us quickly, the roiling snows twisted and backdrafts of wind born flakes trapezed sidewise through the eddies and current of the air.

I walked to the left slowly taking in the massive expanse of the neck and shoulders extending skyward.

"Well, it's big," Suzette said, trying to hide her obvious annoyance that I was exploring its total visual splendor, while she stood inured to its immense charms. "It's certainly...big." Suzette watched me watch the horse for a few more long minutes. "May we go now?"

"Wait. I want to see it from here." No, go this way three steps. Split the difference back. Yes, I needed to stand right over...

Twenty feet above ground, the great nostril flared uneasily. It's bronze sheen cloaked by dim white flurries suddenly took on a chestnut and black hue a sheen of perspiration lathered its front flanks. Was that blood? "Erica, I'm cold," Suzette moaned, but I all I heard was a thunderous boom which covered her words.

Now I saw its huge wild eye blaze wide open rolling in the socket gripped in fear and terror.

"Did you hear me, Erica?"

The head moved, pulling back--nostrils mouth, eyes, ears and that massive skull began to toss from side to side.

"Erica?"

I saw its eye sockets redden and fill with blood. But I could not move.

"Erica!"

In slow motion the huge horse reared back, its massive hooves toppling straight down upon me. I collapsed to my knees in the snow.

"Erica?"

It was January 14th, and everything went black.

--------------

Santa Fe, New Mexico. Two weeks later.

Doctor Jacqueline Kennedy Greyeyes was born on November 26, 1963. Her mother, Helen, was all of seventeen years of age at the time, and had been listening to the nonstop news coverage of JFK's assassination right up to and including the riderless horse accompanying the coffin as it walked stoically down Constitution Avenue in Washington DC, when she finally went into labor. At the time the dead white president's well-known wife's name seemed a perfectly reasonable choice for Helen Greyeyes to call her beautiful black-haired infant daughter. 

Doctor Jackie, as people loved to call her, sat calmly watching her patient fidget in anticipation of today's session. "I've listened to the entire recording twice since Tuesday's session, Erica. I want you to hear it. We won't have time to comment on it today, but I'd like you to experience the reality of your words from your own perspective. Next time we'll dig into it. Is that okay with you?"

"Sure," Erica answered. "Whatever you think is best, Doctor." Erica fixed her eyes on the electronic strobe which Doctor Jackie used to put her patients under hypnosis. It was modern, definitely state of the art, and probably sanctioned by the American Psychiatric Association. Still, Erica thought, given the right circumstances, would Doctor Jackie prefer to use fasting, sweat lodges and hallucinogens for her patients. No. Probably not. I think I'm just perpetuating the stereotype. 

Doctor Jackie had cued up the tape forward from the actual act of putting me under hypnosis last Tuesday.

"Erica, we're going back to last week. Back to January the fourteenth, do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," the Erica on tape murmured.

"You're relaxed and warm, you're perfectly safe in that chair and you're in complete control of all of your faculties. Your body is loosely curled up on this couch and if you need to come back here at any time, we can do that. We're going back, Erica, back to the morning of January the fourteenth. You've just awakened on that snowy morning. What do you see?"

On the tape, Erica begins to laugh: "Il faut 



Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 08



I wistfully looked at the painting as I walked by it and paused. The warm deep desert colors radiated from the canvas; the soft blues and golds washing over me like a mellow summer day. My ankle itched as I looked at the beautiful single silver belled ankle bracelet laid upon the golden hued silk cloth beside the blue rounded jar. I almost caught a scent of spicy musk oil. That was a time in my life when I had felt ultimately female with its many contradictions, powerful in my sex and at the same time, powerless.

I reached down and caressed the blue jar that sat at a table directly beneath the painting. I imagined the warm scent of the musk as it was poured on my heated, aroused skin. I let out the breath I was holding slowly opening the top drawer of the table. It slid open smoothly as a fold of luxurious silk was exposed. My flesh tingled at the remembered sensuality as the silk had enfolded my naked body. The soft fabric brushing over erect nipples and sensitive thighs. Closing my eyes, my breath quickening from the memory, I felt for the ankle bracelet. 

The slight jingling of a bell caused my fingers to close over the cool metal. I pulled the bracelet out and held it to my cheek, the coolness felt good against my heated skin. Opening my eyes, I looked at the delicate yet bold piece of jewelry. A thick band of silver was encased in intricate carvings of flowers with small rings for charms. Two large bells formed a type of clasp that locked when attached to the ankle. A surge of melancholy, desire, joy and pain suffused my body and mind. I needed to sit down, to remember. 

I headed out to the wide porch overlooking the open Mediterranean Sea. Sitting in my antique rattan chair, I lithely bent over and quickly fastened the ankle bracelet to my right leg. The response from my body was instantaneous. I was immediately aroused. Gasping, I trailed a hand up my trim calf to my thigh and under my skirt. Not wanting or needing to hold back, I fingered the epicenter of my body until waves of exhilarating fulfillment rippled over my nerve endings. My fingers buried deep in my wetness; I felt my muscles spasm. Gasping, I began to calm like a satiated lion after a swift kill, I gazed out over the rolling waves and let myself remember Al Mamlakah al Arabiyah as Suudiyah - Saudi Arabia.

#

I met Robert L. Becker III at an American Consulate party in Washington. I had just finished a brief vacation and attended the party as a guest of one of my acquaintances. After walking through the front door, my date had left me to pursue a business venture. Sulkily, I had wandered around the huge Embassy, enjoying the paintings, sculptures and artwork. One painting in particular had caught my eye, a sultry earthy painting of a dark complexioned man wearing the thobe and gutra of the Middle Eastern countries. The dark, passionate eyes looking out from the painting were unnerving, exciting. The oils captured the smooth glow of his skin and it seemed I could reach out and touch human warmth.

At that moment, Robert Becker III walked up and began to talk about the man in the painting. He told me the name of the man in the painting was FAHD bin Abd al-Aziz Al Saud, the King and Prime Minister of Saudi Arabia. He proceeded to entertain me with talks of his visits to that distant land until I was enthralled. The talk continued on into the night and to his penthouse apartment. I was surprised that over the night, Robert did not try to make love to me. I didn't realize then that he had his reasons.

Over breakfast, he invited me to go with him on his next visit to Saudi Arabia. He warned me that it was difficult for women over there, but he would protect me and we would stay in American compounds much of the time. His business would last a month, at most 2, and then we would be back in America. I enjoyed new sites, new sounds, new people and places. It seemed the perfect adventure at the time, going to a distant country and sampling a distant culture. Robert was pleasant and treated me well. I decided to go.

#

I stepped off the plane with Robert L. Becker III to a wave a sandy heat. The hot yellow sun shown down on me like a molten, angry god. I adjusted the brim of my hat so it would shade my face from the damaging rays. The stifling heat made it hard to breathe. After the languid vacation I had just had, the mystique of experiencing a different culture intrigued me, but this heat was horrible. I saw a long black limousine stirring the desert sands as it drove towards us.

Robert leaned toward me and said, "This man we are about to meet is Sayyid Jal Dhul Fiqar, a Sultan of the Qasim province and my ticket to several million dollars." Robert went forward as the Prince was getting out of his car and began to talk to him. 

Several minutes went by and Robert did not look like he was about to introduce me. Walking up to Robert I almost interrupted his conversation with Sultan Sayyid but I saw a warning glint in the eyes of the tall Arab as he flicked them briefly at me. Huffily, I stood up straighter, squaring my shoulders but didn't say anything. I know Robert told me about the customs, but it's too much making us stand in this heat, I thought. I licked at the first drops of perspiration on my upper lip, the light traveling suit already sticking to my skin. Taking off my jacket, the white silk blouse clung to my full, round breasts barely concealed by a lacey skin-toned bra. The skirt hugged my trim waist, accentuating my breasts. 

Sighing quietly, I looked around. The airport was not much more than a long runway with a small square building at one end. The heat radiated off every surface as the sun's rays beat down relentlessly. We had landed in Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia, then flown in a smaller jet to this tiny airport in Buraydah. Growing faint from the heat I finally felt Robert grasp my elbow.

"Erica, we will be staying with the Sultan instead of at the American compound. He has graciously offered his home to us," Robert said smiling. "Sultan, this is Erica; Erica - Sultan Sayyid Jal Dhul Fiqar. 

The Sultan barely acknowledged me but he did look long enough at me to see my breasts blatantly exposed for anyone to see through my sweat soaked silk shirt. Disapproval ripe in his voice he said, "Miss Erica, you will attire yourself according to our custom while in my home." 

Not to be intimidated, I asked boldly, "And how may I address you?"

Looking at me like I was a bug, he replied, "There is no reason for you to address me." Turning back to Robert, he smiled broadly and began walking to the limousine.

I stood speechless as I looked at this impertinent man, but he was completely ignoring me. I was not use to any man ignoring me and felt a twinge of interest along with annoyance. 

Robert whispered to me, "Erica, it is a great honor to be invited to Sayyid's home. Not many American's, if any, have ever been invited there. This is a very good sign, I think you are my lucky charm!"

"I don't feel very lucky! Did you see how he looked at me? Like I was beneath dirt! And what's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I asked, glaring petulantly in the Sultan's direction.

"Nothing, you look ravishing," Robert reassured me. "But I did mention that women here don't expose anything and are covered head to toe outside their homes. Come on, sweet, this is an adventure for you! Enjoy it!"

I was led into the back seat of the limousine while the Sultan and Robert sat in front of me. As they conversed about business, I soon forgot my pique at being relegated to the back seat and began to watch the desert go by. I had to admit that the desert was seductive in its beauty. At first glance, it was all one color, but the more you looked the more subtle shades of gold, yellow, tan, green, brown, umber, red and other warm colors radiated their sensual heat. They appealed to my artistic heart. I smiled as I watched the colors swirl past.

Glancing up, I saw the half-lidded stare of the Sultan. Catching a chill from the air-conditioned air, I felt my nipples harden. Blushing, I watched his eyes travel to my breasts and linger. He didn't hide his appreciation and stared boldly. My belly suddenly tightening with fear and desire, I casually pulled my jacket over me like a blanket. The Sultan looked up with an imperceptible upturn of his lips and resumed his conversation, ignoring me again.

The ride took four long hours but I was able to see the beauty of the desert, the small towns and people along the way. I marveled at the subdued, veiled women that I saw walking sedately through the streets. What would it be like to be them? To grow up in this country? Shivering, I wondered if I had made a mistake coming here. 

#

We drove through the town of Buraydah near the end of our ride. Robert turned around and said, "We are almost there, sweet, about 20 minutes more." They began talking quietly in earnest again. I gathered my things together and determined to be polite but cool. 

Once in the compound, 20 or more women and children surrounded the limousine. Once out of the limousine, Sayyid handed out candies and toys to both the women and the children. The children ran off squealing in delight laughing and chasing each other across the hot desert sand. The women, some veiled some not, were more discrete but equally excited. I watched all this from the limousine, trying to understand this new world. How could simple candies and trinkets make these women so happy? What did they do here day after day?

Robert finally helped me out of the limousine. The women swarmed around me, touching my hair and the fabric of my suit. I was not alarmed but it was disconcerting to be handled so. The melodic swift language surged around me, engulfing me as the women chattered to each other. Their faces were curious, some smiling and giggling, others frowning or confused, a one looked angry.

The Sultan said something to an older woman and she looked at me and smiled, nodding. Coming toward me, she said in halting English, "You come for dress before gahwa."

Looking to Robert for help, I saw that he had already left with the Sultan to enter a large stone doorway into a shadowed interior. The women clustered around me and led me in a wave of chattering and giggling to a large entryway. 

Inside I stopped and took in the richness of the scene before me. A lavish fountain flowed into a deep pond with large koi. The air was scented with flowers and earth. Ornate benches with cushions decorated the perimeter of the pond. Seeing this display of water after the parched landscape on the four-hour drive was unexpected and impressive. The women plucked at my clothing and hurried me along into a spacious entry hall that led into a cool shaded great room. Inside were luxurious carpets and cushions, benches and chairs that I knew to be expensive antiques. Tiffany lamps and Ming vases vied for my attention with paintings by Renoir, Carpenter and an exquisite painting by Angelica Kauffmann depicting women with a swarm of children.

The older woman, I learned her name was Usajnah, let me appreciate the room before prodding me along to yet another interior room. This one held a spacious pool with marble steps. All around the pool were low tables with padded cushions. The air in the room was warm and heavily scented with a pleasant spicy aroma. All the women were gathered around tittering and talking in their melodic language, watching me. Usajnah tugged at my hand and led me toward a table. In halting English she said, "Now bathe and clean after trip. Then we find you abaaya and veil. You are perfect for this." The other women looked at me expectantly and giggled.

I felt distinctly uncomfortable as I realized that I would have to go through with this public bath. Perfect for what? I thought. Shrugging, I began to strip from my clothing and laid them in a pile. I was hot, tired and sweaty from the long journey. The warm water of the pond would feel wonderful. No sooner had I put my clothing in a pile and stood naked then a woman whisked away my clothing. 

"Never mind, never mind," Usajnah said, "Get ready now." She pulled me toward the table instead of the large bathing pond. I resisted a little but firm hands gripped me and pulled me down. Lying on my back, the women swarmed around me, chattering and giggling, clucking and sighing as they felt my skin, tugged on my hair. I was not a prude by any stretch of imagination but neither was I used to the prying hands and fingers of women poking and prodding at me. I tried to get up but was pulled back down by the giggling women. Suddenly firm hands gripped my ankles and pulled them wide apart. Struggling in earnest I fought with them, giving up only when I realized it was futile. 

With my legs spread I felt warm oil poured over my breasts, down my belly and on my clitoris. Gentle fingers began messaging the oil in expertly, knowing how hard, how fast, how slow until I was breathing heavily, my body responding despite my ambivalence. My body was humming now with coaxed desire. The heat, strangeness and assault on my senses throughout the day made me susceptible to the whims of my body. My experiences with women were few and only Etienne had captured my adoration. But this was different, almost unreal. I was tired and just not able to fight the languid sensuality spreading over me.

Throwing my head back in abandon, eyes closed, I gave in to these foreign women. Letting their dark, knowing fingers stroke, seduce me. The waves started slowly then built until I moaned loudly as they crested over and engulfed me. My back arched off the table and tensed as the climax crashed over me. 

