1 comments/ 16427 views/ 1 favorites A Hungry Traveler By: bluesnut The trip to southern California was to have been for business. A small company in Orange County was considering using him for a business development project, and they wanted a face-to-face to judge the fit. He had gotten along very well in many telephone conversations with the President, a young southern California native with a breezy and familiar mien. And he had also become telephone friendly with the receptionist and administrative assistant, Sabrine. She had a whispery, sultry voice, with a strong scent of the hippie-dippie beach babe in her manner. He would put on his best flirt vibe with her and let his deep and melodic voice do the rest. Each time they spoke, he had her laughing – hard. He sensed in her belly laugh that she had not been a stranger to celebration. The week before he was scheduled to travel, he called Sabrine to confirm his itinerary and their agenda. It was then that she informed him that she was leaving the company to begin a new job in graphic arts and would not be at the company when he visited. "Awwwwwwwwwwww, does that mean I'm not going to get to meet you, Sabrine," he asked in mock despair. "Well," she said, "it means you won't meet me here, yes. But I hope you'll let me show you around." She had a whimsical tone, like a young girl offering to let a friend play with her doll. "I'd enjoy that a lot Sabrine." "So would I. In a way, it's better, because I'd feel weird if I were working for your client." During the next week prior to her departure, they carried on an email conversation that grew in its intimacy daily. In one email, she confessed to feeling guilty: From: Sabrine Beckham [mailto:nooniegal@comcast.net] Sent: Wednesday, October 19, 2005 2:54 PM To: Alexander Parks Cc: Subject: RE: Meeting OMG this chat we're having is making me feel so naughty. I've never even met you and I feel like we're internet dating. And you're a married man! He answered: From: Alexander Parks [mailto:boogiewoogieman@hotmail.com] Sent: Wednesday, October 19, 2005 2:58 PM To: Sabrine Beecham Cc: Subject: RE: Meeting Sabrine dear, everyone needs to have someone to share with. If there is something in our communication that gives you warmth, let's just share that and think nothing more of it. Life is complicated for both of us. She told him about her past and family. Her father had been a professional football coach, she had been a biker chick, she married the surfer-bum son of a fabulously wealthy entrepreneur, and lived in an Oceanfront palace, until it all meant nothing to her and she had to leave it behind. She lived now in a tiny apartment in Fullerton, taking her young daughters every other weekend. She did graphic design in a product labeling firm owned by two Chinese brothers. She wrote poetry for personal fulfillment. He told her he did too, and she demanded that he share his first. This was a turning point, he thought, because if he sent her the one he wanted her to read, she would know how he was feeling. He struggled with this for a while, finally attached the file, moved the arrow to "send," and, pausing for one last moment, clicked. She sat by her computer, nervously jiggling her knee and tapping the desk top. Why was it that she was so anxious to read his words? "God," she thought, "I feel like a high school sophomore getting passed a note from the prom king." When the email arrival jingled, her heart skipped. She clicked and clicked as fast as she could to open the attachment. And she read this: THE THING THAT WOULDN'T LEAVE It entered me as words on a screen, silent notes of lilting music, and echoed through my body, bing-bing-bing. It picked me up, it drugged me down, I was quickly helpless against this sweet thing. And as it rattled around in there and rearranged the tenuous pieces of my work-a-day life, My soul cried for just this kind of balm to soothe the scars of My family strife. We spoke, it and I, and to my offer that it may have found a host less complex for the object of its desire, It laughed, bing-bing'ed again, and mocked, "Is that your heart I smell on fire?" By god, it was, I said, and so I warmed to think this new friend had found a home, And it may stay, get comfortable, unpack – move in – There's just one room here we must not roam. Ah, can that be done, it asked? Are you so sure you have the strength to resist my siren song? Hey, it's up to you as well as me, I said. You can stay, you do belong. And if into that room we did intrude, upset it would my meager world, But guilty would I not be to accommodate its impressive mood. Ah, but you understand. This is desire still burning From a prior life! Profound, no doubt, to me, But unimpressive to my current wife! So make yourself at home, and if my warm affection will not rest, I will build a fire wall between you and those against my breast. As she read each new line, an ache began to boil within her soul, reaching down into her womanhood, twisting her stomach in a luxurious knot, stretching up past her throat and teasing tears from the corners of her azure blue eyes. She re-read it, to make sure she didn't misunderstand. It was, yes! It was about an internet love affair! But did he write this for me? Is this about me? She re-read it again and again. And sat at her computer, wanting to ask, but afraid her question was presumptuous. Why would he tell me such a thing about him, she wondered, if it