0 comments/ 6937 views/ 2 favorites Come Up Ch. 01 By: SNAGuy "Pick up!... Pick up!... Pick up!..." In my head my inner voice sounds like an alarm going off, insistent and urgent. Urgent is ok, desperate isn't. Desperate could lead to something bad. The phone rings four times before he picks up. "Come up," is all I say. Sometimes that is all it takes but this time I've called him late and he must have been asleep. His voice sounds rough. "Come up...No...No...You coming up?" I try to sound commanding, not desperate. I hear him groan and yawn. I imagine him swinging his legs off the bed, sitting up hunched over and rubbing his eyes. "And...just...you know...be ready." I don't wait for an answer. I hang up the phone. It's the way we do it, just hanging up. No goodbye, no politeness, just hanging up and we both know we'll be fucking in mere minutes. I unlock the door so he can walk straight in, the usual way. Already my hands are shaking. I take off my clothes and get on the bed to wait. I have to will myself to keep my fingers off my pussy. The minutes tick by, too slowly. He's seven floors below in the same building but it shouldn't take him this long. I ache from the desire, my body on edge. I'm trembling I'm so keyed up. I want to plunge my fingers inside of me but I hold off, hold off. It will be better this way. I think about calling him to get him to hurry up, but then he'd be pissed. Do I want him pissed tonight? Sometimes that is good, hard and angry. Yes. I pick up the phone again, but before I can dial I hear him come in the front door. The lights are off in here but they are on in the hall. I hear him kick off his shoes and start padding his way to the bedroom and when his silhouette is in the doorway I can see he is already throwing off his shirt. His jeans are gone in a second and he stands there naked, his shape, that physique, he's making me look, making me wait and I'm about to say something angry but he starts toward me like he's moving to the centre of the ring. I said be ready and he is ready, already hard. Quickly I work up as much spit as I can. I grab his cock before he can get onto the bed, that beautiful cock of his, a good long one, a cock that stands up with a proud curve, not one of those straight logs that just flop aimlessly when they're hard. No, his is a real prick, a prong, and I grab it and plunge it deep into my mouth. I feel his whole body shudder. He moans long and deep and his hands are at the back of my head. I start to work it, out until just the head is in my mouth, my lips soft around that perfect spot, that spot where he wants it. But not too long, not too long, I know that his pleasure is overwhelming him. I go back down as deep as I can. His hands try to make me take more but I make my teeth brush against him so he knows and I push back hard so he's all the way out. I gasp and wait. It means don't do that again. It means I'm running this, I am, not you. I go back at him, hard, deep and fast, letting him know that it's my way tonight, not his. I work him, always hard, never soft. His hand wraps up my hair in a fist but he's just hanging on now as I go on him up and down, up and down... "Fuck! Stop!...I'm gonna...You better stop," he says like he's afraid he going to come. I don't want him to come either, not this way. His voice is husky. I take his cock out of my mouth gripping him hard in my hand, settle him back down. I lie back on the bed bringing him with me, like his cock is his handle. I hold his cock and pull it toward my pussy so he won't fuck around in the dark looking for it and right away, right away, there it is, that slick, beautiful, cruel thrust that fills me up, the force of his thrust on my body, animal, inescapable, bearing hard against me like it might hurt me. But now he's pulled almost completely out, for too long, out too long and then blessedly back in hard again, pinning me, and I can't move and I'm gasping, clawing at his hips to pull him in deeper, hard, and he's out again for a second but when he drives in again it's with his jackhammer rhythm hitting me hard, hard, hard, faster, now. "Oh my G...fuck...me...fuck me...," I hear myself say, commanding him but suddenly I can't talk anymore. I'm taking huge gulps of air, gasping and he's drilling me, hitting me like he hates me, like it's punishment, but that's how I need it tonight, how I have to have it, and he hits me over and over and I'm getting there, getting there, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop and he's a machine on me battering me hard and hard and hard and I'm getting closer, closer...and I can feel it now, can feel it now and I won't be able to stop it, can't stop it, can't...My body is taut steel, every muscle clenched, wait, wait, wait... ...and over I go. I disappear, ripped from this world and now my pussy is the whole universe, all that there is, my gasping, clenching pussy. And it lets go its vice grip and then that maddening pause before the next spasm, knowing it will come, stronger than the first, resigning my body to it, that glorious pause before the next one but now blinding lights are going off in my closed eyes and my pussy clenches again and again and I feel him hit me again and it's a chain of crashing, pulsing waves of pleasure in my pussy and it clenches again and again and my whole body is clutching at him, grabbing at him, out of control and then it's the last one, the last hard convulsion I think but then it's not because it's a trick. There's a relaxing pause, starting to let it go and then he hits me again and there is another shock in my pussy and one longer but less strong, and again, and...now his body turns to rock, his turn, and he hits me and stays in... "Don't pull out, don't pull out," because I might start again if he stays inside me, but he's going over now and can't stop himself and he pulls out and slams back in and I can feel it inside, his pulsing and he's out and he hits me again and again and now he stays in, hard, one more time hard and in a second his arms suddenly go limp and all there is our gasping our breathing and we're both coming down, coming down... He is heavy on me, dead weight, too much weight so I try to throw him off and he's going soft and now out of me and finally he rolls away and we're breathing hard, coming down and I hear him sigh once, and again and now it's just regular breathing slow now and like before it started, we're apart, two separate people but floating... After a few minutes he turns to me and kisses me, tenderly, nice. It's not how we are, but it is part of what we've done, the end of what we've done. His hand is on my face gently, holding my face while he kisses me and it's perfect, perfect until he pulls back and there's this pause and he says, "I'm