Breathing heavily, the hands on my body and the melodic murmurs came back to me as if I had fainted. I relaxed as I felt my flesh pulled this way and that as a sharpened razor wire was pulled over it denuding me of any hair. By the time they were done and pushing me toward the pool, I walked in a scented haze of heady musk, seductive, sensual. My skin had never felt so soft, smooth, supple. 

Several of the women, some still very young, entered the warm bathing pond with me. I heard the soft sound of music coming from somewhere and even in these strange surroundings I felt content. I have to say I enjoyed their attention. They washed my body and long hair finding every fold and niche, making sure every part was cleansed. I felt pampered beyond the famed spas of Switzerland. It seemed like it had taken a long time, but only 2 hours had passed. When I finally arose from the pond, and my hair dried, I felt as fresh, as pure as a virgin. I let out a surprised giggle at the thought of being a virgin. The women around me smiled. 

Two young girls approached me shyly and offered me an abaayah, the long floor length robe women wear in Saudi. It was a beautiful silk with golden hues shot through with embroidery accents of red, blue and yellow. The women oohed and ahhed over me making me feel like a princess. Little gold slippers were put on my feet, my hair and face covered with a matching veil. I shivered as the soft fabric caressed the heightened sensitivity of my skin each time I moved. I smiled my thanks to the women around me, paying particular attention to the oldest, Usajnah. This seemed to please her immensely which I would be glad of later. 

Usajnah then pointed to a few of the women telling me their names. There was the two youngest, Suraah and Hala, Rashida, Shaymaa, and Najua. The last one was glaring at me. Her name was Zoenat. The other women had wandered off.

Trying to organize the strange names with the faces around me, I smiled at all the women. Blushing, because after all, they had just brought me to a delicious orgasm, I said, "Hello, nice to meet you." 

Tittering the women smiled back at me. One of them said, "Wish ismick?"

Usajnah said, interpreting, "She wants to know your name."

"Erica," I said.

Usajnah then said, "Erica, I must take you to the Sultan now. You do what he say, hm?" She walked off.

I followed her wondering what about some of the things she had said. I was perfect and I was to do what he said. What was all that about? Mentally shrugging, I didn't worry about it. Robert was here and we would be leaving soon.

#

Feeling as if I was in a fairy tale, I walked into the room to see the Sultan seated on pillows at a low dining table. Robert was no where to be seen. This disappointed me because I wanted to show off my new abaayah. 

"Please be seated across from me, Miss Erica," he said formally, although is dark eyes shown appreciatively as he studied my attire.

"Where is Robert?" I asked.

"He is gone," The Sultan said bluntly.

"Gone? I don't understand?" I said faltering, confused and a little afraid.

"He was called back unexpectedly to America."

"But, why didn't he get me? I should have left with him!" I exclaimed alarmed.

The Sultan stared at me, giving nothing away until my heart thumped painfully in my chest.

"You will stay here. This is the arrangement that I made with Mr. Becker." After saying this, he set out four coffeepots, called della, next to a little fire. In silence, he began the preparation of gahwa, an age-old custom of the Bedouin tribes, of serving coffee as a gesture of hospitality. Looking up he spoke swiftly in Arabic and then several men filed into the room and took their places around the low table. Looking at me appraisingly, they began to talk excitedly.

"Wait! What arrange¡K" I began.

A knife slammed point first into the table. "Woman, you will be silent unless spoken too. You will keep your eyes down."

Startled, my mouth snapped shut. Oh my god, what was I doing here? Robert had abandoned me to this savage. What kind of arrangement had been made? Staring at the knife still trembling in the table, my mouth dry, I was silent.

The sudden silence ended as fast at it began. They continued looking at me and talking in their fast language. I watched as the Sultan served a cup of coffee to each of the men. He did not offer me a cup. 

I was feeling scared and scorned when I heard a commotion outside. Then several men came into the room. They wore long dark thobes and gutras that covered their faces. They did not take them off.

The Sultan pointed to me. Talking swiftly, he conversed with the three men saying my name several times. I had no idea what was going on but it involved me. Shaking my head back and forth as if I could prevent what happened next I stood up. My breath came in quick gasps as I looked for somewhere to run. All the men were looking at me with interest. Making a bolt for the door, I ran.

Laughing, one of the men who had just entered grabbed me around the waist. "Calm down, silly woman. Where will you run? Into the desert to be baked alive by the sun tomorrow? Or would you rather be caught by the tribes that wander the desert?" Gripping me tightly, he told the Sultan, in English for my benefit, "Sultan Sayyid, this one will be perfect, many blessing upon you for bringing her to me."

The Sultan nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"Salam Alaykum," he said.

The Sultan replied, "Wa alaykum salam."

Pulling me by the wrist, he tugged me out of the room. Frantically I turned back toward to the Sultan. "Please, please! Sultan don't make me go! I'll do anything you want!"

He glanced at me and looked away. 

Naked under the beautiful abaayah that the women had given me, I felt terribly exposed. Then I saw what I was being dragged towards - camels! They are great huge, smelly beasts. With a sharp command, the camels knelt down. The man pulling me along climbed up on the beast and pulled me up in front of him. His strong arm held me tight as he spurred the animal into a run while the others followed.

I couldn't believe what was happening to me. This morning I had been on a plane with Robert, and now I was being kidnapped and riding on top of a huge, smelly camel. I didn't know whether laugh, scream or cry. 




Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 08



"Ismi Nijah Abdul-Muqaddim," he murmurred into my ear. 

"Speak English! I don't understand anything you say. I don't even know what is going on! I'm on a camel for god's sake with, with, you! Going who knows where and I don't even have any of my clothes! And get your hand off my breast!" I blurted out.

Laughing, the man said calmly, "My name is Nijah Abdul-Muqaddim. You now belong to me. This is the finest of camels. You are going to my camp and you will not need many clothes. I will not get my hand off your breast. Does that answer your questions?" He felt my nipple and began to message through the silk of the abaayah making it hard, and then he pulled it gently.

I squirmed against him but my arms were trapped by the way I was sitting, and the way he was holding me. I couldn't do anything. "You can't do this! I'm a free woman and I will report this to the Consulate. I will!"

He didn't say anything. Stroking my breast, messaging it, feeling the underside of my breast causing the silk to rub sensually on my skin, I began to feel the stirrings of arousal. He continued stroking, petting arousing me until the camels finally stopped. By this time I was breathless and wet between the legs. Leaping off the camel, he pulled me down into his arms. The other men scattered and he took me into a large tent. 

I finally got a look at him as he stripped off his thobe and gutra. Underneath he had on a short dress looking shirt. He took that off and was completely naked. Blushing, I looked at his muscular dark skinned body. His skin was smooth and the color of the desert at sunset. Maybe it was the heat, the excitement, the seduction of the desert, but I wanted him. I somehow knew he wouldn't hurt me although the element of fear was present and intoxicating. I felt my nipples grow hard and the heat between my legs become moist with my musk.

Naked, he came to me and brushed the hair from my face. Caressing my cheek, he spoke to me tenderly. I don't know what he said, but the tone was sensual, sweet. He pulled off my abaaya and laid it on the thick carpets inside the tent. Pulling me with him, I laid down on the abaaya, the soft silk sliding on my skin. "I don't know¡K"

He held a finger to my lips then leaned over to kiss me. Taking my face in his hands he kissed my forehead, my cheeks, and then my lips. His kiss was warm and dry, sexy. Opening my lips to him, I felt his tongue take possession of my mouth. I moaned and he kissed me harder, urgently. His hands grabbed my arms and held me down as his teeth raked my neck down to my breasts. I arched my back pressing against him as he suckled first one nipple then the other. Back and forth until my body was drenched with sweat and desire. He growled deep in his throat when he felt my response to him. 

Licking down my salty belly, he teased my hairless slit with his tongue. I opened my legs to him, his tongue flicking my clit into a frenzy while I moaned and writhed. His strong hands gripped my hips and he pulled me to him, sucking, licking me until I was screaming out. My hands clenched the silk under me, squeezing hard as my body wracked helplessly in a long shuddering orgasm. His tongue continued to lash my clit until I was spent and struggling to get away. 

"Say my name. Nijah. Say it!" He said urgently.

I felt his thick organ slide up my leg as he licked up my body again. Pausing at a nipple he grasped it between his teeth and bit gently, sending sparks through my nerves.

"Say my name."

I felt his hard member slip between my swollen lips, wet from his saliva and my juices. The head rubbed up and down, sliding over my tender clit. I felt another orgasm coming and arched up, wanting him inside me. 

"Say my name!" He cried urgently, once more. He poised his cock at the entrance to my molten insides, waiting.

Frantic, on the brink of an orgasm, I cried out, "Yes, Nijah, yes please take me!" 

Grunting, Nijah speared me with his cock, thrusting in all the way in one great lurch. 

The intensity was electric and immediate. I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him into me, feeling his cock deep inside as he pumped. Each time he entered me fully, he would grind into me causing my clit to ignite. "Oh yes, Nijah, yes!"

He thrust hard, deep and kissed me, his tongue claiming my cries as I climaxed. Quivering in his arms, I trembled as he pulled out of me. My ears ringing, I closed my eyes. He pulled me to him, stroking my back like he was soothing a horse. Murmuring to me, soothing me until I fell asleep.

#

Waking up the next morning, I was surprised to see the sun bright outside the tent. Nijah was no where to be seen. I looked around the tent. It was as luxurious in its own way as the Sultan's house had been. The tent was lined with expensive, beautiful carpets. There were antiques and paintings scattered around. Stretching, I felt something on my ankle and looked down. A beautiful ankle bracelet had been placed there! As I moved the bells jingled and I wiggled my foot. It was very pretty. Looking at it more closely, I realized that it was locked on. I tried to tug it off but it would not budge. Incensed, I stood up angrily looking for something to wear. Finding nothing, I put on the abaayah I had worn yesterday, dirty though it was. 

Walking to the flap of the tent, I pulled it aside. I looked around and saw several men by a fire. Walking up to them I began to ask them where Nijah was but they all swiftly turned away from me. Suddenly I felt strong arms pick me up, it was Nijah.

"What are you doing, and what is this thing locked on my ankle?" I asked.

Calmly, but firmly, Nijah carried me inside the tent. "Do you NOT understand the rules of this land? You must never walk about without a veil. For you to be so immodest is cause for death here! Those men did you a favor by turning away from you."

"I didn't come here on my own, and this is not my country! Why is there this thing locked on my leg?" I didn't back down. 

"You don't like it? It is not pretty? The bells do not jingle fairly?" He coaxed. "Come now, behave for me. Do you not have this magnificent tent? The beautiful desert?" He approached me and pulled me to him.

I remembered his hard, fit body loving me last night. The taste of his kisses, the heat and hardness of his manhood. "But I don't really belong here, Nijah." I said.

He kissed me then, and made love to me again and again. Each time I screamed out his ownership of me as he played my body. I couldn't get enough of his taste, his scent. He smelled of leather and campfires. I wanted to breathe him in. His cock pleasured me, teasing one moment and ruthless the next. His mouth licking, biting, and sucking at me until I was dizzy with need. My breasts were swollen and aching, my mouth raw and puffy, my pussy wet and numb when he finally stopped. I held onto him, his naked sweaty body salty to my lips where I licked him. 

I spent 4 months with Nijah. I came to love him and the bells although I never felt that it would be permanent. I'm not sure that I even wanted it to be. But while I was with him, the lovemaking, the tent, the seductive dry heat of the desert lulled me. I was content. I had wanted an adventure, and I got one.

#

One day, we awoke early and Nijah made love to me. He was so tender. His kisses were more gently than usual. Afterwards, he held me for a long time before we got up and dressed. He dressed me once more in my first golden abaayah, with a matching veil that I had grown accustom too. I had my own theory about veils. I think it is worn so the women can hide their embarrassment of the way the squeal in the arms of their men. We went outside and got into an older tan colored car. The air conditioning was blasting and felt wonderful.

"Where are we going, Nijah?" I asked. Over the months, we had visited nearby towns for shopping and sight-seeing. 

Nijah stroked my face through the veil. "Azeeza, it is time to return you to your world."

I looked at him perplexed. Azeeza was his pet name for me, he told me it meant cherished, precious, beloved. "Returned? I don't understand Nijah."

Sighing, Nijah pulled me to him and explained. "When I first talked to the Sultan about obtaining a foreign woman to become my wife. I thought this would help in the business. It would look good to others, those outside Al Arabiyah as Suudiyah. You would become one of my wives, maybe a second or third. You could never be a first wife because you are not Muslim. And my first wife must be Muslim." He continued sadly, "Azeeza, I love you too much to do that to you. You would not be happy. This is my decision and it will be." Taking something out of his pocket, he put a fine silver necklace around me neck. On it was the tiny key to the lock of my ankle bracelet. 

I tried to grasp what was happening. On one hand, I was exhilarated to be free, on another I was sad to be leaving Nijah. I cared for him even loved him in a way. The drive to the airport was long and silent. 

I learned to cherish the freedoms I have as a woman outside that country. The laws are strict with women in the Middle Eastern countries, and they are very religious. As a matter of fact, religion rules the country. As a woman there, I was not allowed to go outside without a veil or abaayah. I couldn't drive a car. I seldom went anywhere without Nijah or one of his men present. But I did meet strong women. They are just strong in their own way. They have a lot of influence in their homes. I have a lot of respect for the women I met and became friends with there. 

I wore my bells, abaayah and veil on the plane and all the way home. I noticed the looks of curiosity from men and women as I walked through the airport. I answered the Arab taxicab driver in his own language when he asked me why I was out without a man to protect me. Amazingly, I discovered that all my bills had been paid while I was gone and my plants cared for, it was like I had never left. 

After being home and readjusting to my new, air-conditioned life of freedom, a package arrived at the door. The UPS man knocked loud enough to wake the dead and was gone before I could get to the door open. At my feet were two boxes. One square about the size of hatbox, the other large and rectangular. 

Opening them, I cried as I took out the blue vase the women had used to pour the spicy musk oil on me that first day in Saudi. I brought it to my nose and inhaled. A hint of the oil was still present and I shivered. When I opened the other box, it was a magnificent painting, an exact replica of the golden abaayah, blue jar and my precious ankle bracelet. A note slipped out of the box.

"My dearest Azeeza, 

I have been told that you have settled into your old, new life. I hope the time we shared will be remembered fondly and not with regret. My body still yearns for you and it will be a long time before I can love another. The Sultan has picked out a wife for me. She is a proper Muslim girl but will never replace you in my heart. 