wasn't about me? From: Sabrine Beckham [mailto:nooniegal@comcast.net] Sent: Wednesday, October 19, 2005 3:45 PM To: Alexander Parks Cc: Subject: RE: Your Poem!! Alex!! OMG!! Your poem…it's….incredible! I can't believe you shared that with me!! It makes me feel so….buzzed (if you understand my meaning, lol). I have so many questions to ask you! But I'm afraid. You make me feel so good, and just with your words. I do feel like we know each other from another life. Talk to me some more, you gorgeous man! I can't wait for you to get here. He typed his answer: From: Alexander Parks [mailto:boogiewoogieman@hotmail.com] Sent: Wednesday, October 19, 2005 4:13 PM To: Sabrine Beckham Cc: Subject: RE: Your Poem!! WOW! I had a hard time sending it – I didn't know what you would think of me. Let me answer the obvious question. Yes, I wrote this about someone else, several years ago –yes, it was a relationship that grew out of email – and I was quite definitely in love with this person, although we never consummated it. It was a sort of compelling attraction of each other's souls – like we were lovers in a previous life. But it was long distance, and we talked each other down out of the clouds and are still good friends. But we can't chat any more because of the words thing. I hope this doesn't scare you Sabrine. I just wanted you to know who I was. I have to leave for an appointment and won't be back before morning. Sweet dreams, darling. Say, um…I thought you might want to look me in the eyes, so I've attached a picture. You don't have one to share wiff me, do ya? He clicked the paperclip and his folder of pictures opened. The one in the dark suit? Nah, look too old. Jeans and Tommy Bahama shirt. He thought for a moment about the one he took with his webcam, in his deserted office one Saturday morning. He opened it up, and wondered what she would think, receiving a picture of him stark naked, casual hands on hips, leaning against his desk with a mischievous smile. His scrotum tingled; he grimaced and closed the file. Tommy Bahama would have to do for now. He attached the file, re-read the email, paused again, and clicked "send." Again, she anxiously occupied her time, listening for the new mail jingle. Again her heart skipped when it arrived. When she saw that there was a picture, she could not decide what to do. Read the email first or open the picture!? She could not wait to do one or the other. She read first, wanting to save the excitement for the end. So he had had an internet lover! But he said there was no sex. But he was in love with her. But they were still friends. But the words had done it, like now! And he was gone now until tomorrow. Her heart sank a little. She wanted more of him now! But there was the picture! OMG, she thought – it isn't a dirty picture is it?!? She hoped that it might be, but not really. Her body was abuzz and she felt moist down below. She clicked on the Alex2.jpg file and watched it open. And she sat and stared into his eyes as time was suspended. Longish black hair, swept back from his forehead. Piercing green eyes framed by sharp black eyebrows; the crows' feet at their corners betraying a lifetime of laughter. A perfect French nose and beautiful mouth flashing a mischievous smile; a full, tanned face with a smooth jaw line and firm chin. The Bahama shirt, two open buttons at the top, showing a strong chest and shoulders, and – is it, yes, a tuft of hair visible at the top of the chest. She looked at the eyes again. Looking directly into hers, they were, smiling at her with the lightest squint, and for a moment, she felt he were telling her something so intimate, so private. Her hand slid down between her legs and gently pressed her clitoris, and she gasped and withdrew it, surprised that it had found its way down there seemingly without her knowledge. Her heart was racing, her fingers trembling as she clicked reply, clicked paperclip, clicked Sabrine1.jpg, typed a message and clicked "send." She sat back and stared at his picture for a while longer. Her hand slipped back to her mons and lingered there with light pressure and an occasional circling motion. Her heart stirred again, and she felt the wetness. He spent a restless evening at home, distracted by the thought that a picture of her was waiting for him. He had his usual conversation with his wife, familiar but with a distance that had continued to grow over time. There was laughter, but it was not elation. There was affection, but no intimacy. It had been so many months since they had had sex, he thought, he wouldn't be this lonely if it were different, but she just didn't have any interest. He laid awake part of the night, fantasizing of sex, but was unable to put a picture of her in his mind. In the morning, he rose earlier than normal, took an early train to the office and opened his Outlook first thing. When he saw the message and paperclip icon from her, his heart skipped. From: Sabrine Beckham [mailto:nooniegal@comcast.net] Sent: Wednesday, October 19, 2005 4:27 PM To: Alexander Parks Cc: Subject: RE: Your Picture!! Alex, you handsome man. You shouldn't have sent that picture! Now how am I going to get to sleep????? OK, so I only have this one picture, but I think it's pretty true. We're going to have so much fun! He clicked the attachment and watched it open. Filling from top to bottom, he saw her hair and eyes first. Naturally wild, wavy blonde hair. Fine, sharp