gonna stay tonight." Not asking, no "okay?", he's telling me, telling me as if he gets to say how it is. "Greg, no," I say, "no...come on...we're not like that." He's going to wreck this. I was floating but now I'm not. "I know, I know...," he says and I think I hear disappointment, disappointment for all the wrong reasons. His thumb gently sweeps over my temple and he's looking at me. I want him to stop caressing me because of what he said. I move his hand away from my face but he puts it on my hip and strokes me there. "It's just I'm tired...got out of bed and dressed to come up here...don't want to do it again...okay?" he says. The words are one thing, but I don't know if he's trying again. We've been through this before. "No, Greg... you know we don't...I don't want..." I can barely see his face. I wonder if he's mad or if he's sad. Mad is okay. A feeling flashes through my head that, if that's it, if he's mad, then maybe I can let him stay, just roll over like he's not here and go to sleep. Maybe he's just being lazy. But maybe not. I'm not floating but right now I'm not sharp either. "Does that make you mad or sad," I say but even before I finish saying it I regret it. I don't care if he's sad. He doesn't answer right away. It means he has figured it out. He's not stupid, far from it. "Mad. What did you think?" he says with a deep sigh, the right answer but I still don't know if I can trust it. "See, I have to get up early," I say as if that will convince him to leave. There's another pause. At first I can't get the vibe, but then, finally, he rolls away and gets up to his feet. It's for the best but I feel bad, or do I? I'm not sure. I don't want to get out of bed either, but I guess I have to. He's looking for his clothes and getting dressed. I roll off the bed, wrap myself in the comforter and stand there waiting for him, I feel his cum sliding down my thigh. He turns and stumbles away, toward the door. He's slipping on his shoes in angry silence. I better say something, but what? I say, "Man you do me good. Thanks." It's without cheer, without encouragement, without hope. But it is a fact. I close the door after him. Come Up Ch. 02 It's complicated and yet it should be simple. All I want from him is what he just gave me. I thought that it was a two-way street. I thought we had a deal. Just fucking, nothing more. It can't ever be anything more, not for me. He's too close, too accessible, physically at least. How could I have known when I bought my condo that he lived seven floors below in the same building? We worked together for about a year after I moved east to Toronto. I joined the station as a producer. He was already there as talent, but when I met him he wasn't happy. The thing is, he had real chops as a journalist, but they didn't see it. According to him they hired him to do the real job but then they reneged and made him just read the news, be another pretty boy TV news guy. Eventually they relented, let him do a story, but only if he worked with me. I had barely two years in the business and he had almost ten. I'm supposed to keep him on the leash? So there was that tension right from the start. For about a month we worked very closely on a story about the trouble among young, male Ethiopian immigrants. The kids were getting in over their heads in the drug trade, playing with the big boys and they were getting killed. He was good to work with, better at interviewing than I am, not as good at finding the leads and angles. He and I fought about things on the story. It got loud sometimes, but it was never personal. It was always, always about getting the best out of the story. We laughed too. He accused me of being cynical and hard-bitten, and he told me so, directly, like it was his matter-of-fact observation. I found him arrogant and self-centred. With him it was always I did this, I did that, me, me, me. He looked at his reflection too much. I told him that, too, and he said that he knew that already. But there was no doubt he knew how to get the story and how to present it. You don't have to like someone to respect what they can do. We spent a lot of time together mostly on the clock but sometimes off. We'd get together, grab a meal, nothing fancy. I'd run into him in the elevator. If it was on the way down we'd talk about where we were going, what we were doing. Sometimes we'd be headed in the same direction so we'd walk together. I guess we were an eye-catching couple, except that we weren't a couple. On the sidewalk people coming toward us would check us both out, him because he is on their TV every night and me because, well, it was mostly guys checking me out. I'm used to that. One time I was headed out for a run. The elevator stopped at his floor and he got on in his running clothes. We laughed about that, but I usually ran by myself to set my own pace. This time we ran together, along the lakeshore. On the path it can get crowded so one time he fell behind me to make way for on-coming runners. When there was room again he stayed behind me, longer than he needed. I didn't stop but I slowed down so he'd have to catch up. "You checking out my ass?" I asked when he'd caught up. I wasn't flirting. "Nice," he said without looking at me. He didn't like the question? Thought it was crass? He wasn't interested? Or maybe he really was looking at my as liked what he saw. It was friendly enough with him, but I wouldn't say we were that close, more like neighbours. Other than work we didn't share our life stories or anecdotes, and there wasn't ever any deep personal interest, no intimate disclosures or affection between us. It wasn't about that. And yet, it was strangely exhilarating to be with him, like being on a knife edge. He had a quick mind and was well-read, smart. I had to be on my game every second. There always was this feeling of excitement, and I had to make sure I was never putting out anything less than my very best with him. ~ One night we took a big risk on the story and went to a late-night meeting with the Ethiopian kids. It was dangerous I guess, probably not a good idea, but we got through it safe and sound, and got some good hidden camera stuff. I got the shakes but only after. Later, both of us still buzzed from the risk we had taken, we grabbed some fast food and ate it in my car. What started as a crazy, risky night got crazier. I can't explain why, can't explain where it came from or what triggered it, but it was the two of us together. The change, the flip into something unexpected happened in a flash. One moment we're replaying our night's stupidity and the next thing his pants are open and I'm trying to swallow french fries fast to make room in my mouth for his cock. We ended up in the back of my car. It was as amazing a