Usajnah asked me to send you the blue jar in memory of her. She said you showed respect to her and that counts for a lot in our world. I had the painting commissioned for you. I hope you like it and will remember the golden, desert times we had. 

Salam Alaykim, 

Nijah Abdul-Muqaddim"

#

Stirring from my rattan chair, I straightened my clothing. The orgasms I had while remembering my Saudi Arabian adventure were nothing compared to the real thing with Nijah, but that was all in the distant past. He had written me over the years, telling me of inconsequential things. I had never written him. What was there to say? My life went on. 

Smiling softly to myself, I bent over and took off the belled ankle bracelet. Walking back to the hallway, I placed it back inside the drawer with the golden abaayah. Looking at the painting, I reached out and touched it. Imagining the heat of the desert, the heat of my lover's skin. I was content. I had wanted an adventure, and I had gotten one.

I wondered where my thoughts would take me next when I continued my memoirs.



Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 09



I have been wandering my villa like a ghost, reliving the past and narrating my loves to empty rooms. Writing this has seemed like recording the memories of a woman who no longer exists, like a desperate attempt to prove I was ever here at all. The pages of this manuscript have consumed me in recent weeks. I realize that I have been slowly removing myself from my own memories, keeping them at a distance as though they are just stories that don't matter. 

Even in my own mind and heart, I am often an observer of my own life, a narrator and performer. I have so often performed the art of loving, given and received the gift of passion for its own sake, wondering frequently whether it is enough, what holds it all together, what makes it my story. Sometimes it seems that my experiences are not a life but a dream, one which has reached its end, leaving me frightened, confused, and alone.

I guess it is fitting that my memories, much like my life, should become so much about those I have enjoyed and learned from and so little about myself. Over the years, I have often struggled with insecurity and discontent; while I have loved my work, the adventures my body has taken me on, I have not always been easy in spirit. I have feared what my life would become with age, when I might no longer be found beautiful and worthy of the passionate desire so often taken for granted. I wonder whether the life I chose is a young person's life, one impossible to sustain. For these last months I have been hiding, fearing my life was already over. The endless hours of near-perfect solitude have given me too much time with my own doubts, too much time to pass judgment on myself, to accuse myself for the failure of past loves, to avoid figuring out what comes next. 

The irony of trying to create something permanent to attest to a life of transient moments colored my thinking, encouraged me to doubt every past decision rather than continue to embrace the moment and the unknown future. I accepted Lottie's invitation to visit her in San Francisco months ago, before I started this complicated narration. I have since second-guessed my decision to return to the States many times, driving poor Suzette nearly to distraction by calling upon her to revise, cancel, and reinstate my travel plans on an almost daily basis. Only reading over these pages finally convinced me to go; the bittersweet nostalgia I see here frightens me more than any of my doubts or suspicions about my chosen path. I must seek out others before I disappear into words and memories, before I accept my life as a work completed. This is what I told myself as I settled in for take-off, and what I was still telling myself when I landed in San Francisco only a few weeks ago.

#

Although I haven't spent much time with Lottie in years, I feel a bond to her, one even stronger than the lingering ties I feel to my contracted lovers. When I met her, many years ago, she was still Carlotta, the prima ballerina of a small company in Florence. She was also the wife of my contract at the time, an expatriate American painter making a minor splash in European art circles. I had seen dozens of his evocative paintings of her before I ever saw the woman herself, nude studies of her body in motion, like Degas' dancers if they were unclothed and free. In those paintings, her skin seemed to glow from within, the muscles under the skin corded and taut, but graceful and feminine in an indefinable way. In my favorite of Kenneth's paintings, she dances before a mirror, the auburn evidence of her Sicilian blood flowing to the floor as she sways back from the barre in a fainting pose which looks physically impossible to sustain. One leg and hand remain fixed to barre as the rest of her pours in a backward arc, the muscles stretched in her stomach, her naked and opened sex reflected in the mirror, forming the center of the painting. I was smitten with her in the abstract, the picture of body as art, the gifted wife and muse of a talented artist. 

I told myself that I didn't give much thought to the fact that Kenneth was married. Over the years, many of my lovers have had others, in all of the many forms those other relationships can take. I had grown accustomed even then to the fact that many of the wealthy had wives and mistresses, husbands and lovers. I no longer felt that I was an intruder in these relationships. I was, however, still unprepared for the reality of her presence, for her knowledge of me, for the complexity of our relationship to each other.

When I received an invitation to a private recital, I rushed to open it, expecting Kenneth's familiar writing. Inside the expensively embossed folds was a quick note from the lady herself. "Please join us, Erica. Do not be afraid. Here, there is only love." It was signed 'Carlotta Revelle' in thick black script. Because she only used her married name, Revelle, in her private life, the note felt particularly personal, even intimate. Until I saw the word, I hadn't realized that I was afraid, but there it was. I had never been confronted with a contract's spouse, and I didn't know what to do.#

When did this happen? When did the world around me become so constantly steeped in memories? It seems that everything I see or do reminds me of another time, a life experience already enjoyed and filed away for later review. Lottie noticed my bouts of introversion, and tried to draw me out. While I didn't mean to, I resisted her attempts to talk to me about something more than current events and art. 

I was afraid she may give up on my less-than-impressive companionship skills, but she surprised me by secretly slipping an envelope onto my bed table while I slept. Intrigued, I opened it to be greeted by the familiar scent of vanilla musk, and my nipples hardened despite my mental distraction. But the mystery of what I found kept me in the present moment, rather than sliding back into the past for another physical memory of previous lovers. Inside, I found an invitation to a private residence, accompanied by a brief note. "Please join us, Lady Erica. Lottie tells me we may be able to help each other." It was signed 'Jeremy Williams' in decisive strokes of a blue fountain pen. I searched my memory, but the only Jeremy Williams I could think of was a concert pianist turned conductor, a man I had never met but knew of only through others.

I dressed hurriedly and headed downstairs to ask Lottie about the invitation and the ignoto Mr. Williams. I found her sitting at the breakfast table, sipping coffee. Her face looked pinched, pain clearly visible on her fine features despite her valiant attempts to smile. For the first time since my arrival, she used her cane for help standing up. I didn't know what to do, whether to help her, or if that would insult her with the suggestion of pity. Torn by indecision, the moment passed and I did nothing, choosing by default to sit at the table and wait for her to return from the kitchen. When she stepped back around the dividing wall and into the sunny morning room, I rose to take the coffee from her, but she waved impatiently at me with the hand holding her cane. I realized she would rather fall than let me take this simple domestic task from her, and sat back down. Sighing as she sat down, she leaned her ornate cane against her chair before pouring for us both. Smiling through lips stretched thin with masked suffering, she spoke. "Some days are easy. Some days are hard. Life continues, and every day is new. That is how I keep hope." Her cultivated voice washed through the small room, the simplicity of her words carrying more weight as they slipped over the walls like a shadow.

#

Kenneth told me that he wanted me to attend the recital, but that Carlotta wanted to speak with me for reasons she wouldn't reveal to him. My relationship with Kenneth was an open secret in their social circles, an unacknowledged but well-known reality. Bringing me to her before witnesses could create chaos, and would certainly create some unflattering rumors about one or all of us. As the "ugly American," Kenneth was already in a perilous social position among the cognoscenti of the art world. The fact that his star was still on the rise only made his position more dangerous. I realized for the first time how much he loved her, however it might look to others, that he would risk his own status, even his career, in this way.

I attended the recital, seeing Carlotta dance for the first time. She led the company in a brief interlude from their most recent production, then took the stage alone to perform a solo death scene, a performance originally choreographed by George Ballanchine for his wife, a prima ballerina who was soon after struck down by polio. Carlotta was graceful, elegant, and heartbreaking. The poetic undertones of the piece's origin added to the drama of the moment. When she finished, there was a hushed silence. The audience, myself included, seemed unnaturally still, afraid even to breathe lest the spell of the moment be broken. Then the cheering began, a swelling ovation that lasted minutes.

When the last "bravo!" had been savored and silenced, an usher approached me. "Miss Erica? You are wanted backstage." He directed me toward the wings, away from the other attendees, who were making their way toward the palazzo for a reception with the company. My hands shook with nerves as I clutched my velvet wrap around me and followed his directions to her dressing room.

I moved my hand to knock on the door, but it was opened before I had the chance. Carlotta was even more stunning in person than on stage or in Kenneth's paintings. She opened the door distracted, her tidy bun unraveling as she worked to remove her stage makeup. I had no idea what to say, but she gracefully took the pressure from me by inviting me in and asking me to sit. She apologized for keeping me waiting, but said she would only be a moment. Even if she hadn't been so warm and charming, I had no desire to argue. She was true to her word and completed her task quickly, turning from her dressing table mirror to face me.

"I know you must wonder why you are here." Her English was clipped and clear, obviously well practiced. "I wish that I could tell you simply. But, it seems nothing is simple right now. I'm asking you to stay with Kenneth longer. I know that your time with him is almost over." I started to speak, to ask her how she knew so much. She interrupted me with an impatient wave of her hand. "You must stay with us, Erica. Please. Kenneth will need you now, more than ever. We need you. We risk losing each other, and I need you to help us find each other again." She looked unbearably sad, her lower lip quavered as though she might cry, but still did not give me a chance to speak, to interrupt her painful rehearsed speech. "Tonight was my last performance. I can no longer dance."

#

"You helped me once, when I did not know if anyone could. Now I will help you, Erica. Please, meet with Jeremy and Renee. Today is a bad day, tonight I will stay home. But it is probably best that you go alone in any case." She saw my face and spoke words I vividly remembered. "Don't be afraid. Here, there is only love."

#

When Kenneth came to me that night, it was clear that Carlotta had told him everything. Tears stained his face when I opened the door to him. There was nothing that to say, no words were sufficient. Tears came to my eyes also, as I mourned for them both, for the loss of the dance that brought them to each other. He tried to speak, but could not. His eyes blazed with fury borne of heartbreak as he stepped toward me. I did all that I knew to do; I offered myself to him.

He collected me to him, crushing my much smaller body to his large frame, bruising our mouths with kisses as his tongue explored my mouth. I was afraid for him, almost afraid of him, but my body responded to his desire, his heat. I felt myself becoming wet as his hand released my body only to attack my clothes, pulling them from me roughly and without ceremony. It was very unlike the gentle touch I was accustomed to from him, but although the shock of the abrupt change surprised me, it only excited me more. I fumbled for him in return, but he brushed my hands aside as he tore his own clothes away, discarding them almost as quickly as he had disposed of mine. I stood before him naked and unashamed, and he growled as he pulled and lifted me to him. 

The moment came suddenly, the door still hanging open as we desperately attacked each other. His need spurred me on, and I responded with my own hunger, wrapping my legs around his waist as he mauled my breast with his free hand, pinching the nipple, making me squirm with increasing desire. I clutched his back, one hand at the back of his neck as he entered me, his cock burning with its own heat, lighting my whole body on fire. He held me by the waist and the back of the neck as he thrust into me. 

We never made it past the doorway. He kicked the door shut and braced my back against it as he pounded into my body, trying to burn out the fear which had overtaken his life and drove his sudden, intense desire. I knew that I would be sore later, but I felt fully alive; my body trembled as his crushing thrusts drove him into me. The friction of our bodies coming together in unchecked lust pushed me over the edge, the high cliff of ecstatic release. I cried out as I came, my spasming body pulling him with me into the vortex of orgasm. He held me to his chest as his seed flooded me. As the moment passed, he rocked me gently in his arms. I was still impaled on his softening cock as I laid my head on his shoulder. I felt his tears on my back as he whispered his torment. "What will we do? Oh Erica, what will we do now?"

#

I arrived at the given address, a restored Victorian on expensive Nob Hill, at seven o'clock. The tall, elegant, gently silvered man who opened the door smiled warmly. "Lady Erica. It is so wonderful that you're here. Please, come in." He offered his hand. "I'm Jeremy Williams, welcome to my home." He wound my hand through his proffered arm as I entered, guiding me slowly into the great room beyond the foyer. Every surface was planed and gleaming wood; high ceilings, carefully laid floor, bookshelves and walls shone with rich warmth, illuminating rather than stifling the stunning paintings all around. As I savored the interior, trying to drink in the beauty of this palatial room, I noticed that many of the paintings were Kenneth's, and featured Lottie. Jeremy gently touched my hand with his free one, "I knew you would like it. Lottie's told me we share many loves." He did not elaborate on his ambiguous statement; instead he led me to one of the couches before the empty fireplace, releasing me with a promise to return with wine, so we could relax and become acquainted.

When he returned, he passed me a glass of Valpolicella, its rich burgundy color and smooth fullness fit the grandeur of the room. I was impressed by his uncommonly polished manners and exquisite taste. As I savored the first sip I tried to arrange my mind to ask hundreds of unanswered questions. My attention was quickly drawn, however, to a lovely young woman who silently slipped into the room with us. Her coppery skin glowed with the same warmth as everything else in the room as she offered her hand. Before either of us could speak, Jeremy volunteered: "Renee Ste. Michele, Lady Erica." I think that we all smiled in combined nervousness and greeting, but my eyes locked on hers as their emerald depths glowed. I felt a stirring from the past, a reminder of my lovely Etienne. Unaccountably embarrassed by the moment, I dropped my eyes as she took her hand from mine, gliding in close to Jeremy, on the couch across from me. She was the first to speak.

"I need your help, Lady Erica."

"Please, just Erica." I smiled my encouragement, enchanted by her youthful and easy beauty, her lilting voice, and the unvoiced promise I saw in her eyes.

"Alright." She nearly whispered. "Erica." Jeremy's eyes moved from her to me and back again, drinking us both in with the gaze of both an artist and a lover. "I have studied my whole life, practiced to perform. And now, I freeze at even the thought of an audience. I cannot play before a full room, much less a symphony hall. It seems I can only play here, it is only here that I feel safe." I looked back and forth between them, confused by this turn.

"I am not sure that I am the one to help you. I have no art, no lessons to impart. What can I bring to you that might help you with this?"

Jeremy interrupted. "But you do have art. Everyone has an art. Sometimes it takes one person's art to unlock another's. Please forgive me if I am too familiar, but Lottie has told us how you helped her, and Kenneth. Before Kenneth's death, he told us about you also, how you helped him through her illness, the surgeries and heartbreak. And how you helped them to find each other again." More echoes of memory, reminders of another time. "Please, you will hear us play. Tonight, be our guest. There's no pressure on you, no demands. We want nothing more than what I know you have. You do not have to answer right now."