eyebrows framing piercing light blue eyes. A fine aquiline nose, delicate lips. The eyes peered at him, captivated him. She was stunning, and had a serenity about her that was impossible to misconstrue. He wanted the picture to show the rest of her, but he didn't have to see to know that she was a beautiful creature. For the next two weeks, they traded email messages through every work day. They were playful, suggestive, intimate without prurience. She sent him a list of questions and demanded answers. What is your favorite movie? Book? What do you like to do by yourself? What turns you on? What turns you off? He answered them honestly, but chose to answer the turn-on question by prefacing it with "excepting matters of sex…" He demanded that she answer the same questions, and she wasn't quite as elliptical. Her answer included "being naked, going slow, lying silently in a lover's arms." If he had answered the question honestly, he might have written exactly the same thing. They talked about what they would do for the night they had together. Maybe they would go out to dinner. Maybe they would cook in her tiny kitchen. He would love to cook her dinner. Maybe, she said, he would cook for her and she would lie on her bed and watch him cook. She could watch him cook from her bed, he asked. Yes she could, it was a tiny apartment. He would love to be watched while he cooked, he said. If she watched him while he cooked, he asked, could she watch her while she slept. She would love him to watch her sleep, she said. With her picture fresh in his brain and their intimate talk, he could now evoke elaborate fantasies, and his morning showers devolved into auto-erotic exercises involving her kitchen, her bed, her tiny apartment. And three thousand miles away, she found a new excitement in her morning routine as well. After what seemed to the two of them as an eternity, his travel plans were launched, and he flew first-class, non-stop to John Wayne Airport, rented his convertible Sebring, checked into his hotel, and called her cell phone to confirm their plans. She was positively giddy when he called, and they arranged to meet at her apartment at 7:00 p.m. He laid down to rest, scanning the cable channels for something to distract him, but he was too restless. He tried to read the novel he had purchased for the flight. Nelson DeMille's The Cathedral. It was a gripping tale of international terrorism, but at that moment it did not interest him. He showered, without any erotic exercise, selected his favorite things – silk boxers, silk shirt, jeans, beat-up loafers – read some more, but could not concentrate. He dressed and drove to downtown Fullerton, a few blocks from her apartment. He walked the main streets, checking out the restaurants, the bars, the nightclubs. He thought it was good to be familiar with her neighborhood. At 6:45 p.m., he walked to her apartment building, a two-story house several blocks off the main drag, across the street from a motorcycle shop. He hit the buzzer, she buzzed him up, and he climbed the staircase. His body quivered with excitement and anticipation, and he took slow deep breaths. He found the apartment and knocked on the door. "Who is iiiiiiiiit," she sang. "The milk maaaaaaaaaan," he sang back. 'The milk man?' he though, what an idiot you are. The door opened and she said, "Did you come to fill my bottle?" and they came face-to-face finally. She was more radiant than any picture of her could have shown. Her hair, her skin. Her lithe blonde body, covered only in a white vest and black pants. Her painted toe nails in sandals. They took each others' hands, beheld each other, looking from head to toe, and he aid, "let me hug you," and they fell together into a gentle, warm embrace that felt as natural to him as any hug ever had before. They separated, he kissed her cheek. "I am so glad to finally see you," she said quietly. She showed him the apartment, the quaint living room, through to the tiny kitchen, through to the bedroom. It took all of thirty seconds. He looked at the furniture, the decorations, the artwork. She indeed was an artist, her place was warm, intimate, homey, expressive of a musical soul. "Let's get out of here," she said, "we have so much to talk about." She led him out; they walked hand in hand a few blocks to a funky little place called The Fez, sat in a dark booth in the back and drank Vodka and soda. They held hands, touched arms and legs. She told him all about her family, her life's travels, her work and her failed marriage. He told her about his own travels, and family. She asked him about his marriage. He told her about the devotion, the friendship, the unwavering commitment, the mental illness, and the utter absence of intimacy. He felt sad telling her, and she could see it. She kissed him gently on the cheek and told him not to worry. They continued to talk about everything under the sun, through another cocktail and dinner. They left The Fez and walked to a jazz club down the street. They found a quiet corner and continued talking, sharing fears and secrets. The jazz quartet played slow and sexy music, the muted trumpet coaxing them on. They listened to it seduce them as they sat close, thighs touching, arms and hands intertwined. "Tell me a secret," he said, "something your friends would be horrified to learn about you." She bit her lower lip and paused for a long time. "Promise me you'll still love