fuck as I ever had, but it was awkward after. I remember putting myself back together in the back seat, him throwing the condom out the window, and not knowing what to say or do. We moved back up front after and I drove home in silence. I don't know what was in his mind, but it was chaos in mine. That was a huge, huge mistake, I thought, but it was if my pussy couldn't forget him, the head of his cock hitting that one spot inside, just touching it, over and over again. It had been mind-blowing, even in a car with not enough space and our clothes getting in the way. But what would we do or say tomorrow? I couldn't think. Instead I just drove and kept my mouth shut. Him too. And we're in the same fucking building, I thought. In the elevator I pushed the button for my floor and wondered what he would do. He pushed his floor. It took a lifetime to ride the elevator up before it stopped. My mind screamed admonitions but encouragements too. When the doors rolled open I didn't know how I would respond if he wanted me to come in. Get some more? Or no, bad decision? He didn't get off right away, just stood there leaning heavily against the back wall with his head down and his hands in his pockets. I wanted him to leave so that I could get up to my place, settle myself down and think. He turned his head to face me. I had to respond. Our eyes met. "Listen," he said, "Don't worry." Don't worry? Worry that he wouldn't be discreet about what had happened? Worried about tomorrow and the next day? Worried that he'd expect another time? Or worried that he wouldn't? I said nothing, but I nodded my head. He pushed himself off the wall and wearily, I thought, stepped off the elevator without looking back. I spent a sleepless night on what had happened, but in the end, I think I scraped away all the bullshit in my head and got to the hard truth of it, my truth. I just needed to figure out how I would make it go in the morning. ~ Thank God he and I got down to it early in the day, because otherwise I might have lost my nerve. We made eye contact across the newsroom, and he headed into the empty studio. I followed a minute later, ready with what I had to say. He started it before I could. "You are an incredible fuck," he said, not looking at me. No matter, that was direct enough, I thought, and despite the intensity I was feeling, I almost laughed. I was glad he didn't get soppy about it, glad that he wasn't apologizing or going over the top with gush. That would have been hard for me, like I'd have to say something nice to him. That wasn't the way we were, I thought. "You too," I said. There. We were square on that at least, I thought. What we'd said was the plain truth, but I had another truth I had to get out. I took a deep breath and started. "Listen,...," but he beat me to it again, cut me off. "It can be more," he said and stopped. I wasn't expecting it that way. His words carried all the ego, all the arrogance that I knew was his way, but I felt no anger. It was very clear, what he said. It laid it all out, everything that I had planned to get to. Last night he had told me not to worry and now I knew why. We would fuck again. It would be okay, no, it would be fantastic. I had realized through the night that that is what I wanted. If there was more like he said, I wanted it. Now I knew that he did too. "Ok," I said, "but we're not...we're not...you know." I felt embarrassed at my sudden inability to speak. "No. We're not." And with that, the deal was made. Just fucking, nothing more. Come Up Ch. 03 It was me, the one who called first, but not right away. Right away would have been so wrong. Too desperate, so intense that it might burn out and then what? For the rest of the week we had seen each other at work almost hourly. I had said nothing, neither had he. There were no meaningful looks, no signals, nothing. But every night as I went out the office door onto Bloor Street I was imagining how it would be. A scenario played in my head over and over. In my bed. Urgent, yes, and freer, fierce like before, but not dangerous like the first time in the car. I couldn't stop envisioning it in my mind, when I tried to fall asleep and again when I first awoke. It was growing into an obsession that scared me and excited me at the same time. Then, on Friday, we happened to walk out into the fresh air together. He held the door open for me. I wished he hadn't done it. It was too polite, too nice, too close. We shared a taxi to go home. "See ya," he said as he got off the elevator. "'Kay, bye," I said, but what did he mean? I lasted through that night, through Saturday and into the early evening on Sunday. I couldn't wait any longer. "Lindy," was all he said when he picked up the phone. "You said there can be more," I said. I was on edge, feeling tense. "Yes." Suddenly serious and without pause, as if it were front of mind for him. He said it just like the first time in the studio, as if it were only a fact, nothing more. He just waited. "Come up," I said, throwing down the gauntlet. He simply hung up. Feeling butterflies even before I called, an adrenalin thrill went through me like a jolt of ice water in my veins. But how do you set the scene for something like this, I wondered. This wasn't a normal situation. There were some things it couldn't be. It couldn't be romantic. We had agreed. That meant that there couldn't be any mood, no music, no soft lighting. It couldn't be seductive because neither of us needed persuasion. It couldn't even be friendly because we weren't friends. What were we, I wondered. Professionals. Colleagues. Associates. Not even a one night stand, at least I didn't think so. There wasn't a category I could think of. Waiting for him in the kitchen, the movie reel in my head rolled. We'd get right down to it. He'd come in the door and we'd start right away, both of us hungry for it, maybe on the couch, maybe in the kitchen, maybe even on the floor. But that seemed wrong somehow, too extreme, too abrupt. And yet I couldn't imagine us lingering either, sitting in my living room talking about safe things, neutral things, and then having awkward silences, waiting for the other one to signal, somehow, that it was on. Something in between the two, I thought, neither immediate nor holding off. I took two wine glasses down, and just then his knock came at the door. "It's open," I called out and he came in. He looked good, very good. He might have started as a model back in the day, but he was not smooth, not done up. He was all natural, wearing who he was, a man who had lived, a man who had survived the bad and revelled in the good, and all that radiated from him, charisma. He wore a corduroy sport coat, a neat, crisp shirt, worn blue jeans and cowboy boots. My pulse quickened. I