They moved, standing in unison, as choreographed and graceful as dancers. Renee offered her hand to me as I rose. "I will play for you. For you, it will be alright. I am certain."

Listening to our footsteps as we made our way down the long hall, I began to understand the special appeal of this house. The high ceilings and long halls created great acoustics, echo chambers which would amplify and carry every sound. We moved together to the practice room, another opulent and cavernous space. I was finally forced to let go of Renee's hand, which I didn't realize I was still holding. We settled in and they began to play, Jeremy accompanying Renee's cello on the piano. 

After only moments of warming up and tuning to each other, they launched into Schumann's "Fantasiucke for Violoncello and Piano," a haunting piece dominated by the rich sounds of the cello. I was already captivated by the difficult favorite; seeing it brought to life by one so young made the experience somehow more unexpected. Renee's rich cello filled the room at the opening moments, as she closed her eyes and relaxed into the music. Jeremy's cascading notes were tinkling silver charms on a locked anklet, her grand, decisive notes echoing like hoofbeats on cobblestone. Her hands caressed the instrument in the lowering light, sunset descending. The cello, its shape the silhouette of a woman, vibrated under her touch. Her skilled and graceful hands produced notes which strained the capacities of even such a fine instrument. I was reminded again of Etienne, her skillful manipulations of my body, the openness and easy acceptance of her touch. The memory fit the moment perfectly, combining with the beauty of the music into a single fantasy of erotic surprise and violated expectations. I flushed with desires both remembered and new.

Abruptly, her cello became the hunted, Jeremy's piano the pursuer taking up the chase with urgency, his quick hands moving frantically over the keys, deft fingers practiced and sure like those of my long ago professor. His whole body worked over the keys, wringing music from them in the same way that Cristoforo's frenzied bursts breathed life into stone. Their music blended together, drew each other out, bounced from the walls and returned again richer, seeming to wake the walls to make the room became brighter and more alive with possibilities. The room glowed and I smelled a wisp of cedar. My senses were overwhelmed. I felt as much as heard the crescendo approaching, and it took my body with it. As Renee and Jeremy chased each other, they captured me between them in their passionate musical embrace . The climax came, and I felt the warmth spread through my body, my hips clenching, nipples erect and straining against my silk blouse. 




Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 09



Until that moment, I had been only half aware of my body's growing arousal. My interest was caught entirely in their music, their perfectly matched play was more intimate than love, more mutually passionate than sex. The astonishing power of their music made the air seem electrified. After all the years of this life, another first. The beauty of their performance woke every part of me, blending body and mind together so fully that despite remaining untouched, I felt the waves of orgasm crash over me. I lost myself in the pleasure of it, too consumed to wonder if they brought each other to this same place, to analyze it at all. The end left me panting and spent, still faintly feeling the vibrations, like a cello under phantom hands. 

#

Six weeks after Lottie's final surgery, I knew it was time to leave. She was finally returning to her former self, her beauty resurfacing from under the mask of her illness and the painful loss of her first love. She was finally ready to leave the walker behind, and to begin facing the world again. Her auburn hair carried a new streak of white, her famously chiseled features were accented by a haunting new depth in her eyes. She was then, as she remains now, breathtaking. 

When Kenneth came to me alone later that same day, neither of us could speak. I just nodded, embraced him, and gave him a tender kiss goodbye. Before I left, I sent Carlotta, Lottie now that we knew each other in such a unique way, the gift I had chosen for her weeks before. The expanded wings of the mythic bird caught the light, and I knew that I had chosen well. Usually, when I left, my contracts sent me off with a gift, a token by which to remember our time together. This time, I felt that I owed the debt, that I had gained the most from the time the three of us spent together. I gently wrapped the small silver figure in silk, placing it in a wooden box. I placed a note on the cool silk; the words were insufficient to express all that I had learned from them both, but they would have to do. "From the ashes, the phoenix always rises again. Always, Erica." Tears stained my face as I packed to leave the place I had called home for many months.

#

As they completed the piece, Jeremy stood and moved behind Renee, who was still coming down from the high of her own passionate release, the joy of her music. While she panted and clutched her bow, hands at her sides as the cello rested between her knees, he caressed her shoulders. Stroking her gently, he looked at me as he spoke. "You see, we all have our art." His eyes glimmered with desire and a clear awareness of what had transpired, the way their music had transported me. "Yours is a fine and beautiful instrument. It has simply been too long since you've played. But an artist never forgets their art. It is part of you, always." Renee continued to look dazed and spent, and I wondered if she had experienced her own orgasmic rush, if she knew all there was to know about the power of her own passionate art. I knew then that I belonged with them.

I returned to Lottie's last night feeling better than I had in months, perhaps even years. I went to sleep that night with a mind full of possibilities, daring to dream again of new loves and old. This morning, I again woke to a surprise gift from Lottie. The small wooden box felt smooth under my cool fingertips. As I opened it, I drank in the rich scent of cedar, relishing the memories it brought my body, adding to them the image of the richly glowing woods of Jeremy's home and Renee's cello. The box was lined with rose petals, delicately ripe damask petals, somehow found out of season just for me. Lottie knows so many of my secrets. Nearly buried in the petals, I found a small silver phoenix and a note scented with Lottie's vanilla musk. "From the ashes, the phoenix always rises again. Always, Lottie." 

I must prepare to leave. I will return to my lovely villa today, but not to stay. I do not relish the disappointment I will bring Suzette with the news that I am returning to San Francisco for a longer stay, but I must pack for my contract with Jeremy and Renee. I will return soon, join them for the next adventure of this strange and beautiful journey. Now that the crisis is passing, I cannot believe how easily I lost the thread of my work. I have lamented that the past is behind me, losing sight of the fact that the future remains always ahead. Tomorrow is a new day, and in that there is indeed hope that I had forgotten. I have lamented the loss of old loves and adventures, but no more. My past is a rich tapestry, one that makes me who I am. My ended love affairs are not tragedies, but beautiful memories to cherish and savor as they inform today, and the adventures still to come. 

Lottie waits for me downstairs, and I must finish this for now. But, this is only a chapter of a work in progress. Perhaps Lottie should be the first to share these pages with me. I think that perhaps now I can open myself to the knowledge that love which comes from the body also comes from the heart. Maybe this is indeed my art, the art of surrender to and mastery of the experience of loving. I know that I must return to Lottie's San Francisco, must experience the adventure she has found for me here. Lottie continues to teach me about strength, friendship, and the enduring bonds of even long-ago passion. Jeremy and Renee will teach me something new about this life, this art. Here, there is only love. And it is enough, at least for now.



Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 10



Chapter 10: The Yellow Rows of Taxis

I awoke this morning feeling uneasy. My usual daily routines did nothing to steady the sudden jangle of nerves lying just beneath my composure. The warm weather of late summer had cooled, darkening as a storm stalled over the coast from northern Africa. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was the overcast skies.

As I have been writing these past months, depression, melancholy, passion and revelation had been some of my many companions in this review of my life's journey. But today the weather was steering me, taking me from my comfortable room to a dark, panicked time I had almost forgotten.

Something was there, barking at the edge of my memory when the teapot's song called me to the kitchen. As I searched through the teas in the cabinet, I tried to put my finger on what it was that was drawing me from this relaxed sojourn away from my travels and friends. It made me wonder about my self-imposed exile I had decided upon. An exile to confirm that I was still the "me" I had started out as, so many years ago at University.

Simple and silly as I see it now, the image jumped from my mind like the flash of a camera. When I selected a teacup from the cabinet and added the steaming water to the chamomile, a roll of distant thunder echoed against the house, shaking glasses and silverware gently. I reacted by looking up at the window and seeing tiny drops of water streak against the glass blown by gusts of wind and suddenly I was at another window, dreaming.

A rolling darkness pounded at me in waves. It felt thrilling, like something alive rubbing up against me. I felt as though I was flying low, moving through a world of wet green plants that clutched at me purposely, trying to make me let go and fall. A distant green horizon beckoned out of the darkness. My breath increased to a panting, raking down my throat. My body was alive with a dark, wet sensation, jumping at me, kicking me, bruising me. I held on for dear life to the mass of warmth beneath until…a slow relaxation urged me to let go, lean back and be free. I tilted my head back in the wind, smiling.

I opened my eyes. I couldn't see. Darkness presented itself. I sucked in my breath. My hands flew to my face. Soft. I pulled at the softness. A light near me blurred and danced. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. The low drone of the engines brought me back to reality. I was still on the plane. I raised the window shade and looked out into black night. Tiny droplets of moisture trailed wet paths across plastic blown by gusts of wind. It was raining outside.

I took the sleeping mask off my eyes and the pillow from around my neck, laying them on the arm of the chair. A light, wool blanket still covered me, keeping me warm from the chill of the air conditioning. I stretched my hands over my head, tightening my legs and pointing my toes. A cleansing breath woke my mind up, clearing the last vestiges of the green darkness. 

Next to me, a man slept. His hands in his lap and his head tilted away afforded little of my usual opportunities of assessment that I received when presented with such scenarios. I had arrived early for the four o'clock departure and none of the other first-class passengers were present when I climbed the stairs to take my place. So, the sleeping man was a surprise.

Who was he? Where did he come from? Why was his light still on? This was a game I played with myself from time-to-time when I was waiting in lobbies or stations. Not much to go on. I looked him up and down, unclogging the corner of my mind where detective traits were stored. He had on bluejeans (Levis), black silk shirt (nice), shoes? No, they were off. White socks and not shoes, but cowboy boots on the floor. The wool blanket was bunched over his legs. He had dark hair, but little flecks of gray peppered his temples. The lines at the corners of his eyes testified to time spent outdoors. Forties…fifties? I looked at his physique. No real flab to speak of. Either he worked outside or spent all of his time at the gym. Interesting. 

How long had I been lying next to this man?

Quietly, I opened the chair's arm and pulled the video monitor into its upright position. I clicked it on and immediately the graphic of our flight path appeared. We were somewhere just northeast of Nova Scotia, arcing southwards towards Lake Michigan. The clock was still synchronized to our departure time. It was now 8:30, morning in Holland. Four hours had past and still eight more to go to reach Mexico City.

I wondered if Dr. L was still asleep.

For the past week, I had been staying at the house of an old benefactor of mine, Dr. Ottmar Liedermann. He had called and asked me to assist him in playing host to several visiting technology companies with which he did business throughout the year. I gladly accepted, Dr. L was always generous, letting me come-and-go as I pleased. Time with him was more like a vacation than work.

The annual technological convention, IDC, was in Amsterdam and everyone "in the business" as he said, "was coming to my town. Please help me, Erica." How could I refuse such an honest plea?

Just last night, I had taken several of his guests out on the town. We went to Die Milchebar, dancing, drinking and carousing with half-dressed natives until late in the evening. After that, we walked to the red-light district and had fun just cruising the streets, viewing the flesh for rent in the windows along the canal. Around 2:30, someone suggested getting a meal and a fresh start, so I took a taxi back to my hotel near the park. As usual, I stopped at the front desk for messages, not expecting any, but there was one. A message from my assistant Suzette to call her immediately. It was marked "urgent."

I hurried to my room and got comfortable, throwing off my sweaty clothes and donning one of the hotel's fluffy white robes. I dialed the number and waited. The phone rang four times before a very weary Suzette answered, "Allo?"

"Suzette, wake up. It's me, Erica." I heard sheets rustling and bed springs creaking.

Through the window I could see trolleys stop and pick up passengers. That was one of the many wonderful things about Amsterdam, it was moving and alive twenty-four hours a day.

"Erica?" said the whisper that was Suzette.

"Yes, you left a message for me…marked urgent. I wouldn't have phoned at this time of night, but you said to call immediately." A long pause of silence ended with a stretch and a yawn.

"Please…just a moment." The phone settling on something wooden was followed by a loud thump. I think she fell out of the bed. I heard her footsteps walk away and then return. Pages flipped as she searched for something.

"I'm sorry, Erica. I will wake up in a moment," she said apologetically.

"It's okay. Do you have the message?" I wondered what made this call so urgent. Was it a relative in trouble? A friend in need?

"Yes, yes, here it is…A Señor Alamondro called earlier today. He says that you must call him immediately." She read the words, but it took a moment for me to realize their significance.

I could feel the blood drain from my face. At last, I thought. It was for a friend.

"He says that the judge has set a date for the review, but that you must record your testimony in the presence of an officer of the court or it will not be accepted as evidence. Does this make sense to you, Erica?"

"Yes, yes…go on. Do you have the date?" I loved Suzette, but sometimes her skills as my assistant really tasked my patience.

"Yes, uhm…it's next Friday in Cabo San Lucas," she said very matter-of-factly.

Oh my God, I thought, I have to leave now. My mind raced ahead. How would I get out of the city? Would Dr. L be disappointed in me? What should I pack?

"Okay…okay…take this down." I had things to settle and take care of, too many for the time remaining.

"All right…wait, let me get a pencil," she said sleepily. "Okay, go."

I felt a tremendous sense of urgency, pulling at me. I started pacing.

"I will leave tonight from Amsterdam. I'll get a KLM flight out of here to Mexico. Call Señor Alamondro's office and tell him I will be in Cabo before this Friday."

"Yes, I will call him right away." In spite of the hour, she sounded alert, but unfortunately misfiring.

"No, no, you can't call them now, Suzette. Don't call them until this evening…around seven. Right now, it'll be too late to reach them…it's six o'clock yesterday evening there. And I need you to come to Amsterdam right away."

"What? Me? Amsterdam?" She stammered. I could almost see her stand up and pace in the flannel nightie she loved so much. Now she sounded wide awake.

"Yes, I will be taking a small overnight case with me from here. I need you to pack up my room and finish out the weekend with Dr. Liederman for me. Please make my apologies." Dr. L's week was just beginning, but he likes pretty girls like Suzette, maybe her presence would make it up to him.

"Really?" she began breathlessly, "What should I wear? I've never done any…"

"It's just hosting, Suzette," I said evenly. "You know, like a party host. Make certain the guests have a good time, but don't be the good time, okay?"

"Oh…okay. I will be there tonight." She was disappointed. I could hear it in her voice, but I had other things to worry about.