me," she fooled. "Promise." "I used to be a drug addict." She stopped with that, staring intently at him. He looked at her with his smiling eyes and mocked a big, mouth-open-wide look of shock. She smiled at his reaction. "Tell me about it," he asked. She had been working with a partner creating and painting indoor wall murals in some of the greatest residences off the Pacific Coast Highway, from Newport Beach to San Juan Capistrano. Her partner was a heroin user -- not a strung out junkie like you'd see in the ghettos, she just used for the mellow buzz, she said. One day, she had an urge to try it out, since she'd tried just about everything else but that. Her friend tried to talk her out of it, but she was not convinced of the danger. One shot and she became hooked. After a short while, she had run through a substantial inheritance and was dealing for a Mexican gang to get her stash. Still living in an oceanfront mansion, she was spending her days on the streets of Santa Ana peddling dime bags and shooting up with street riff raff. One night, she blacked out driving her car and broadsided the son of a police chief. She woke up in jail and fled during a work-detail to Las Vegas, where she was hidden by her Mexican gang family for months. Eventually she realized she could not hide forever and returned to Orange County, where the prosecutor made her a deal: rat out the Mexican gang and she wouldn't go to jail for the drugs, the hit and run or the jail break. She refused the deal, knowing that she'd be killed if she cooperated, but having a loyalty to her "family" nonetheless. She served two years in jail and spent six months in a half-way house in Fullerton. She had just gotten out a month before his first phone call to her former company. As she told him this story, he looked deeply into her. Everything about her – her face, her hair, her body, her clothes, her voice, her manner, her speech, her every movement, told him she was a gentle and serene woman, trouble less and balanced. This story was so incongruous that, if she hadn't exuded so strongly the honesty she did, he wouldn't have known how to believe her. But he did. "Now that you're clean and in the 'recovery' mode, did you find anything in your past – your family or your youth – anything, that would have caused you to seek the escape of heroin?" She smiled. "All the therapists in the rehab place kept telling me 'there's always something,' and they kept prodding me and searching for some reason why I would have gotten to where I was," she said, pausing, looking at him, "but noooooo, I had no hidden pain, no demons. I just decided one day to get high on smack, and it was a big mistake," she chuckled with her sing-songy voice, and his heart skipped. "You're such a pretty woman, and you have a lovely soul," he swooned. She smiled at him and squeezed his hand gently. "And you are a beautiful man." They sipped their port. "Your turn, she said. "Tell me something horrifying about you." He thought about whether he should tell her. He was not ashamed of it, but it was one of those things that, from a detached point of view, many people would think was perverted. "You promise not to be freaked out?" he pleaded. She laughed. "Hey you're talking to a convicted heroin addict, what could freak me out!" "Well, that's true, I guess I'd have a hard time beating that…" "Go ahead, show me your inside," she reassured. A Hungry Traveler "Okay….In my office, I spend some time surfing adult chat rooms. Like, cybersex chatrooms. I find women to chat with and talk intimately with them. Some of them are there to get off, and I type stuff to help them….I'm very good at it…" He looked at her. She was searching inside him. She had a tiny smile that was hard to read. "You're good at it huh," she said. "Very," he said. "Give me a for instance, please," she said, grinning. His heart began to pound. This was it. He would start this conversation, and she would either be repulsed by him or she would drag him into the ladies room. "You sure you want to hear this?" "I'm positive." He sighed deeply and plowed ahead. "Well, if I have a good sense that the woman is intelligent and has a good imagination, I ask her if she is excited by the notion of being watched while she masturbates. If she says yes, I suggest a little game she might like." "Do you find many who say yes?" "There are a lot of women who say yes," he confessed. "Would you say yes?" "Keep going," she smiled. "I suggest to her that I can see her, right then, through her computer screen, and if she would like, I'd like to give her a body-trembling orgasm." "How intriguing!" she enthused. "Details, now." Encouraged by her enthusiasm, he explained to her that he would speak to the woman as though he could see everything she was doing, even correctly observing that she had a tee shirt and panties on (knowing from experience that most do) and, gauging that this observation would cause any woman in an aroused state to engage in some form of nervous body language such as biting her lower lip, say "do you know you bite your lower lip?" and the hook would be fully set. Then he would tell her the rules of the game – he did all the typing, she was to type nothing because both of her hands would be busy, just do what she was instructed to do; when she began to build towards her moment, she was to type "ooooooooooo" as a signal, and then "ccccccccccccccc" when she reached her heavenly