watched as he turned away to close the door. Tall and lean, broad shoulders, narrow hips and, tonight, something in his carriage, something athletic, a swagger maybe. That didn't bother me like it would in other men. He owns that, I thought, has earned it. "Glass of wine?" I asked. "Red, if you've got it. Thanks." He came to the kitchen island and stood across from me while I opened the bottle and poured two glasses. I couldn't think of anything to say. He didn't say anything either and just stood there watching me. I tried to conceal the tremour in my hands. I leaned forward and slid the glass over to him and he reached out to take it. His eyes darted into my blouse, indulging himself in my body. It aroused me to know that. We took our first sips, wordlessly. He stared at me. The intensity was almost unbearable. Unless one of us spoke, or unless I made a move toward the living room, we would stay here. He put down his glass and leaned forward on the countertop with both arms. It looked like he was waiting, fucking with me. The first time, in the car, it had just happened. The smallest flirt, the slightest reference and that was it. It was as if an unseen hand guided his cock into my mouth, as if a switch had been flipped in each of us simultaneously. It had been so fast, fucking french fries still in my mouth even as his cock sprang out, no time to think or second guess, no time to stop. On this night it was different, not unexpected, not spontaneous. In my mind thoughts were going off like fireworks. I had called him. He had agreed. What did it mean? What if he had called me? Would that change this? There were no answers. I took another sip, staring fiercely at him over the rim of my glass. Something came to me. I knew what to do and instinctively I knew it was right, knew that immersed in this storming ocean of sexual power we would both get what we wanted with no winner and no loser. I lowered the glass but didn't set it down. He wouldn't do something to make me spill it, would he? Slowly, I started to walk around the island toward him. The wine glass was between us as I approached him. I stopped, just inside his personal space and looked up into his eyes. It was as if we both were electrified. Still my move. "Undress me...slowly," I said. My voice had quavered, but I hoped he hadn't noticed. The world was swirling and closing in on me but I knew I had done right, that I had set the perfect balance. It might have looked like submission, yes, but it was willful submission, and that changed everything. I would choose to submit. Now, if he simply took me, it would be his power answering mine because I had made it my choice, not his. I could see that it rocked him, discovering that my submission would dominate him. I felt his swagger disappear, felt that arrogant persona of his melt away leaving him with only base, animalist desire, now, the very same as me. He did undress me, just like I wanted. I stood there exposed in the bright light of the kitchen. He was still fully dressed and yet I felt powerful. I knew my naked body overpowered him and that now his lust would take over. I grabbed his face and pulled his lips to mine in total capitulation. He threw off his jacket while I moaned in his mouth and frantically worked at the buttons of his shirt. Struggling, he awkwardly kicked off his boots, too slow for both of us, and I was at the buckle and fly of his jeans, tugging, tearing them down. He kicked them off and his cock sprung out with that beautiful arc and power. We ran to the bed and I started to lay back but he caught me by the hips and roughly turned me around. I reached back to help him find my pussy and he came into me, driving, driving. I was on my hands and knees but his strength was too much for me. I tried to push back with my hands on the headboard but even that couldn't stop him. His hand went to the back of my neck and forced my face hard down into the pillow and then he really started to pound. Better, better, harder, deeper than before, so deep, and I could feel his balls brush against my clit with each thrust. So good, so good... After, I ran into the bathroom for a towel and got back into bed with him. We cleaned up and then I climbed on top and wrapped my arms and legs around him to clasp to me. But I needed to feel his weight so I pulled us over until he was on top. He kissed me hard. It was good, better than the time in the car, like he had said, it was more. Later, when I heard the door close behind him, I rolled over and fell into a deep sleep. He was in my mind again, when I woke. ~ Maybe they learn it, what they think are good manners afterward. Maybe it comes from some deep-seated, anachronistic guilt, like they think we haven't given it up willingly, as if they've wrested something precious from us that now we regret. Maybe they think it's an investment, like advancing a payment for future services, something to guarantee a return engagement. These days it can be a lousy text, and if that's it, he's a chicken shit. Sometimes it's flowers and that's a bit much. Usually it's a phone call. Sometimes it's face to face. He pulled me aside into the boardroom. "We gotta talk," he said. At least it wasn't flowers. "Bad time, Greg...I'm on deadline," I said. All that did was make him grab my arm and hurry up. He fixed me with his eyes. "Last night...you okay?" I wasn't sure what he meant. Was he asking after me, my well-being, expressing his concern for me? I hoped not. Maybe he was fishing for compliments. Maybe that ego of his was just covering up some insecurity and he needed me to boost him up. Such fucking bullshit. I calmed myself down, thinking. Maybe he was questioning our deal, giving me a way out if I wanted it. If that was it, then no harm done. At least we'd both be clear. Of course I was okay. It was just fucking, earth-moving fucking to be sure, but in the end, nothing more. It was not feelings, not a relationship. It was just fucking amazing sex, that's all. Was I okay? He was waiting for an answer. "I can't do this right now...but, yeah, It's still good," I said, broke his grip on my arm and walked away. On the way out I wondered if I'd have to prove it by calling him again. ~ How many times in the next month? I'd lost count. Six? Seven? Sometimes he called. Sometimes I did. He always came up to me. I prefer it. My turf. He came into my office. "Wanted to tell you myself," he said. Something bad. "I'm leaving." The station? Toronto? My mind filled with the scenarios, rolled them out into their many futures. I saw him disappearing, going away. No more fucking. Anger and disappointment. Despair? I saw myself flying to Vancouver on weekends, just to fuck. Better. Still not great. My pulse started to pound. "Where you going?" I