"Good, that's fine. Get here tonight and call before you arrive. I'll call you when I touch down." I was already making a checklist in my mind of all the things I had to do to get going. After hanging up, I showered quickly, dressed in some comfortable traveling clothes, packed a few essentials and called a cab.

As we drove through the city, I thought back to a couple of nights ago, troubling thoughts, which now prompted my departure. 

Across the canal from Dr. Lidermann's is the most famous home in the city, the former hiding place of Anne Frank. During a party, while I stood on the balcony looking at Herr Frank's place of business and family home, I realized they have become international monuments to the suffering people will endure to avoid tragedy. A sadness crept over me…somewhere my Enrique was enduring a similar threat, hiding from black-hearted tyranny. Tears sprang to my eyes. I couldn't help it. So much time had passed since I had received his passionate letter from Padre Arturo Ramirez. I wept, wondering where he was.

An hour later, I was on the plane, taxiing down the runway.

The man next to me shifted, drawing me out of my melancholy reverie. He folded his arms and faced me now, shifting in his reclined seat as he rolled to his right. I watched as the blanket slipped off of his lap and gathered around his feet. Now here was a sight I was more familiar with when observing men with which I am privileged to wake.

A sizeable lump curved from his groin to his near pocket, pointing towards his hip. In the man's innocent state, it looked tempting and quite promising. I wondered if he knew how to use it. I hadn't been looking for a distraction, but it was nice to find one that could take my mind away from the more serious matters.

Beneath his mask, I couldn't make out much of what he looked like, but what I could see certainly held my interest. The jaw line was well pronounced and square. Beautiful nose and cheek bones. His hair was well kept and judging by the shapes defined under the silk, he was hard where I was soft. I could feel my panties growing moist while I watched him. I closed my eyes, moved my hand beneath the blanket and gently touched myself. In my mind's eye, I could see his hand on my hip, caressing lower to my leg and drifting quietly to touch my mons. As I took a deep breath through my nose, a tingling rose up my body. When it reached my head, I shivered, jerking my head towards him.

I opened my eyes. One hand had dropped from his chest, the fingertips tucked just inside his hip pocket above his penis. Was he awake…watching me? Could he see from underneath the mask? My nipples hardened at the thought, bunching up beneath my dress. I looked down at my breasts. Even with my sweater in place, I was advertising my lust.

I closed my eyes and slowly, moved my legs further apart, rolling my hips forward. I pushed my hand lower and through my panties, began to gently brush my lips with my little finger. Heat resonated from my vulva, the hot moist air caressed my palm.

A deep sigh came from the stranger lying next to me. I slowly opened my right eye, the one away from him in the lee of my nose. I could see him from only his waist down. His fingers moved over the end of his bulge, circling very slowly, a delicious sight. Awake or asleep? I couldn't tell yet. How to test, how to test? Keeping my one eye trained on his pocket hand, I shifted in my seat, rolling my hips towards him a bit and bringing my other hand up to my breasts. His fingers stopped moving. Awake! The naughty boy…

I quietly pushed my panties to one side and teased myself. My left hand cupped beneath my breast and gently squeezed. I felt wonderful. I felt wicked. I wanted to make his fingers move again. I slid a finger into me, taking a deep breath as I did.

With a mind of its own, my left hand slid beneath my sweater and into my low-cut dress. With thumb and forefinger, it rolled my hardened nipple, sending little tingles down to my pussy. A little moan escaped my throat. Looking over my nose, I peeked at the man. His fingers weren't moving. Instead, his whole hand was deep in his pocket, clutching at his erection. 

As I continued my own ministrations, I slowly opened my remaining eye. His mouth was slightly open and the mask was pushed back off of his eyes, a steadfast blue they were, opened wide and watching my hidden hand. A little devilish smile pulled at the corner of my mouth.

"Hello," I whispered to him. He jumped, pulling his hand from the pocket. His eyes met mine and didn't miss the smile.

"Oh, I'm sorry, miss, I didn't mean…," he started, a slight drawl in his voice.

"Please keep doing what you were doing," I said softly. "I'm restless and need a distraction." I looked at his bulge. "You were my inspiration." As I sank my finger deeply inside again, my breath pushed out hotly, my eyes never leaving his. He eyes slipped down my body and back again. He smiled slowly. I winked, flirting.

He looked around the dark compartment. Someone was snoring steadily a few rows ahead of us, but no other lights were on. He reached up and turned out his. Now, we were both bathed in the soft blue glow of light from behind the curtains to the galley, where the crew rested.

I watched him carefully as his hand left its perch and moved downwards. He rubbed the palm of his hand along the bulge until he reached the crotch of his pants, then his fingers curled underneath, cupping his package. I looked at his face as he continued. His eyes were very handsome, deepset and bent low beneath dark eyebrows, watching my hidden movement. His hand was now rubbing the front of his jeans, sliding steadily along the bulge from his pocket to his balls. The muscles along his forearm flexed beneath the skin, making his fingers dance their erotic tango.

"May I see?" he whispered to me. His eyes indicated my hand beneath the blanket.

"Maybe" I teased. "But only if you join me." His eyebrows jumped in confusion. "Show me, too," I said.

His face relaxed into realization and then smiled. He carefully looked around the cabin again, then pulled the blanket up to his chest, hiding his hands. His hands moved beneath the blanket as his eyes kept stealing furtive glances in my direction. I heard the gentle pop of the first button, followed by several in succession as he opened his jeans. He raised off the seat and lowered his pants and boxers. His hands came into view again, straightening the blanket. The bulge now bowed gently beneath, pushing the wool off his lap. This was going to be fun.

Suddenly, the steady tap, tap, tap of leather shoes climbed the steps to first class. My man looked up with a look of concern on his face. His bulge thrust higher still. I smiled at him, pulled my hand out of my dress, closed my legs gently and then closed my eyes. Quickly, he grabbed a magazine and turned on the overhead light.

The stewardess was at his side. "May I get you anything?" she asked quietly.

"No, no thank you. I'm going to try and get some more shut-eye in a minute." He feigned a huge yawn, stretching out his arms.

"Are you certain? No one will be up here for over an hour after me." She didn't sound convinced.

He yawned again for good measure. "No, no…I'll be countin' sheep any minute, ma'am."

The stewardess gave up and entered the galley for a while. A couple of minutes later, she descended the staircase. I spent those minutes squeezing my thighs together while pictures of delights danced in my head.

"Now, where were we?" came the low whisper in my ear. Chills crept up my back.

My eyes half-lidded and rolled in his direction. The light was out again. I glanced at his bulge, still tenting the blanket.

I opened my legs, brushing a finger along my lips again, feeling the stickiness and lubricating warmth there. I undid the one button on my sweater and let it fall off my shoulders. My breast quivered as my hand found its position. "I was here and here," I said, relaxing into masturbation again.

"And I was here." His hand under the blanket grasped the erection and pushed it skyward.

I pressed a finger into me, then drew it out wetly, circling my clit. Electricity shot through my hips and I bit down on my lip, looking at the silhouette jumping under the blanket.

"Show me," he whispered. "Show me, please." The soft purr of his deep voice gave me goosebumps.

I pulled my hand out of my dress and watched his face. I grasped the edge of the blanket and pushed it down slowly to my thighs. The cool air of the cabin blew along my lips and I covered them, rubbing with my hand. The dress still hid everything. I gathered the silk with both hands, lifted my butt off the seat and pulled the hem to my waist. A deep tingling flashed along the flesh of my thighs. The man growled deeply at the sight of me. I opened my lips with my left hand and raising the middle finger of my right, I made a show of sinking it in…two, three times deeply, moaning as I did.

The blanket jumped. I brought my finger to my mouth, lubricating it. His eyes followed my hand.

"You're beautiful…so dang sexy. " He continued stroking himself. My eyes watched the blanket.

"Your turn. Let me see." A new cock…always a treat to see one for the first time…to wonder what pleasure lay ahead for it and me.

Again, he examined the compartment, but no one was awake. He looked back at me and my nakedness, displayed for him.

"Please, kind sir?" I begged like a little girl asking for more chocolate.

He smiled and raised the blanket, hiding us from the aisle. His cock was magnificent. Nestled in a thick patch of dark hair, it curved gently to the ruby sponge at the end, bouncing as he stroked his hand along its length. For many weeks, a more erotic sight had not met my eyes than this stranger's prick, pulsing before my gaze.

"Pretty," I told him.

"No one's ever said that before," he whispered, half-laughing at the thought.

I smiled. Sometimes you had to be in the right frame of mind to appreciate fine art.

As I watched him masturbate, I steadily increased my own rhythm, matching him stroke for stroke. I first felt my passion building deep inside my hips like a little voice nibbling at the edge of my awareness. My nipples were hard. I continually rolled and pinched my right, then my left. His hand became a blur. The head grew larger until its spongy texture turned to satin. His arm beat his side as his breath came in great gasps now. I licked my lips as I watched him. I wanted his cock. I wanted it inside me, but how…where? I moaned and plunged my fingers home again…again.




Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 10



Suddenly, a bright flash like a paparazzi camera lit the interior of the cabin, followed quickly by another. My head spun. What was it?

"Oh my God. Look!" I followed his gaze out the window.

Blackness at first, then the clouds lit up from within several times. Rain washed over the windows now and trails of it, streamed off of the wing behind us. A couple of miles away, off to our starboard side, a huge lightning storm was lighting up the night sky. Another flash and a bolt danced among several clouds for what seemed like seconds. The clouds near and far traded spears of light that would make a professional photographer grateful to be on our flight, but it scared me. Lightning always scared me.

The plane began to bounce as though we were driving along a bad road. The seatbelt light binged above us and the intercom clicked on, filling the cabin with static.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. This is the captain speaking. Sorry to bother you at this time, but I have asked the crew to come by and check everyone. As you can see, I have illuminated the seat belt sign. So, at this time, I would like everyone to take their seats and fasten your seatbelts securely. We have just crossed over the Mississippi River and we are encountering a little turbulence stemming from a front just north of us."

The captain clicked off and the familiar tap, tap, tap climbed the steps to first class again. I pulled my dress down and fumbled for my seat belt. The man next to me was already buttoning his jeans closed. He finished the last one, just as the stewardess reached our seats. The cabin lights came on and I finally found the other end of my seatbelt.

"Are you okay?" She asked, less concerned for our safety than nosey. I think she knew something was going on.

"Yes, fine…thank you. Is this turbulence going to continue?" I was worried. Flying and storms, I had read about the results too often.

"Well, I'm not sure," she began, looking towards the captain's cabin ahead of us, "but I believe the captain is trying to find out how far the storm extends towards Dallas. Perhaps we can get permission to fly above it."

She moved on to the seats in front of us, working her way through the cabin. Several other overhead lights were clicking on and at least one person was complaining out loud about being taken from their sleep. I watched the storm and gripped my seat.

A huge flash lit the interior again, but this time quickly followed by a loud rumble of thunder. The plane continued to rock and roll.

"Yeeha! That was a close one," commented my formerly stiff companion. It was not something I wanted to hear. I looked at his face. Clearly something was wrong with him. He was smiling and looked a little delirious. "This is going to be some ride, just like a rollercoaster."

I wanted to put an end to any such line of thought. "But the stewardess said…" 

"You can't believe everything they say, they're just trying to make you feel safe. Believe you me, I've ridden in these kinda storms before, comin' into DFW and they are somethin' else!" He paused for emphasis. "Air pockets are the best part. The plane just kinda falls out of the sky all of the sudden and slowly catches itself." He explained this last part complete with dramatic hand gestures.

"You know, I really don't want to hear about it. I prefer flights that simply get me there without the drama." Was he kidding? He really seemed to get off on this.

"Don't worry. Nothing bad's going to happen. I'll be sure and take care of you." He said in his best pretty-boy, let-the-man-take-over patronizing crap.

Right, I thought and pulled the blanket up around my neck. What are you going to do? Keep the plane from falling out of the sky?

The static hummed from the speakers above our heads until…

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen. I have an update from the tower at DFW. The airport is receiving a little rain at the moment, but the storm outside will not be reaching them for several hours. We are less than an hour away from our descent into Dallas-Fort Worth, so we will be having a little bit of a bouncy ride, coming in. Please do not get out of your seats unless you have to and while you are seated, please keep your seatbelts fastened. I'll return with any weather updates. Thank you."

Great, just great, I thought.

The Looney Toon next to me threw an elbow and said, "See, I told ya."

I said a quick prayer for his special place in hell and looked for the headphones. Maybe a little music could help me escape. I found the headphones in the arm of my chair, plugged them in and put them on. I fumbled with the little switch on the seat, changing channels. Quickly, I turned past The Eagles, Blink 182, Billy Ray Cyrus and found the classical channel. Ironically, Richard Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyrie" was just starting. This was not the proper mood music to calm me down. I switched the channels a few more times and located some new age music. Some tune with Japanese flutes, kotos and hand percussion was attempting to lull the world to slumber. I stayed on that channel and thought about chanting.

For the next forty-five minutes, the plane rocked, jumped, rolled and did everything but glide gently. We finally burst out of the cloud cover on our descent and saw the lights of Dallas below us. Wind still pounded the plane, several times causing me to catch my stomach. As I white-knuckled the chair around me, my seatmate punctuated the air with several "yeahs, a woo-hoo and a couple of more yeehas!" as the flight dipped and parried through the air.

By the time we touched down (with a sideways lurch, I might add) and rolled to a reasonable stop on the runway, I was drained. The rest of the people in the cabin clapped for the captain and crew, but I just tried to breathe deeply. I felt relieved to be on the ground, but emotionally I was done.

The stewardess came by and checked on us again. "Are you okay?" she asked. "You look a little pale."

I rubbed my forehead and breathed deeply again. I assured her that I was fine, but I wanted to know how soon my connecting flight left for Mexico City. I needed time if I was going to prepare myself for another ride like that one.

"I don't have any information about your flight. Sorry, but we were a little busy with everyone. If you check at the gate when we deplane, they should be able to help you." She said that with all the warmth of an arctic wind. I was sorry I asked.

She left to deliver more news to the rest of first-class. The man next to me was more composed now. As I gathered the last of my carry-on items, he turned to me and watched. I looked up at him, wondering, "What now?"

"I'm really sorry you had such a rough flight." He sounded sincere.

I attempted a smile and said, "Yeah, I don't do well in tight situations, but…thank you. It sure started out well."