reward. With the rules laid down, he would ask her to get some skin cream, talk her out of her clothes, and walk her through an exercise in auto-eroticism that left her with trembling limbs, exclaiming to him that that was incredible. He could see that her look had changed. "Does that strike you as bizarre?" "Entirely," she said. "And incredibly exciting." "Uh-oh Sabrine. Have I got you aroused?" "I'm afraid so. But it's not the first time." "When was the first time?" "When I saw your picture." "My picture!? It's just a head shot." "You're smile is gorgeous," she crooned. His heart was racing now. He'd gotten to that point, when lust has so consumed one's body that speech becomes intuitive, spontaneous, reckless. He leaned forward and whispered to her. "Sabrine," he hushed, eyes open wide, smile broadening,"I have another secret for you!" She played along, whispering back. "What is it," she hissed. "I have masturbated to you," he whispered. She did not flinch, but reflexively answered. "Oh! Me too," she said, "where?" "In the shower," he said. "Me too!!" she cried, eyes laughing, face beaming. "How was it?!" "Awesome." They clutched hands like eager children awaiting the arrival of Santa. "Sabrine, let's go home and get in the shower," he whispered. "That's a great idea," she replied eagerly. She went to the ladies room, he paid the check, and they began their walk to her apartment. They were passing through a small park, her apartment building visible at the end of the walkway. Approaching a bench, he stopped her and invited her to sit a moment. "Sabrine, you need to know…" he began, but she cut him off. "Shhhh," she said, putting her finger to his lips. "It doesn't matter what it's about….We've come together by fate, it doesn't matter what for or whether it's right or wrong. I just feel as though we've been in love for centuries, and I want to live in this moment and be consumed by it. It is what it is, just let it happen, okay?" And she smiled her smile again. Just like a California girl, he thought. "That's something like what I was going to say, but you've captured it beautifully." She pecked him on the lips and pulled him off the bench. "Come on, shower's awaitin'," she drawled Western-style, and they hurried down the walk and across the street to the door of her building. She fumbled with her keys, he scolded her to "hurry up, dammit!" and they scampered in the door and up the stairs to her apartment on the second floor, fumbling with keys again until the deadbolt clicked, the door flew open and they barged into the tiny apartment, breathing heavily and laughing like fools. As the door closed and the deadbolt was thrown, the swirl and clatter abated, and they stood in silence looking at each other and smiling. They stepped closer, and his hand went to her face, gently caressing her cheek. Her fingers tugged his shirt, pulling him yet closer, until their faces were inches apart, and they kissed, slowly, gently, lips grazing, each savoring the sense and smell of their intimacy. His fingers ran across her cheeks, down her jaw line, circling around her ears down her neck, along her shoulders, down her arms. "Undress me," she whispered. He slid his fingers to the buttons of her vest, just three of them, taking in the marvelous skin of her throat and clavicle, until they were all undone, and he slowly slid the vest open and off her shoulders. She laid her arms back and it fell to the floor. He stared at her bare breasts, her beautiful tanned tummy, fingertips of both hands meandering across her neck, her chest, down circling her breasts, giving each nipple a gently flick, down across her tummy. He looked in her face. Her eyes were open slits, looking at him dreamily, smiling. "You look like you're high," he whispered in her ear. "You're my drug," she droned huskily. He slowly dropped to his knees, full hands caressing her sides, down the outside of her legs, around back and up to her ass, burying his face in her tummy, inhaling, kissing her navel. He hooked his fingers inside the waist of her black stretch pants and pulled. They slid over her slim hips and down her thighs, and dropped to her ankles. She stepped out of them, her hands going to his face, pulling his chin to look up into her eyes. "Make me naked," she hissed. His eyes roamed from her face down her body, stunned by its flawless lines and skin, only the flimsy black thong left to hide her treasure. Like he was handling a 16th century silk tapestry, he gently took the strings of fabric in his fingertips and slid them off her hips, revealing a small patch of golden silk. He brought his face to her, burying his nose in her hair, and inhaled. He looked up again at her; she smiled and pushed him away. "My turn," she whispered. She gently prodded him backward, across the hall and through a doorway into her tiny kitchen. A mellow orange light shone from the ceiling, and he could see through the doorway into her bedroom. She pushed him against the kitchen counter. Grasped his lapels with both hands and kissed him deeply for the first time, pushing her tongue into his mouth, playing with his tongue, sucking it into her mouth, biting his lip. "GOD you make me feel good," she said, as she began to unbutton his shirt. "Yeah?" he asked. "Yeah," she uttered, from deep within her throat. She opened his shirt and ran her fingers through his mat of black hair, circling his nipples, flicking them, using her