asked, trying not to show. First the job title. A promotion. Director of News. Then the network. Then where. Still Toronto. I couldn't disguise it. My body relaxed. Moments passed. "So? What do you think?" he asked, exasperated by my silence. "I'm already over it," I said, laughing, mocking him. I shouldn't have done it. But I was so locked up against having feelings for him. Fucking, not feelings, I reminded myself. But that was rude and insensitive, I thought, maybe hurtful. Wait, did I care if it was hurtful? I surprised myself. Yes, but a rationalization came to my mind instantly. It's never good to be hurtful. Not to anybody. Not to him. I smiled and came around from behind the desk. "We should celebrate!" I said. They'd hear that in the outer office. A handshake, then a hug and I whispered in his ear. "Oh baby, I'm gonna fuck you so good tonight. Come up." Come Up Ch. 04 Before he changes jobs he asks me to do lunch with him. The Ethiopian Boys story is already in the can and we aren't collaborating on anything more. "Sounds like a date," I say accusingly, trying to remind him of the deal. "Not a date...just lunch," he says. "You gotta eat, right?" I figure we'll go to the pub just down the street, something quick like everyone does at lunch. As we head out the front door he turns the other way. No, a restaurant in Yorkville, an isolated, reserved table, expensive. Trouble, I think. He takes a sip of water and says, "You know, you're a great journalist..." "Thanks, you too." ...but I don't know anything else about you." What else? Personal questions now? My guard goes up. I have to get this off that track and back where it belongs. "The hell you don't...You've seen me naked!..." I laugh, "...and I swallow, not a spitter." And that's all you're going to know, I think but don't say. He laughs, but I realize I haven't yet closed things off. "Who spits at the office? Miriam? Rose? Hey, did you hear about Rose?" "Uh-huh, lucky for her, but really, I don't know anything about you," he says getting back. He won't let it go. I feel cornered and uncomfortable. He starts with questions about when I worked out west. Then it's onto school, other jobs I've had. There's one he can't know about, nobody can know about that. I try to deflect him, try to get him talking about himself instead. It should be easy. He's self-centred, egocentric. But he's also a pro, good at interviewing. He fences me in, leaves me just one way out. I can stand up and leave, storm out, piss him off. We had a deal, just fucking, nothing more, and he's breaking it. I can get angry, can leave the restaurant, but then what happens? I'll seem him every day at work. What happens to our deal, the fucking? I totter, go back and forth in my mind. I'm folding my napkin to leave. "No," he says. "Don't go." "We had a deal." I stay. I'd rather talk about something else, the work, the stories, the angles. He starts to talk about himself. I finish my meal. ~ He calls me in the morning. Even though I'm not busy I don't pick up. Staring at my phone as if his face will come on the screen, I suddenly feel confused. Why am I not picking up? Is it dread I am feeling? I don't think so, but wait. If it isn't dread, is it fear, fear of what this man is doing to me? Inside me the lid comes off. The fear swells inside of me like an ocean wave. I realize that I can't stop with him. It is my inability to control it anymore. This is too powerful, too powerful. Alone in my office panicking, I suddenly realize I am hunched over, clutching my arms around myself, gripping the phone as if to crush it. My eyes clench shut to keep back tears. Him again. A text this time. "Hard and fast, or tender and slow?" It throws me off balance even more. I don't understand it. Chaos ricochets in my head. I need to calm down. I start to count to ten and try to breathe slowly, deeply. It starts to work, but what am I going to do now? Reply to his text or ignore it? I think for a moment, calm, calm. "What is that? E-foreplay?" I text, making light of it, trying to mock him. Seconds later, he comes back. He isn't going to drop it, not this either. I think about the restaurant. "Serious. Hard and fast, or tender and slow?" We never talk about it. Come up, I say and he comes. It's never planned, never negotiated and we never say what we like. We just do it, no thinking, no considering, always selfish and intense but strangely, amazingly mutual at the same time. It's so unbelievably good. Why now, I wonder. Why like this? But I can imagine him holding his phone, calm and confident, toying with me, controlling the puppet's strings. I hate to think that he is so in control. I search my mind for an answer different from, "Fuck right off." I key it in. "If first the one, then surely the other will follow." Mockingly heavy, falsely wise, perfectly pedantic. Also stupid, I think, but I've already sent it. Seconds later he comes back with the last word. "We will put that to the test tonight." He has taken me seriously. Trouble. ~ And so tonight it is not spontaneous. It was planned, the worst thing for my fixation. Throughout the day I have struggled to be honest with myself through my anger. The truth, the frightening truth is that I can't wait. It's usually once or twice a week. We have fucked once already this week, and three times last week, definitely more than it was before. I don't know how many since he left this station for the other, or since we started. But tonight time ticks by too slowly. We'll put that to the test tonight, he had said His text comes at last. He is not coming up. He wants me to come down to his place. Moments later I am alone, riding the elevator down to his place. I find myself anticipating what is waiting for me and my pulse quickens. The bell rings softly and the elevator gently slows. Why do these doors take so long to open. I'm ready now. I want the fucking doors to be out of my way. When his apartment door opens and I first glimpse him he has me overwhelmed again. I hate that, I hate that, but I can't wait to have him. I step up to him quickly with my arms ready to clasp around him, my lips ready to crash together with his. All I want is to envelope my soft pussy around his hardness, to have him fill me up and pin me down with his cock. But he stops me, strong hands on my shoulders holding me back and away? What is this? What is this? "No. Different tonight." I am shocked, confused, but curious too, intrigued. Again my mind floods with the futures. Fetish? Bondage? Is there someone else here? But I've forgotten the message from this morning. Hard and fast? Not tonight apparently. Slow and tender. He takes my hand in his. He leads the way through his living room, into the hallway, into the bedroom and from there into the bathroom. He