He laughed. "You can say that again. Say, are you stayin' somewhere in the Metroplex area? I could give you a ride or…" Now he was trying to be my friend? Well, at least I had a good excuse.

"No, I'm not. I'm just stopping over to catch another flight to Mexico City tonight. But thank you. At least we had fun while it lasted." I leaned over and kissed his cheek. He grinned, looked down sheepishly and rubbed his chin. Men like that can be so charming sometimes, so mature and handsome on the outside, but such little boys inside.

As the plane settled at the gate and we started disembarking, I thought of something…and turned to him.

"By the way, my name is Erica," I said, extending my hand.

He smiled, taking my hand. "Sam." Funny, of all the men I had known, not another Sam.

"Nice to have met you, Sam."

"Same for me, Erica. See ya. I won't be forgettin' you any time soon." And with a nod of his head, he disappeared down the stairs and out the door.

The jetway jammed about halfway to the gate and I should have known why, but I guess I was in denial. The sound of the airport got louder and louder as I approached the entrance, until it was a deafening roar. Hundreds, no thousands of people were milling about. I saw lines of people extending out of sight down the center aisle of the terminal from each gate.

At our gate, three attendants were waiting on a huge line. The lady in blue nearest the end looked up as I approached.

"Do you have any information about the next flight to Mexico City?" I was earnest and concerned.

She looked confused by my question. "I'm sorry, Miss, but the airport is closed now. The storm outside is getting worse and we've had to cancel all flights in and out of DFW."

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I was shocked. "But for how long?"

She just shrugged her shoulders. "You'll have to check at the KLM main desk. Our computers here are out, the storm, you know." She quickly turned back to her impatient customers.

I walked out into the center aisle and looked at what was going on. Utter chaos. Lines of frustrated passengers were stretched as far as I could see. Slowly, I made my way to the end of the terminal. Three in the morning and people were everywhere. Thank God, I didn't have any luggage.

I reached the front of the terminal. Hundreds of people were gathered there. After an hour's wait, I finally rode the tram to the main terminal. More chaos! Many people were sleeping in the aisles, on chairs…the line at the KLM desk was ridiculous. A woman, who looked very rattled, taking care of first-class and business passengers, was making her way down the line. I stopped her.

"Where is the Club for first-class?" I asked wearily.

"Down the hall and to the right. Take the elevator up to three. Follow the signs. Good luck," she said and buzzed on down the line.

Good luck? I didn't like the sound of that.

I found the club just like she said, but it was no better. I waited and watched the main part of the storm blow in.

Half-past four in the morning and I was finally talking to someone who might know something. A haggard-looking woman in a black company suit furiously typed into a working computer.

"Sorry, miss, but your flight is still sitting on the ground in Mexico City. The storm will not clear for at least another eight hours, they tell us. So, the only thing I can tell you for certain is that you will not be leaving today."

"Is there another flight that I can take instead?" I tossed a leaf into the wind.

She smiled at me. This was not good.

"I'm sorry, miss. Could I assist you in finding a hotel in the area?" She looked at me then over my shoulder at the immense line behind me.

Following the "Let's be friendly" manual to the last page, she proceeded to call dozens of hotels in the area on my behalf. As it turned out, a cattle auction and computer convention had almost every room sewn up in advance and the rest were being taken by the airport refugees.

She gave me the numbers for several businesses that could line me up with a place to stay when they opened in four hours. I asked where the rental car agencies were.

The rental car offices were next to baggage downstairs and you guessed it, the madness continued. The line at Hertz seemed to be the shortest, so I started there. But by the time the line was only half-gone, they announced that they were out of cars. I tried another line with the same results.

Giving up, I followed the signs for Ground Transportation. Outside, lines of people stood at the Rent-A-Bus stop and the Taxi stop. The rain was coming down in buckets, sideways. Water stood a foot deep against the curb and washed over it every time a car or truck drove by. I looked down. Naturally, I was in open-toed pumps.

I looked up and screamed to the heavens, "What did I do to deserve this?" Behind me, a woman's laugh reached my ears. I turned and saw a big-haired brunette with a long Burberry coat, jeans and boots, sitting on a bench.

"Didn't exactly dress for the weather, did ya'll?" she asked in her twangy accent.

I smiled a polite smile. "How do we get out of here?" I asked, yelling over all the noise.

"I don't exactly know. I stood over there for about twenty minutes and I ain't seen no one leavin'. Normally, they's rows of them yella taxis right here, but I ain't seen a one for a while now." Resigned to the fate the weather brings, she showed signs of wisdom.

I joined her on the bench, deciding to wait and see if Providence would wake up any time soon and watch over me.

For the next ten minutes, little traffic drove by, just the occasional car leaving with its passengers, but no taxis or busses.

Suddenly, far to my left near a parking structure over four lanes of asphalt, I saw them. Three yellow taxis were stopped, letting passengers out. I didn't say anything. I jumped up, pulling my carry-on along behind me and ran into the rain. I splashed my way through two sets of rivers along the curbs and reached the third when a semi and bus drove by in front of me. I stopped, almost toppling off my heels into the street. The semi roared by, but the bus splashed through the curb. A wave eight feet high washed over my head. I was drenched. So much for my brushed silk Versace. I started to yell at the bus as it sped away, but quickly noticed my big-haired friend running across the street in front of me.

I took off after her. Two taxis were left across the next asphalt lane. I caught up with her halfway across the road, when my left foot went out from under me. I fell face first into the street in about six inches of water. I was more surprised than hurt. I pushed up out of the water and looked. One taxi drove off and Big Hair got in the last one. I tried to get up, but my left pump's heel was broken. As I searched to find it, I saw my purse floating away. I took two quick steps after it, but it rolled into a whirlpool and was sucked out of sight into a culvert.

"Oh no." I looked up and watched Big Hair ride away with the last taxi.

"God damn it, you bitch!" I yelled after her, then screamed at the laughing gods above. I was furious. How could she keep the last taxi all to herself? I looked back and saw my carry-on lying in the middle of the street. I hobbled back and bent to pick it up. Just then, two bright headlights swung out of the dark driveway exiting the parking structure and hurtled right towards me. I tried to run, but just fell again. I grabbed my head as I heard the sickening skid of tires on wet pavement. They stopped.

A door flew open and a pair of boots tromped through the water. Two strong hands picked me up. It was he.

"Well, damn sister, what happened to you?" said Sam, smiling down at me, "You're soaked through."

I hate this when others do it, but I started to cry. Big heaping sobs just burst out of me. Sam wrapped his arms around me right there in the rain and held me.

"Oh, sugar. It's okay. It's okay," he said, patting me on my back.

"No, it's not!" I hated this. Hated feeling helpless. Hated feeling weak.

"C'mon…c'mon, let's get you out of here." He reached down to my legs and picked me up. I was surprised, but in no condition to argue. He carried me to his truck. It was one of those huge, extended cab pickups. All white, with a row of fog lamps across the top of the cab. He opened the door and put me in.

"I'll get it all wet," I said meekly. I wiped my eyes. Black mascara covered my fingers.

"You're fine, darlin'…it's had worse." He shut the door and ran off.

He got my carry-on, put it behind the seat and climbed in. He turned on the heat. "Now where do you want to go?"

"I don't have any place to stay yet. They told me most of the hotels are full."

He looked at me and thought for a moment. "You can stay at our place, if you want. It's not much, but it's got plenty of room. How 'bout it?" He had one hand on the wheel and one on the shift, but his eyes held mine, waiting.

"Our place?" A little worry crept into my misery.

"I work at a ranch just north of Ft. Worth, near Eagle Mountain Lake. It's real homey."

I looked up at his smiling face and outside at the hundreds waiting for a cab. "Just get me out of here."

He put the big truck in drive and headed out of the airport. 

"I was hoping that I might get to see you…" His voice was cheery…you know, "up." I wasn't . I cut him off with a look. He got it. His face was kind and full of understanding. He smiled at me quickly and went back to driving. I appreciated the silence. I needed it. If I had any thoughts about not trusting Sam, this act alone put them to rest.

As we drove through the rain in silence, I started thinking about Enrique again, wondering where he was staying tonight. Was he also out in the rain and weather like me? Or was he hiding in the basement of a church or monastery someplace, hidden by Padre Ramirez?

The good padre had been my one link to try and find out more about Enrique after I received his letter. I had managed to contact him through a good friend in Mexico City. Bernardo Sandoval was not a man to be trifled with. Through his banking connections, he had managed to carve out quite a nice little empire with his resort development company in northern Baja. He had sponsored me some years ago in Acapulco, long before the fiasco in Cabo. His wife of many years had died and he wanted companionship. We had become very close. He was a nice man, respectful to his friends, treating them like family. But as warm as he was to his friends, he was equally harsh to those he didn't like.

Through him, I sent a letter for Padre Ramirez, telling him what had happened in Cabo as I knew it. The padre had written back quickly, telling me that I needed to act, not so much for Enrique, but for myself. He was right. My own guilt was eating away at me, making me feel helpless.

Bernardo helped me with contacting a good attorney in Cabo, Señor Alamondro. I phoned him and told him of Enrique's innocence and my intentions. We settled terms and he hired a detective to quietly complete his own investigation into the facts of the case. Alamondro had sent me only one update in the months that followed and that one was simple. "Found evidence to support our case. Will contact you soon. It's looking very positive."

In the back of my mind while I completed business and visited friends, I had wondered what might happen. I wasn't expecting the message in Amsterdam.

I must have drifted in and out of sleep during the trip to Sam's ranch because before I knew it, we rolled over a cattle guard and beneath an arched sign on a dirt road. Out in the countryside, everything was dark. Only the occasional flash of lightning showed much of anything. Trees were everywhere. Sam pulled the truck up to a door with a light above it and jumped out. I sat there for a moment by myself, watching the wipers brush the water away, wondering how I was going to get to Baja.

My door opened and Sam reached in for me. "It's okay, I can walk."

"Please let me. It's really muddy out here." I nodded and he carried me inside. He put me down and turned on a light. I was in a laundry room. My carry-on was at my feet. Sam came back with a couple of towels.

"Here, you can dry yourself a little with this." He sat, taking off his dirty boots. "Why don't you leave your shoes and sweater here and I'll take you to your room?" I followed Sam into the house as the wind and rain drummed against the outside. In the dark, I couldn't make out much, but finally a light flicked on. 

"Up here," said Sam, climbing some stairs. "You can stay here tonight. It's a guestroom, and I think there's a robe in the bath. Just a sec." Sam disappeared into the dark room, eventually turning on a light. Before me was a huge bed on a pedestal, complete with drapery at its head. Arabian carpets covered a red Spanish tiled floor and an antique armoire almost covered one wall. Sam flicked on another light.

"This here's the bath. I know you must be exhausted. Do you need anything else?" Still drenched himself, he was waiting on me.




Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 10



I turned to him and smiled. "No, thanks, Sam. You've been an angel." I approached him and kissed his cheek. He waddled out of the room backwards and closed the door in a kind of "Aw shucks, ma'am" manner. It's always been a funny place, Texas. Even as strangers, some people there would give you the shirt off their backs while others will bet against each other on stealing it.

I was exhausted. I went to the bath. The floor tile continued inside and decorative tile trimmed the shower and bath. Marble countertops glistened against the huge mirrors hung above the sinks. I peeled my clothes off and started a hot shower. Afterwards, I donned a big white fluffy robe hanging on the wall. It was too big, obviously intended for someone of Sam's stature, but I rolled up the sleeves and let the bottom drag the floor. I checked my carry-on and found everything intact. My watch read a quarter of six…that would be almost one in Amsterdam now. I wondered if Suzette was there yet.

I pulled back the covers, threw off the robe and turned out the light. As I slid into the sheets, the room trembled with a parting roll of thunder. I don't even recall having my head hit the pillow. 

Voices. I heard voices far away. It was like someone was keeping a secret from me and didn't want me to hear it. The buzz of voices filled my ears and eventually, I sat up. The room was dark. I could still hear the drone of rain outside. I got out of bed and went to a window, pulling open the drape. It was daytime, but just barely. Black clouds of rain hung overhead, blotting out the sun. The wind had died down, so the sheets of rain had turned into a steady wash. Voices. I could still hear some buzz murmuring from behind the door. I stretched and realized I was naked. I donned the fluffy robe again.

I opened the door and looked out. The house was still dark, but now I could see the big room better than before. It was huge. The second floor landing overlooked a room of leather furniture, antique tables and dozens of paintings on the walls. I descended the stairs to get a closer look. On the near wall was a panel of dials and switches for lighting. I pressed one of the dials and a large painting near a corner stone fireplace lit up. It was a mostly yellow picture of three cowboys branding a calf in a corral. A Remington, I was sure of it. I hit another dial and turned it. A line of calvary crossed a plateau-ridden valley in this one. Another Remington. Again and again, I turned on the lighting and marveled at the collection revealed before me. The familiar palette knife use and thick application of oils for texture. This was the work of a collector, an incredible and valuable one at that.

"You like paintin's?" rang a voice. I spun and saw Sam standing there in dry jeans, boots and a work shirt.

I looked back to the collection, still hardly believing my eyes. "Are these yours?" 

"Well, yes and no." He looked up at the wall, taking in each one. "They're really my mama's, but she's been dead now for five years. She sure liked ol' Frederic. He's somethin' else, wasn't he?"

"This is a very impressive collection, Sam. It's beautiful." My eyes roamed the canvases before me.

"I come in here and look at them sometimes, remembering how she looked at them. I really miss her."

The little boy was peeking out of this interesting man again. "You want to see the rest of it?"

My mind reeled. "There's more?"

Sam waved for me to follow and walked through a set of double doors.

He turned on the lights, revealing a library. Books lined shelves floor-to-ceiling above several reading chairs and tables. Sam crossed to the far side of the room and switched on another light. In the center of the library, beneath a domed ceiling was a beautiful bronze sculpture of a bucking horse, ridden by a cowboy. I approached it, marveling at the craftsmanship. Lifting my hand, I looked to Sam.

"Sure, go on." He smiled and gestured like urging a child to try something new.

I ran my hand along the flanks of the horse, marveling at the texture and detail of the mane and sinew. The rider seemed to be barely holding onto his hat, let alone the violently moving animal.

"That's 'The Bronco Buster. It was Mama's favorite. But we got more of his and other artists up at the main house."

"The main house?" I was astonished.

"Yeah, it's up on the hill overlooking the lake." He was so matter-of-fact that I thought he must be joking.