nails to gently scratch his skin. Her fingers found the gray patch between his pecs and she tugged gently. "That's incredibly sexy," she said, burying her face in it. She slid the shirt off his shoulders and it fell. She traced the lines of his muscular shoulders and biceps, squeezing them approvingly. Her fingernails traced a path across his chest, swirling lines in his belly hair, stopping at his belt buckle. He leaned back against the counter, arms at his side, watching her hands. "Want some help?" he moaned. "Move and you're a dead man," she breathed. She pulled at the belt, slipped it through the buckle, flicked his jeans button and tugged his zipper slowly down. She slipped her hands inside the waist at his hips, sliding them down, bringing the jeans with her, helped in her task by the black silk boxers. Dropping to her knees, she helped him step out of the jeans, and free of them, she ran her hands back up, from the back of his calves to his firm athlete's ass, and around to the front, tracing a fingernail along the length of his very obvious erection. "Enjoying this, are you?" she inquired, rich with irony, looking up at him, admiring his sublime smile. "Emphatically," he moaned. She looked up into his eyes with a grin of immense mischief, hooking her fingers under the waist of the boxers, pulling the front open to be free of his erection, and letting the silk fall effortlessly to the floor. She beheld him, his strong, solid manhood, his strong athletic thighs, his deep dark body hair. "Such a powerful man," she said, standing, turning, taking his hand, "and now I am going to make you weak," pulling him toward the bathroom. He did not resist. She led him through her bedroom toward what he thought would be a modest bathroom, but entering, he saw a spacious area nearly the size of the bedroom. Tiled from ceiling to floor, it held a large glassed-in shower with three shower heads – one above and one on each of two sides. Inside, there was a tile bench. The wall opposite the shower was all mirror. He looked at it, seeing the full view of the two naked bodies. "Quite a bathroom," he mused, slipping his arm around her shoulder from the back, the other around her waist, hugging the back of her to him, kissing her neck. "This is a condominium unit – the owner is a friend of mine. He is a marathon runner, he loves bathrooms. He's in Europe until next summer and he rented it to me until he returns," she said, rushing to get it out before giggling at his neck-tickling kisses. She looked at him looking at her in the mirror. "That's a nice looking picture, don't you think?" "Indeed it is darling, but shall we steam it up?" "We can try, but it doesn't steam! The shower unit is enclosed and has its own exhaust. And the glass is steam-proof." "You mean…" "Yes, we can watch ourselves in the shower," she beamed, opening the door and turning on the master valve. The jets began spewing rivers of water, hissing loudly, and she pulled him into the shower. They were enveloped in a cascade of warm wetness from head to toe, and fell into a full-body embrace. He felt her breasts pushing against him and his hardness pressing on her tummy. Her hands caressed his back and fell down to squeeze his buns. "You really are my fix," she crooned, and she put her lips to him to be kissed. And they stood in the pulsing spray, locked from lips to hips, moaning their elation to each other. She pushed him away, and pointed the heads to the side walls and shut the top head, leaving them standing in the middle of the steamy heat, out of the spray. She took a bard of soap from the tray and began to soap his chest, moving to his belly, creating a rich foam lather in his hair, and finally dropping both hands to his erection, soaping his balls and the length of his cock, giving him several gratuitous strokes and squeezes before bring her hands back up to his chest, taking his hand in hers and slapping the soap bar into it. "Show me what you got, big boy," she growled. He put the soap to her chest, turning her sideways to him, and holding her back with one arm, ran the soap from breasts to tummy and back, and down to her golden bush, rubbing the bar against her in quick strokes to create her own happy foam. He turned her around, his stabling arm now to her front, and soaped her back, slipping his stabling hand up to caress her soapy breasts and tummy as he worked. Done with his preparation work, he put the soap away and using both hands, began to massage her front and back, running his hand down across her buns and into the crevice, running his fingers deep down into it until he felt the tiny hole and pushed gently. She swooned and brought her open mouth to his, and he sucked her tongue and played with her anus as she clutched his forearm and breathed hard. She turned in his hands, now facing him, almost side to side like a loveseat, so that each had a hand fall naturally to the other's aching privates. She put a foot up on the bench, opening herself to him and placed her fingertips on the head of his cock, slipping them in circles like she was working a knob, sliding her full fingers down the length of it, all of it spilling out of her open palm as her fingers closed on his testicles and worked them. "Is this what you dream of when you think of me in the shower?" she whispered. "My imagination could not make up such a sweet thing," he whispered back, and slid his fingers through her bush to