lets go of my hand with a small smile, but it's not a sneering smile, not a teasing or wicked smile. Not a TV smile, not simply pasted on his face. He lights candles and turns off the lights. The shower is big, built for two. Its glass is clear. The walls and floor are stone, rough, not polished. There are plants everywhere, a rainforest, dark and humid. It feels as if we're outdoors, as if anyone could be out there and see us. It arouses me. He presses the buttons on the wall to set the water running. I watch as the shower heads begin to rain, the lowest ones first, then the next, then the next. The spray is not forceful, not pressurized. It is full, like natural rain. He turns to me and loosens his tie. He is undressing himself and I take it that I am to undress too. We don't hurry. We don't touch. We don't stare. As I remove my clothing I fold each item neatly and place it on the vanity counter. He does the same, taking care of our clothes. Are we to take care of each other in the same way? When we're naked he opens the shower's tempered glass door, takes my hand and ushers me in. He follows me, closes the door and guides me by my shoulders under the hot stream. The water flows over my back and down my body. It soothes me, takes away the urgency and the anxiousness. It begins like a ceremony. He worships my body with his soapy hands. They roam everywhere, a light tracing fingertip, a full palm and sometimes a firm squeeze. He knows my body and adores it. But more than that, it is as if he knows the flow of my arousal, as if he reveals my own pleasure to me, when I crave a certain touch, where to touch, when to touch, when to move on. It is a standing massage. He smoothes over my muscles, sliding his hands through the soapy froth. He visits everywhere on my body, touching me there, kissing me there. He stands behind me and I feel his cock sliding against my lower back. His hands lift my breasts, my nipples gently tugged between his fingers until I feel the beautiful tension, tension in my pussy. He comes closer and holds me, his left arm around my chest and I melt into to him, leaning back. My head lolls against his neck and I feel his other hand move down, down toward my pussy where I want his touch, where I need his touch. But he knows better than to satisfy my need right away. His palm slides over my stomach, lower, below my navel and there it stops, as if to comfort my womb. I feel the warmth of his palm over the most feminine part of me, the centre of my sex, soothing it, rejoicing it. And then his other hand releases my chest and now it moves down, down, cupping my mound, his fingers are against my pussy lips, covering my pussy, guarding it, keeping it safe. His hand does not slide but it moves in small, slow circles, moving the skin around, gently smearing my flesh, my outer lips. It feels so good. And I know he will not make me come. I know this is simply sensual touch, only that, with no goals or ends. It is just for basking in, an ocean of pleasure as I relinquish myself, as I lose myself in it. Minutes pass and the hot water trickles over my body. ~ We're in his bed done. We're on our backs covered up, separate, staring at the ceiling. We're still coming down from it, but we're done. "That was amazing...the shower," I say still feeling what his cock has done do my pussy, warmed, wet, awash in soft pleasure. I roll toward him and take his soft cock in my hand just so I can hold it. "You're amazing," I blurt out. Shit! It is a mistake. He will take it the wrong way. I'm talking about what he just did to me. Call it his moves, his ways or techniques. They're what is amazing. It's not about him. He, the person, is not, I say to myself, protecting myself. I can't let him, him become amazing. I've alarmed myself and suddenly the whole mood is gone. It's not just me. I've shocked him too with my blunder. He's turned his head and looks into my eyes. "Thanks, you too...you're amazing too," he says earnestly, or is it needily? I have to make myself not take my hand off his cock as if in disgust. I don't know what to say. His eyes are still locked onto mine. I can't take it. "Mmmmmm...," I moan and close my eyes. Shit! He really has fucked my brains out, I think. I wanted to break the talking off, to get away from where it was headed but I realize quickly that it's another mistake, the moaning. He'll like that, I think. He'll think I like him. My eyes are closed. I feel him turn over to face me. I blink open and see that he's propped his head up on his elbow. The sex is over. He wants to talk. "I still don't know much about you," he says. This again, like in the restaurant. He wants more. My mind flashes back to our start, when more just meant more fucking. That's all I want. More fucking. I want this to go on and on. When I feel the need, I want to call him, to get him to come up, to do me, to fuck my brains out. Brains, not feelings. "You already know where I live, work, what car I drive, where I'm ticklish and what I can do to you," I say, trying again to seal it off. "Come on...you know what I mean," he responds. "What good would it do to know more?" but it's another blurt, another mistake. What if he answers the question? I jump in again to head him off. "And what about our deal? We have a deal remember? And what you said? I remember. You said it. No, we're not? I know I'm not. We're not. That's it." At least he didn't push back. I take my hand off his cock and roll away. Time to leave. Come Up Ch. 05 "Come up," I say. I wince and grip the phone hard. I almost said please. "You sure?" Minutes later we're in my shower, but it feels awkward and tense. He holds me from behind. He wants to gift me with another massage, but after the last time and the fight I can't. It would be putting myself in his hands, like I'm apologizing, so I can't. It has to be his turn tonight or maybe in a way it's my turn, but my turn to do him. "No. Not tonight," I say, "Let me." Not an apology but making up. Something relaxes inside me. I'm calmer now. I think he might be too. I reach behind me and find his cock. I grip him gently and begin to slide. A shudder goes through his body still pressed against mine. The time has come for his. I take his hands from my body and turn to face him. I come close, sliding my feet across the wet floor, easing him back with my breasts and my belly, until he is in the corner against the shower walls. I soap up my hand and softly grip the head of his cock, not moving. I look up into his eyes. "Look...right here," I say, riveting his eyes to mine, knowing that soon he will be unable to hold his gaze. I begin the tease. Slow sliding with a light grip until I'm at the root of his cock. I tighten my hand, release, slide my grip up, up, but stopping before