"Where are we now?" If this wasn't the main residence, I wanted to get some idea of where we stood, relative to the real world.

"Oh, we call this the bunkhouse. We do all our work down here."

"We? You know, I thought I heard voices earlier. Are there others here?" I pulled my robe tighter and walked for the door. "Perhaps I should get cleaned up and change..."

"No…no, it's okay. No one else is here. It's just us. I came back early from an auction in Germany. The whole family's still there for a couple days, finalizing a deal for some Arabians."

"But what about the talking…the voices. I know I heard something."

"Oh, that was just me. I like to talk to them, when I work."

"Talk to who?"

"The horses, of course. C'mon, I'll show ya." He waved and walked out the door.

I followed him almost in a trance. My mind whirled with what had been laid out before me…a horse rancher whose mother collected fine art. A building the size of most villas I had seen, but referred to as a bunkhouse? I was in strange territory indeed. We crossed the big room and down a hallway to the kitchen.

"Are you hungry? Coffee?" He gestured at the room as we entered.

"No, not yet. I'm still all messed up from the jet lag. I have no idea what time it is." 

He stopped and turned to me with a concerned look on his face. "Are you tired still? You want to go get some more shuteye?"

"No, I'm fine, Sam. Lead on." And with that, we crossed the kitchen into another hallway.

At the end, double doors opened into a set of stables. Wood rafters, twenty feet above our heads echoed the pounding rain from the storm. Green paint covered almost everything, but the stable doors themselves. The scent of hay, oats and of course, manure attacked my senses. Along the walls, there were bridles, saddles and all manner of tack for the horses. The stables were beautiful. More beautiful than some of the apartments I had occupied during my university days.

"What kind of horses do you raise, Sam?" I asked, looking around the room.

"Oh, a lot of different kinds. I told you about the Arabians. They're the newest bunch. After our purchase, we'll have more Arabians than any other ranch in North America. But we started with quarter horses and other racing stock. We've had the most success breeding and training them."

Sam led me along the corridor. I raised the bottom of my robe to prevent it from catching in the straw on the ground. Everything was surprisingly clean. Most of the doors were closed, but some were open, the upper half-door revealing a horse or empty stall. Some of the horses were sleeping and some had their heads out of the door, waiting on Sam. He introduced us.

"Now this here's Lady. "Lady of the Lake by Morning" is her full registered name. She's been a jumping champion nine times early in her life and she's as sweet as a bug." 

Indeed, she was a beautiful animal. Her reddish hair glistened beneath the white lights of the room and her gold mane was brilliant. Sam leaned a hand into a bucket and raised it to her. She took whatever it was and he patted the side of her neck.

"What is that?" I wondered, indicating the bucket.

"Just some oats. C'mon, you try it," he said, lifting the bucket to me. I dipped my hand in. "Just bring it to her. She knows what to do," he said steadily. I don't know who he was trying to calm, the horse or me.

"She won't bite me?" My experience with live animals had been less than stellar.

"No, horses are very gentle. Besides, if she does that, she may not get any more snacks and she knows that." His grin reassured me.

Slowly, I lifted my hand to her snout. Her eyes followed me, then my hand. When the large head jumped towards me, I almost backed away, but I felt the gentle nibbling in the palm of my hand. I smiled at her. While she continued chewing the oats, I snuck a hand up the side of her face to pet her. She was warm, soft and solid beneath her sheen of hair.

"She likes getting scratched behind the ears," said Sam as he watched us. I reached up as high as I could and started scratching. Lady leaned into me, nudging me with her snout. Her nose went right into my breasts and sniffed. I backed off.

"What was that?" I held my chest, startled.

"She's just looking for more snacks," he said laughing. "Sometimes I keep 'em in my pockets."

For Sam's enlightenment, I pulled open the top of my robe, exposing my breasts to Lady. "These are not snacks, Lady." I picked up the bucket and pointed. "See? Snacks." Then, I opened my robe again. "Not snacks." Lady pulled her head back through door and snorted.

Sam laughed pretty hard, sitting on a hay bale. I crossed to him, sat in his lap and put my arms around his neck. He sobered a bit. "I never got to thank you properly for rescuing me, last night." I watched his eyes. He looked at me, then his eyes wandered down into my open robe.

"Sam," I whispered quietly. He looked up and I kissed him slowly, firmly. I pulled away and looked at him. His eyes searched mine. I leaned into him again and kissed him more wetly now, pressing my mouth against his. His arms encircled me and held me tightly. I backed away just enough to open my lips. I looked down at his mouth and began tracing it with my tongue, licking a path around it. As I licked it, it opened. My tongue slowly snaked inside. His tongue was hot and wet against mine. The rough textures mixed with the lubrication of saliva. I was breathing more rapidly now. My heart drummed against my ribs.

Near my thigh, I could feel his hardness pushing against me. I backed off the kiss, exhaling hotly and rubbing my leg against his lap. His eyes smoldered, looking hungrily at me. I took my hands from around his neck and opened my robe again. My breasts felt full. My nipples were hard, little knots, begging for attention.

"Want a snack, Sam?" I breathed at him. He put his head in my robe and rubbed his faced against my breasts. It felt strong and masculine. The little stubble of beard scratched at them. It felt delicious. His mouth found my nipples and sucked, first the left, then the right. I moaned at the jolt of sensation that leapt from my breasts to my loins. Sam's hands were on my ass now, kneading the soft flesh there. I could feel my crotch pulsing with my every heartbeat. I was wet.

I pulled away from Sam momentarily and opened the belt on my robe. Sam took in my nakedness as I straddled his lap, placing my knees on either side of his hips. "Lay back a little, Sam." He leaned back on his elbows as I placed both hands on his shoulders and the top of both feet on top of his thighs.

"This is one of my favorite positions. One, I'm sure you'll appreciate. I learned it from a jockey."

Using my legs for leverage, I placed my vulva against the lump in Sam's jeans and pushed down into it, rubbing along it. We both moaned. I looked down at his face as it watched my breasts sway. Leaning forward just a little brought my nipples to his mouth again. The sensation of his lips made my back tingle.

"See, Sam, it's just like riding. Great for the legs," I said as I rode his lap.

"Feels great, but you don't look like any jockey I ever met. You're too tall." He chuckled into my soft flesh.

"And you don't look like any stallion either, my boy," I quipped as I slid against his erection, dragging my clit across the denim. "I think I might be getting your pants a bit wet."

"What should we do about it?" His breathing was getting more labored as though he was running, instead of reclining.

I curled lower. He looked up and I kissed him lightly. I pushed myself off of him and slid down his body, doffing the robe to the hay around us. Now I was eye-level with his lap, kneeling between his legs.

I smiled. "Looks pretty crowded in there." I leaned forward and rubbed my hand along the shaft in his pants. His eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth opened so that he could breathe easier. I liked the effect I was having on him, so I stopped until he looked me in the eye, then I licked the front of his jeans, keeping eye contact. I could taste myself on the material.

"Can I unbutton my snack now?" He nodded, watching me. Remembering the way he did it on the plane, I slowly unsnapped the button at his waist, then ripped the fly open, unbuttoning the rest. I tugged at the jeans and he lifted his butt for me. Now his boxers stood with a gentle curve to them. I pulled at the boxers, revealing his magnificent cock again. I hadn't admired it from this angle previously and it is one that I relished, the testicles in their sac, each about the size of a hard-boiled egg. The shaft arcing away from me until it ended in the plum-sized crown.

I stood up on my knees, lowering my breasts until they rested on top of his balls. I crossed my arms on his belly, looking up into his eyes.

"Now what, Sam?" I teased him. "What should I do with this big, beautiful piece of man-meat? I can see that it's leaking a little at the tip. Shall I take care of that?" I licked my lips, making them shine.

Sam nodded, then flexed his shaft. It bounced lightly against my breasts.

"Eager?" I giggled.

I lifted his cock with both hands and brought it up to my mouth. Pre-cum glistened at the head and ran down one-side of the crown. I touched my tongue to it and licked lightly around the glans, cleaning off the salty cum. Then quickly, I sucked just the spongy crown clean with my lips, getting the rest. Sam jumped as though I'd shocked him with a cattle prod.

When settled, he opened his eyes. "Please don't do that again."

"What…this?" I put him into my mouth as deeply as I could. His cock felt spongy and wonderful sliding in, so hard. I took him back out quickly and made certain he was dripping with saliva. I felt his legs twitch next to me. He had fallen off of his elbows and was now lying back with his head hanging off the end of the hay bale. He moaned as I stoked him with my hands.

"You okay up there?" I loved teasing men when I'm in control. And you couldn't be in any more control than the anticipation that comes with fellating a cock.

A quick "uh-huh" told me all I needed to know. I began teasing him with my tongue as I jacked him, running it up and down the sides like a Popsicle. After I made the circuit all the way around and my saliva was dripping off his balls, I placed my tongue just under the V at the bottom of the glans, moving my tongue in and out of my mouth as quickly as I could, nibbling just under the head. Then, I plunged his cock into my mouth, tightly fisting the shaft with both hands, up and down steadily, making certain to lick the V on each pass. After a while, Sam's hips started to buck up on my downstrokes. He moaned. I stopped and looked down. His balls had begun to draw up close to his body.

"Oh, not yet, Sam. We have more to do before anyone comes." I gently reached on either side of the base of his cock and pressed downwards slowly. His balls popped back into their sac. Sam's eyes opened, concerned and his mouth formed a perfect little "O."

Letting Sam recover for a bit, I went about pulling off his boots and getting the rest of his clothes off. I am happy to report that the rest of his body was as lean and muscular as his arms and legs. When finally he was naked, I asked him if he felt ready. He pulled me into his arms, held me tight and kissed me. My breasts squashed against his hard chest and his stiff cock pressed against my tummy.

Lady was watching us. Our eyes met for a moment, then she snorted and turned back into her stall.

"She's jealous of you." I looked up at him as he watched her.

"Jealous? Why? Do you usually do this with her?"

He laughed, his stomach shaking against me. "Just the way the horses are. I'm her friend, but I'm spending all my time with you, a stranger. She wants attention."

I grabbed his cock and stroked slowly. "Something wants your attention, but it's not a horse," I whispered.

Sam chuckled, releasing me. I watched him walk down a couple of stalls and enter a door. His butt looked amazing, flaring at the bottom, but solid like leather-covered sculpture. I rolled my nipples, watching it. He returned with some blankets and laid them down on the hay. Kissing me quick, he sat down on the blankets, pulling me down with him.

"Now, I'm ready." He looked deeply into my eyes. I crouched over him, each knee at the side of his hips, my nipples lightly grazing the fur on his chest. I lowered myself to my elbows, kissing and chewing his mouth. I licked his neck, tasting the saltiness of his sweat. His voice rumbled deep in the bottom of his throat as I traced a path with my tongue down to his nipples. They stood up hard as I sucked one, then the other. I felt the pressure of his cock brush against my lips. Tingling jumped up my back, making me smile at the delightful sensation. Lowering my hips, I let his shaft slip against my wetness, my breasts flattening onto his chest. Feeling wanton, I closed my eyes and quickly slid my pussy up and down the topside of his shaft, pumping it. The motion rubbed his pubic hair against my clit, exquisite sandpaper. Maybe this was how wood felt when the craftsman applies the finishing touches.

I pressed away from him, our skin sticking in places as I did. I stood on my knees above him, his hands on my hips. Tilting my head back, I pushed my hair over my shoulders and shook it. I reached between my legs and opened my lips. With my other hand, I grabbed his cock and positioned it at my pussy. The heat of it almost made me jump. I closed my eyes and rolled my hips in little circles, getting him wet.

Opening my eyes to his gaze, I placed my hands over his and slowly lowered myself. Oh, the perfect fit. He moaned and I gasped as I felt him penetrate and push me open. I paused, allowing my pussy to accommodate his girth. Taking a cleansing breath, I pressed down again. I loved the feel of his hard shaft pushing into me, gliding along the edge. Tingles of delight danced up my body and into my brain. I felt the hairs on his thighs tickle my bottom, signaling me to let go with my thighs and sink onto him. A moan escaped my lips as I threw my head back. I had all of him now, his cock pressed against my cervix. I loved this feeling, filled up with cock. A little tremor wavered through my hips and shoulders.

"A little one," I gasped. "Now for a big one."

I leaned forward, placing my hands on his chest and the top of my feet on top of his thighs again. I flexed my thighs and withdrew until he was just inside me. I rocked my hips forward, fucking the tip of him in and out, and then I rolled my hips down, making sure he rubbed all of me. I love fucking like this, riding a man's cock, using him for mutual pleasure. I increased the tempo, but kept the full length of the strokes. Up and down, rocking, rolling, my heart began to beat harder. Blood pumped through my body at an alarming rate. My breathing echoed off the rafters above us. Below me, he closed his eyes. His breath was ragged. His hands clutched at my ass, helping me buck along his cock.

I could feel sweat trickling down my sides and between my breasts. It dripped on his chest. He opened his eyes and raised his knees. I could feel the muscular thighs, hard against my bottom. He held me and started pumping quickly, too quick. The fullness pressing into me took my breath away. I gulped for air, trying to stay in control, but it was too late. The tingling in my loins became a whirling sensation. I could feel it gathering pressure. I pressed down to hold it in place, but it grew anyway. Into my chest it rose, my nipples ached as it passed. I gripped his shoulders, my fingers digging into the muscle there. His head tilted forward, his mouth blowing hot air against my chest. Then with a final surge, the pressure shot through the tops of my shoulders and into my brain, exploding. I screamed out loud, grinding my hips against his. I pushed down as hard as I could, feeling the pulsing of his cock erupt inside of me, jerking and jerking. Then, my body convulsed. Tremors over took me. My arms felt week as I sagged forward, crashing into his arms. He held me tightly as he slid into me, slowly, gently…




Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 10



As I lay there, getting my rhythm back, my breathing slowing into lungfulls again, I remembered another time just like this. The sound of rain gave way to the sound of waves. The coolness of the day, gave way to the heat of the night. On the rocks in Baja Sur, Enrique, my young inexperienced lover had made love to me like this…hot, passionate, like an animal. Tears came to my eyes and I started to cry. Sam caressed my back and kissed my hair. A blanket folded over us for warmth and I wallowed in my memory. We lay like that for some time, I, in the nook of his shoulder and he, with his arms around me, keeping me safe. After a while, I felt him rise and leave. I snuggled in the blanket peacefully.