the top of her hood. "Make me cum, Alex," she hissed. Eyes locked on each other in a mutual erotic trance, their fingers went to work. His middle finger slid down across her hood, over her lips to her tiny hole, pressing and sliding back to the bottom of her slit. With a gentle wiggle, it found the slippery entrance. With two fingers, he opened her slit and slid both fingers along the inside of her wetness until they found the hard pearl and she gasped, her legs twitching. Her fingertips danced around the head of his cock, her thumb and forefinger running the ridge, closing in a ring around the shaft and jacking him in strokes until he groaned; and she would stop, massage his balls, pulling his scrotum playfully. Their entranced eyes never left each other, as their faces went from smile to wantonness to smile and back. "Watch," she whispered, and they looked through the glass wall to see the naked bodies caressing each other. He watched the mirror, saw the fine hand attached to the beautiful slender body grasping the erect penis and working it with lust and expertise. He saw the strong, dark-haired arm reach up, fingers going to the soapy breast, pinching the perfect nipple, and he heard a woman gasp and whimper. He saw the other strong arm down between the woman's legs, hand out of sight but working hard from the look of the arm movement, and he felt his two fingers deep inside the hot silky wetness of her, curling up to rub her wall against the inside of her pelvic bone; and he heard an exalted cry. "Oh God yes!" She shouted in his ear, quickening the pace of her hand-piston, "keep it up," and he withdrew the fingers, slid them up to the pearl, and applied a quickening strum. Her legs almost failed and she grasped his wrist with her free hand, moving it back and forth like his hand was her own masturbatory tool. He strummed the cherry, slid the fingers down again inside her, out again, in, circling them around the walls, curling them against her bone. They slid out again and went down to her anus, pushing the sphincter, the middle finger slipping inside. She cried out again, firming her grip on his wrist, pulling it into her, wanting to feel more of the finger. He slipped it in further, and her piston hand worked faster on his shaft. He looked at the mirror, saw the woman's hand jacking off the male's cock, and admired how pleased the man must be. Suddenly she pulled his hand out of her, brought it to her mouth, sucked on his fingers, and fixing her stare on him, hissed, "fuck me," turning the back of her body to him. He brought his arms around her body, hugging her from behind, rubbing their soapy bodies back and forth together, his turgid cock sliding across her cheeks, coming to rest neatly planted between them, his hands around her torso, massaging her breasts and playing with her nipples. She pushed her bottom against his cock, glanced over her shoulder. She bent over, hands resting on the bench, reached between her legs, grasped his cock and guided its head to her door, wiggled tenderly, and feeling his head enter her, pushed back hard, sending him deep into her. He grasped her hips and watched as her bottom pulled away from him and his cum-glistened cock slid out of her and back. He saw her looking sideways into the mirror. He turned that way. He saw the big strong dark haired body, muscular legs flexed, body hunched in that decidedly obscene carnal way; the strong arms grasping the female hips, pulling them into him. He saw the swollen cock entering and withdrawing. The woman's body bent over, her hands grasping the bench, head down, breasts swinging rhythmically with his powerful thrusts. And he heard the muffled, rhythmic "flup flup flup" of wet female bottom smacking wet male pelvis echoing through the shower, looked down and began to feel the building inside him as he saw their bodies moving so flawlessly together. He did not have to say anything. As he quickened his pace and she instinctively stayed with him, he felt her body begin to shudder and she moaned long and low. She pushed herself up, stooped now, hands on her thighs, then reaching back to grasp the hands on her hips, turning to him, a sidelong glance speaking without words. In an instant, she turned, slipping him out of her, turning back to face him, leg back up on the bench, and guiding him back inside her. Now bodies pressed firmly together, hips bumping in urgent thrusts as they climb the wall of their ecstasy together, he saw her look of unbridled lust, breathing huskily; he saw her firm breasts pressed against his chest, the soapy foam throbbing with each thrust. Her fingers gripped his buns, pulling him into her, thrusting her pelvis into him hard, the "flup flup flup" now a trebelous "smack." Her head fell back, eye slits signaling; he buried his mouth on her neck and bit, grasped her bottom with one hand and thrust into her with all of his dwindling strength, faster, faster, faster until his body exploded and he heard the woman in the mirror shriek, groan; and the body in the mirror tremble, twitch and shudder as the essence of his being spewed inside her. He felt the body he was holding do the same, its voice whimper and moan; the muscles of her body that held his cock grasping it in spasms until it calmed and her body grew limp. Her whimpers came rhythmically with her breaths, beginning loud and plaintive, slowing and quieting to melodic peeps as her breathing slowed. He