that special place on his cock. Back down, grip, and again, and again, and the next time I go just a bit higher, not fully on the place he wants, but teasing, nearly there. Again, slightly higher, again, the same, the same and again, and at last, what he craves, my grip sliding against the underside just below the head, sliding my thumb over the spot, slowly once, twice and then my hand all the way to the tip of his cock. His eyes are straining now into mine. He is fighting to hold on. I slide my hand down and follow it with my other hand, Two hands now sliding down then starting at the tip again, one after the other, one after the other, as if he's pushing into an endless tunnel of pussy. Over and over and I can feel the head of his cock plumping. Then the other way, pulling gently with one hand followed by the other, stopping below the head. Not too much, not yet, not yet. I slide up and down with just my thumb and finger, not a full grip. His eyes glaze over, looking into my eyes but not seeing. I play with his cock, watch while he tries to regain his stare into my eyes, but when he does I take him up higher, teasing him higher, closer. He cannot do it, cannot look at me. His eyes clench shut as he throws back his head and moans. I've got him. I can sense it when he's close. I take him to the precipice and back down, then again, higher and down again. I have him there, almost there, my hand gripping him, not moving, and he is there, right there. The slightest movement, a change in the pressure is all it would take, but I hold him there, don't give it to him, not yet, not yet. "Not yet, Greg. Not yet," I say, not to deny him but to encourage him to wait, to let him know that he can go higher, can feel pleasure beyond what he believes is possible, if only he lets me take him there. I cup his balls in one hand, comforting them like he comforted my pussy. I want him to feel the warm protection of my hand. When he his pleasure retreats the smallest amount I start again, right to the edge again, a bit higher, so close. His arms shoot out to the walls as if he needs to find purchase there, as if his legs will give out, but he can't a good enough grip. His hands go on top of my shoulders he is bearing down heavily. I steady myself to carry his weight. His spine curves with the strain. He is quivering as I hold him at the edge. I slide my thumb, just my thumb on the underside of his cock where it is the best for him, once, twice and then I stop and hold him. He moans when I don't give his orgasm to him. Again with my thumb, the slightest movement, just once, and now he bursts out, like a sob, despairing for me to make him come. "Okay, Greg, now" I grip his cock and slide my hand up and down, not fast, not beating him off, but slowly and steady, so he knows that I won't stop now, knows that I want him to come for me. He sobs again and I feel his body wrack. I look up into the agony of his face and the first rope of his cum just touches my jaw and falls onto my breast. Again he pulses and there is more cum. He shoots cum three times, four and I'm cupping his balls, gripping his cock hard to feel the pulses, seven, eight, a pause and I slide my hand one more time and he pulses again and one last time and I feel his body slump its weight onto my shoulders. I let go of his cock before it gets too sensitive and we clasp each other in our arms. He trembles and gasps for air. I can feel his heart beating against my body. He slows down. He is done. ~ We dry off and I lead him to the bedroom. We are not done. But how can he, I wonder, so soon after the shower? I've tried before but he's never been good for a second one, a one-shot, he called himself and joked about being old. Older than me, eleven years, but not old. A strange feeling comes over me? Curiousity? Trust? No, not that. It is faith, faith that he will take care of me somehow. It surprises me. Should I feel worried. To have faith is to have feelings...No. The fight. I called and he came up, so it's still the deal, our deal. "Wait," he says and he begins to arrange pillows on the bed as if he is building a nest. He guides me onto the pillows, legs supported and spread wide so that the soles of my feet are touching each other. I decide to allow myself to trust him, to let myself trust him and without worry. Worry can wait, I decide. But immediately I feel confused because he takes me to school before I feel his hands on my body. He kneels beside me, hands on his thighs. He wants me to breathe a certain way and demonstrates it. I try and it feels unnatural at first, but moments later, better. He places his hands gently on my chest and above my mound. I breathe in slowly and deeply, then release my whole body, all of it and the air whooshes out of me, again and again. His hands comfort me. He begins to rock me softly, side to side in a natural rhythm. I breathe and feel relaxation flow through my body. His lower hand slides down until it is over my pussy lips. He waits there, hardly moving. I feel myself blossoming into his hand, his finger settling into my wetness, resting there. And then he starts, something strange, something different. The tip of his finger, the lightest touch, almost not there at all, traces the side of my hood. It is the smallest of movements, millimetres, always to the side. His finger joins the rhythm of my breathing, tracing down, tracing up, down and up. "The canoe," he says, "not the woman in the canoe." It feels wonderful at first. Minutes pass with this and soon my arousal overtakes his rhythm. Too slow, to slow, I need more. Down then up, down then up, the same speed. I can't stop myself. My pelvis thrusts and tilts in desire. "No," he says quietly, "Relax everything, everything inside, and let my touch come to you." I let go but clench up again immediately. I try again and relax, relax, but I clench again. It is hard at first, trying to let go, to let my pelvis not seek his finger. I try to receive the pleasure, to simply let it come to me. A calm settles over me and it is easier now. I feel the urge to clench, but I relax it away. I relax it away, relax, relax... It is a different sensation, less intense than climbing to orgasm. Over and over he traces on the same spot, never varying the light pressure, never varying from the place he caresses. It is a soothing rhythm and a soft touch, touch that I can trust, touch that I begin to feel will continue forever. And it does, down and up, down and up. And my pleasure blossoms, growing so slowly but sustaining there. I am floating high in a cloud of total pleasure. My arousal builds and builds, but slowly, slowly. I breathe in and out but differently. My intake of air is more urgent and my breath shudders as I start to release it. I am breathing so