The rain outside lightly drummed against the roof. It was lighter outside; perhaps the storm was finally leaving. Lady came to her door and looked down at me. Her huge nostrils working away, sniffing at the "bug in a rug" at her feet. I chuckled at her. She snorted and left.

Clomp, clomp, clomp…something big was headed my way. I rolled to my side to see, but nothing could prepare me for what I saw. I grabbed the blanket and stood, pulling it tightly around me. Sam rode towards me on a huge horse, the largest I've ever seen. He was swinging a rope over his head, wearing some kind of big wooly leggings and nothing else. Even in the saddle, he looked very silly. I laughed.

"What are you doing?" My eyes bugged out as I tried to take this in.

"Erica…meet Big Boy," he said by way of introduction, "Big Boy…meet Erica." Big Boy gave me the once over and shook his head.

"He likes you. That's good, he doesn't like everybody." Sam stood in the stirrups and brushed Big Boy's neck.

"He's beautiful, but the biggest damn horse, I've ever seen." I stepped left, then right, trying to get a good look.

"Eighteen hands at the shoulder. His father was big, too…jumped in the Olympics when he was just three years old. Big Boy's gonna be quite a jumper some day, but he's just not mature enough yet. We've had him in some local competitions to wet his whistle, but he has a lot to learn about nerves and crowds," he said, patting the giant behind the ears. 

Sam threw the rope over me and pulled it, tightening it around my shoulders. He jumped down and walked over to me, his cock bobbing between the fur of the leggings. He looked fairly ridiculous; I couldn't help but giggle.

"What are those things?" 

"These? Chaps." He modeled, turning around for me. "You use 'em when ridin' to keep the cactus-thorns and sticker-burrs off ya. These wooly ones are mostly for show, but come in handy when it gets cold in the winter time." The leggings came right up to his butt in the back, but both cheeks were exposed above the leather. In the front, straps came up to a belt over his hips, but his cock and balls hung freely.

"Well, cowboy, that's quite an outfit you got," I said in my best Texan accent. He kissed me, pushing the blanket aside. He kissed my mouth, then my neck, then my breasts. I lolled back, closing my eyes, enjoying the sensation.

"I wore these for you, Erica. Earlier, you seemed very sad." He held me to him. "I wanted to make you laugh. I like it when you laugh."

I looked in his eyes. The sincerity of his face made little tears swell at the bottom of mine. I brushed them away quickly and rested my head on his chest.

"Thank you, Sam. You're a very sweet, caring man." We stood there like that for a few moments. I listened to the steady beating of his heart and smelled the richness of his scent and the stables around us. He backed away and took my hand, leading me towards Big Boy.

"He's a Red Rhone. They are very gentle-natured, but powerful horses. In ancient times, they were a hard-working breed, hauling wagons, pulling stumps and grinding wheat. But Big Boy, here is gentle as a lamb. Go on…pet him. Here, let me you get a stool." Sam got a little wooden ladder and opened it for me. "Go on, now."

I tiptoed up the ladder next to Big Boy. He stood still as I did. On the second rung, I was even with his nose. I stroked my hand down his neck, then raised it up to his nose. Big Boy looked out from under his lock of hair at me. I felt as though I was looking in the eyes of an old friend. As I rubbed his nose, he pressed his face close to me. I smiled as this gentle giant let me kiss him and hold him close.

"See? I told you. He's just a big puppy. Want to go for a ride?"

I looked at Sam, then back to Big Boy. I could've sworn the horse smiled back. I bit my lip, thinking. "Sam, I've had some trouble with horses…uhm, in my past. I'm not sure that this is such a good…"

"You know, Erica. Horses are like people. They're all different. That horse that gave you trouble…well, that was a different horse." I listened, watching him, trying to decide. I looked at Big Boy again.

"Okay, let's try it." I wasn't certain.

"Great! Here let me go first." Sam climbed up into the saddle. Then, he scooted back in the saddle, leaving room for me. He reached down. "Put your foot in the stirrup…yeah, right there and come on up."

I dropped the blanket and stooped to retrieve it. "Leave it. I like you better like that anyway," teased Sam. I took his hand and he hauled me up, throwing my right leg over. The stirrups were a little low for me; I could just reach them with my tiptoes on top of Sam's feet. As I settled on the front of the saddle, Sam pressed up against me from behind, my legs resting on top of his furry-covered ones. He reached around me and grabbed the reins.

"You lean forward and take a handful of his mane. It's okay, it won't hurt him." As I did, I could feel Sam's cock moving against my vulva. I was fully exposed to him. Interesting possibilities, this riding stuff.

"Are you ready?" Now or never, I thought. I nodded. Sam made a little clicking sound with his mouth and Big Boy started forward. With every step I rocked and bounced against the little swell in the saddle, leading up to the pommel in front of me. Sam turned Big Boy around and we headed down the corridor. My breasts bounced and rocked as though I was jogging. I tried to hold them into place with my upper arms, but it didn't help. We rounded a corner and the corridor opened up into a huge round room, two or three stories high. On the left, a big door opened to the outside and to front of us, another corridor of stables began.

"What is this?" I asked, looking at the cone-shaped ceiling.

"This is the exercise room. When we have cold or bad weather, we use this room to give the horses a good run. They're made to run and need to do it every day. Here, let me show you." Sam clicked again and kicked with his legs against Big Boy's sides. The steady amble became a trot. Sam guided Big Boy around the room. My breasts bounced more fiercely now.

"Wait…wait…my breasts…this hurts." I let go with one hand and tried to hold them, but it was useless.

Sam stopped Big Boy. "Here, lean forward and hold onto his neck. You'll be more comfortable."

I did as he told me. I put my right ear against Big Boy's neck and I was becoming all too aware of what the saddle was doing to my clit. I hugged the horse against my breasts, feeling the heat radiate from him and the rush of blood under the skin. We started forward again in a walk, then when we kicked into the trot I felt very steady. As my butt rose and fell against Sam's lap, I felt his cock harden until it was sticking up between the cleft of my ass.

"This feels great, I can feel him moving…the muscles flexing beneath me."

"I can feel a lot more than that." I reached back for him with one hand and pulled Sam close to me. He held the reins low along the sides of Big Boy. I could feel his cock slide south until it was level with my pussy.

"Can we go faster?" 

"Sure." With a click-click of his tongue and another gentle kick with his feet, Big Boy's gait change from a trot to a canter running around the indoor room. On the first footfall, Sam's cock slipped inside me and began rocking in-and-out with a steady rhythm. The sudden entry took my breath away. The wind rushed over my body. The heat of the animal below us rose, making my breasts sweat against him.

"Oh, Jesus!" was all I heard out of Sam as he tried to concentrate on the reins. We ran by the open door a dozen or more times before I realized how lost I was to the experience. The saddle pushed against my clit, driving all other thoughts from my senses as Sam's cock thrust along my G-spot from behind.

"I can't hold out much longer." Sam half-yelled, half-panted into my ear.

"Can we go faster still?" This felt good, too good to stop now.

"Not indoors." Then suddenly; we were outside, running across an open field. Cool rain fell on us from above. Another kick and click and Big Boy leaned into a full gallop. We were flying through the rain. Fence posts came up from the left and then smeared into a staccato blur. My hips rose and fell with each pounding thrust of the horses' hooves into the black dirt below us. An orgasm swept through me as Sam's cock now pummeled my pussy from behind, his breath hot against my ear. My mind was oblivious to anything but the extreme pleasure being generated between my legs.

Sam yelled behind me as he came, filling me with his hot sperm and still his cock pounded. The horse galloped across the field, the green grass blurring beneath us, the rain soaking my hair until it plastered against my face and back. My breasts rubbed up and down the red fur of the hot animal beneath me, ravaging my nipples, sending little electric currents straight to what Sam's impossibly hard cock was doing to me. The sex was transcending the moment; I was having orgasm upon orgasm. My breath rasped in my throat. I thought my heart would surely burst, but I didn't want this to stop. My head tilted back into the wind as the tension built inside of me. And then, I felt a calmness grow from within…a slow relaxation urged me to let go, lean back and be free.

A big one swept through me. I screamed. I yelled. Drool ran from my mouth. The climax rocketed through my brain like shock therapy. My body convulsed several times until mild tremors ran through me and I hung limp against Big Boy. I tried to catch my breath. I had let go of his mane. Big Boy slowed to a slower gait, back to a trot then a walk. He came to a stop, breathing heavily. Then Sam yelled. He came again.

"Oh my God!" He groaned and I felt his body jump, but my pussy felt numb. I couldn't feel anything down there. It was as though I'd been beaten. I felt that familiar tingling sensation that you get when your foot goes to sleep, but little else. I felt Sam withdraw, but only as a familiar fullness goes away. I was pretty certain that I would not be able to stand. My thighs just quivered. My head spun when I opened my eyes. Wet green plants were all around us, brushing at my legs and my hands. A light from the horizon made my eyes squint. I closed them and tried to steady my breathing. Tingling darkness clutched at the edge of my awareness.

Out of the depths, my eyes eased open some time later. The plastered ceiling looked down at me. Soft pillows corralled my face. A comforter caressed my body. I rolled to my left. What time was it? What day was it? Where was Sam? I sat up and looked around the room. I was back in the guestroom upstairs. My carry-on was next to the bed where I'd left it. The fluffy robe was lying across the bed and my hair was wet. A dream? I pushed the covers off of me and sat up. Ouch! The ache from my hips told me that it wasn't a dream. I rolled to the side of the bed and placing my hands against my thighs, I stood up shakily. I walked little baby steps to the robe and put it on. Carefully, I stepped down off the pedestal around the bed and made my way to the bath. My God, I hadn't felt like this since the first time I had sex and even then I could kind of fake a real walk so that my parents wouldn't notice.

I drew a hot bath, threw in some salts and slowly…ever so slowly, sank my ass into the healing waters. Oh my, that was a relief. I lay back, letting the water run, when a knock came at the door.

"Come in."

Sam entered, carrying a small tray with a pot of hot tea, surrounded by crackers, fruit and goat cheese. I noticed he wasn't walking all that easy either as he sat down gingerly next to the tub.

"Well, Sam, that was quite the experience. Can't say I've ever thought of doing that."

He smiled, handing me a strawberry. "Me neither. And I know I won't be attempting anything that athletic anytime again soon. I'm so sore. My balls're swollen to the size of oranges."

"My ass will never be the same, but you know what they say…," I teased, "'What doesn't kill you…'"

"'…will make you stronger.'" I laughed at my partner in crime. He laughed back at me.

"I called. You're on the next KLM flight to Mexico City this evening at six." He lost his smile and poured some hot tea into a cup.

"Really? What time is it now? In fact, what day is it?" I was suddenly worried about the court deadline again.

"You've got six hours before you need to be there. You slept the sleep of death last night and I think your internal clock is beginning to adjust. It's Wednesday morning now." He looked at me with big puppy dog eyes, handing the cup to me in the tub. I put it down and kissed him, pulling his head to me gently. I kissed him thanks. I kissed him passion. I kissed him love. 

Two days with Sam I had spent at his ranch. It's amazing to me how fate steps in your path sometimes when you least expect it. Here was a man that I probably wouldn't look at twice if I passed him in the street near home. And yet, the short time I'd spent with him had created an unforgettable bond between the two of us. 

Later that day, Sam and I said our good-byes at the airport. He promised to write and even look me up the next time he was in Europe. I knew he would. Sam was nothing, if not a man of his word. The rain was gone. Big white fluffy clouds filled the horizons as the plane took off for Mexico City.

When I finally got to Cabo San Lucas, the attorney, Señor Alamondro brought me up to date. He and the detective had investigated the incident and found witnesses besides myself who were willing to give public testimony. Apparently, some of the other hotel guests and hotel workers had overheard the incident and one, a maid for that wing, had seen me being threatened and beaten. When Enrique came to my rescue, she saw everything.

I gave my testimony in court the next morning. That along with the mountain of new evidence presented persuaded the Court of Appeals to re-open the case for Enrique, provided that he could be found and attend. A date was set for the following fall. I spoke with Padre Ramirez face-to-face for the first time. He was an extremely slow and gentle man with the patience of a saint. I rambled on for an hour about Enrique and the new court date before he said anything.

"I knew that you would come, my child. I prayed that God would watch over you and guide you here for Enrique." He happily patted my hand and told me he had to get back to God's work, a real "steady Eddie" that one.

Back at the hotel, I called Dr. L's house in Amsterdam and got Suzette. Everything was going well and Dr. L understood my sudden departure to help a friend. I asked her about my schedule for the next several weeks and she said there were a few things, but that most of them could be put off. I told her that I needed time away. Time to put my life in perspective, get a real handle on where I was and where I needed to go. She promised to clear my next month. As we talked, I realized that Suzette had been a part of my life for a very long time, but we were always doing this, talking from different parts of the world to one another, never sharing life together. I made plans to get to the East Coast in the States to enjoy the late summer weather there and visit a favorite city of mine. Then I told her.

"Since I am taking time off, you will, too. Please, Suzette, say you'll join me in Boston." Well, I think at first she thought I was joking with her, but when I assured her of my sincerity, she was beside herself with questions. What clothes should I wear? What will we do? What should we see? I understand the kind of dreaming that a new voyage brings and I understand the joys of planning, but this time I encouraged her to let the trip plan itself.

"Just pack a few things in an overnight bag and we'll follow our noses. It'll be fun, okay?" She agreed and booked a flight for her to join me. She has always been my assistant and I, her employer, but now we would embark on an adventure together as equals. Who knows what might happen for the two of us?

Later that evening, as I handed my ticket to the woman at the gate in Dallas once again, I thought back over the past few days when a stranger had rescued me from this place. His bravery, his gentle manner, his taste for adventure and his kindness had touched me in ways I hadn't felt for years. The journey he and I will take together was just beginning. I was happy that he had made me hang on to one thing.

"Keep the robe," he'd told me as I'd packed. A white, fluffy cotton robe like one of those fairly inexpensive ones that you could find most anywhere, but now it held a special significance for me. I wear it on rainy mornings like this one around the house as I wait for the teapot to boil. And when I sniff closely, I can just catch a bit of oats, hay and wet grass from a horse ranch in Texas.

~~~ 
Thanks and a flick of the quill to Killermuffin, Ulyssa, and WhisperSecret for their unerring guidance and inspiration.
~~~