lowered her to the bench, slipping from inside her, and fell to his knees, his head in her lap, hugging her waist, closing his eyes, feeling their bodies breathing together, slower, slower still until nearly sleeping; and he could hear only the water hissing against the tile and her gentle heartbeat from his ear on her tummy. It could have been a day that passed or a minute, but they stirred, stood, silently and with delirious happiness, they adjusted the jets, washed each other with gentle care, toweled each other dry, and went to her bed. They lay in each others arms on top of the bed, naked in the moon showing through the skylight, cool California air breezing in the window. Soon they faced each other, kissing gently, and caressing faces and playing with hair, shared their elation with few words. "You sir, are a magnificent lover," she peeped, unable to stifle her tears of glee. Her words went to his heart like the sweetest arrows and opened him up. Staring at her, her face became blurry as tears flowed out of him, and he wept. She wiped his tears away, repeating, "I know, I know, I know," until it was out of him and he calmed. After a long moment of silence, they rose together and went to the kitchen, naked, fixing peanut butter sandwiches and ginger ale. They said goofy things and made each other laugh. They hugged often. They turned on the television and watched a late night comedy show. They talked about Red Skelton and Milton Berle, Jackie Gleason, Rodney Dangerfield. A Hungry Traveler "I tell ya, I can't get no respect," he mimicked. "I'll give you respect," she fooled, and tackled him off the couch and onto the floor, where they made more love. They moved back to the bed, climbed under the covers, and slept in each others' arms. In the light of the dawn, they made love again, showered, admired themselves in the mirror, dressed and ate breakfast at a diner. The breakfast was quiet, because they knew the end was close and talking would just make it sad. They kept it light, making little jokes, making faces with the egg yolks, feeding each other a bite of sausage. They left and walked back to his car and they were very quiet now. They fell together and embraced hard, burying their faces into each others' necks, afraid to say a word because it would bring a torrent of tears. "I'll never forget you," he whimpered through his tight throat. "I'll always feel your soul inside me," she cried. "We're a part of each other forever," he whispered. "Yes, we are," she whispered back. They separated and he climbed into the convertible. She bent over, elbows on the door. "Sure you don't want to jump in and go to Mexico with me?" She laughed. "I have friends down there you don't want me to see," she laughed. They were silent again, knowing it was time, not knowing how to end it. "You be the happiest you can be," he said. "You too. I'll miss you terribly, but we'll be better in a while." The tightness in his throat was choking him. "Yeah, eventually," he said. "And I won't regret the broken heart for one moment." "Neither will I," she said, squeezing his arm. She bent toward him, gave him one last firm kiss, and scolded him, "now get out of here and let's begin the healin'." "Yes, ma'am," he said, and he put the car into gear, and pulling away from the curb, said "I love you." "I love you too," she said, and he drove away, wiping the tears from his face as he shifted. He drove down the coast to Laguna to meet his new client. Things went well, he got the new business, and he spent a night in Newport Beach by himself, eating alone in a fish house. He roamed the bars of the town alone, making casual conversation with friendly locals and pretty bartenders. He listened to a jazz trio. Their music was sublime, and he cried, but it was not the music that did it. He thought a lot about what it was to have a soul mate. He wondered how it was really possible that two people would be so lucky to find each other at the right time, at the right place. That if there was such a thing as a soul mate, that person was out there already somewhere in the world, and it was just luck that your paths would cross at the appropriate moment, before another obligation or promise had been made. Or maybe it was that people were lucky enough to find someone who could become their soul mate, that it was something that you grew into – that it wasn't an organic thing, but was instead dynamic. He wondered if you only had just one chance in life to seize that soul mate, or else be destined to have to make the best of an inferior relationship. He didn't know any of the answers. All he knew is that, for one brief period of his life, he had found what he thought was the missing piece of his whole, someone who surely had been a part of him for lifetimes before. Someone who he would – could – never see again. During his flight home, he ached, knowing how desperately he needed the love of his wife, and he worried that his precious new friend would be as sad as he. In the Salt Lake City airport, he resisted the urge to call her and leave a message. It was over, it had to be. He entered his bedroom after midnight. He undressed, climbed into bed. He hugged his wife as hard as he dared, but not so hard that she would feel his sadness. He whispered to her that he missed her desperately. She returned his hug lightly, but did not say anything. He rolled over, tried hard not to think of her, and fell asleep.