deeply, as if I am taking in the whole atmosphere, cleansing myself with the crystal clear air, as if the air has become water. Each breath refreshes my whole body, trickling everywhere, into my spine, my skull, my limbs, my pussy. I am lifted, feeling the sensations, but it is so different, so different. My pussy is my centre, at the core of my pleasure and yet, my pussy is my entire body. His touch there, always the same, down and up, over and over, is a light massage. His touch talks to me, saying that I should simply receive, simply take what comes without aim, without anticipation. I am to feel the pleasure in this very moment and nothing more, and that's what I do. I concentrate on the feeling of his touch. It is easier now to let my muscles release. I no longer feel the uncontrollable urge to thrust, to clench. I just let it happen. I hear myself sighing over and over, a singsong sigh, oh!...oh!...oh!... And it goes on and on. I've lost track of time. I've lost track of place. I drift away, floating above. I am only a cloud of pleasure now, a vapour of pure pleasure. I am immersed in it. I feel barely aware, vaguely conscious and I might be sleeping as the pleasure flows in waves. Floating, feeling, breathing, it goes on and on without time. And now, I orgasm, but differently, effortlessly, wave after wave of pleasure. I float through it, above it, as if coming is inevitable. I lose track, can't feel his finger anymore, just the pleasure of it over and over, and I'm coming again and I feel a deep sigh escape me and it goes on and on, coming again and again and again... Come Up Ch. 06 Tonight we're at my place in the shower again and my thumb makes the tiniest movement. I stop and grip his cock hard, a little bit of pain to stop his coming. Holding him hard, I trace the finger of my other hand over the tip of his cock, on the slit, dangerously. A sudden uptake of breath and his hips tuck under protectively. I slide my grip up to the perfect place, let him feel his pleasure, then tease his slit again. Pleasure and danger together. His hips show me his confused, desperate arousal, thrusting, tucking, spasmodic and uncontrollable. I move to his balls cupping them in my hand, my soft, comforting grip, but now I release them and slide my fingers under and behind, and when my finger passes through his pucker he jumps at the surprising sensation. Slowly I pull my finger forward, this time stopping on his anus. He jumps again. I slide my other hand over his cock, up and down slowly, giving him his pleasure and begin to circle my finger over his anus. It is my finger touching him where it is forbidden to touch, where it is dirty, touching him there boldly without apology. My finger tells him that he can be touched anywhere, that I can touch anything, even there. I look up into his face and he is wincing. My other hand slides up and down on his cock sustaining his arousal. Pleasure and the forbidden, at the same time. I bend down and now my tongue is probing his slit. All three now, danger, forbidden and pleasure. I speed up my hand on his cock, building the pleasure. He's getting closer, closer and just before he comes I take his cock into my mouth. He starts to come in my mouth and I press on his pucker reminding him that my finger is there. I press my finger on him as he convulses. Gripping his cock I hold on for the wild ride while he comes, sliding my hand, stopping, sliding, stopping, trying to prolong his orgasm. He is done. I slide my finger forward until I can cup his balls again in my hand. I take him out of my mouth holding his cum and still holding his cock, but near the root where it won't be sensitive. I stand up and look into his eyes, gather his cum in my mouth and then open to show it to him, to let him know that I have all of it. I freeze him with my eyes as I swallow it down, then show him that it is gone. He falls into my arms and we hold each other under the streams of hot water. ~ We've dried off and we're in my bed. I'm on my back but he is propped up on a pillow, legs straight out. He stares straight ahead and makes no move. I can tell that he's thinking. Eventually he turns his head toward me and speaks. "How can you know..." "Know what?" I ask. "How can you know?...How can you?...The hand job...How can you be...into my body like that...in my head?..." I suppose there are two ways to get good at it. Stroke one guy's cock many times and learn what he likes, or do many, many cocks just once and learn what they all like. I can't go there, not with him, not with anybody. I just shrug and grin, hiding everything, keeping it light. "I dunno...I guess I just...pay attention," I say, and that is true enough. It's just not the whole story. In the Vancouver parlour there were six rooms, each with a shower and a massage table. Six girls on a shift, too, so they could pick and choose. It never was actual fucking. No blowjobs either, but with my hands, all the time, and sometimes between my tits. Hair and makeup perfect, scantily clad, friendly and sexy, a fantasy woman. That I could rationalize, but not actual fucking, not for money. It's just a service, not sex. I did the rough math once. Three shifts a week, more in the summers. Never at the time of the month. Probably six or seven per shift. Four and a half years, it paid for school and, until I got a real job, everything. Some were regulars so no double counting. It was probably well over a thousand I did. That's how I could do it pretty well, but nobody else was ever going to know why. "Yes, but how can you know...just the right moment...just the right place...to make it last like that?" Greg asks. "I guess I just like your cock a lot," I say. It's true. He has a beautiful cock. When it's hard and in my hands, something happens to me. "Well you sure seem to," he says and that is the end of that. "Besides, you're the same with me. How do you?" "Chemistry," he says and right away it scares me. Not again, I think. I grab his face, kiss him and then guide his face onto my pussy. That should stop him. Besides, it's my turn. ~ His place again. Tonight it was the slow hand, slow and gentle fucking, a different way to come, coming tenderly, nice. Now we're back down, mellow, and I'm wafting around in the reverie. I'll go soon, but not yet. "You ever do one night stands?" he asks. "Hummmph!" It comes out as a snort, but yes! He chuckles at the sound and says, "You're a delicate flour...a precious snowflake." I have to smile. "You like 'em?" I don't know what he's asking. Did I like them or do I like them? Past or present? Beside all that, where's he going with this? Is he saying he wants one-nighters? With other women? Why would he ask me? Permission? That's a laugh. Or is he hoping that I don't like them? What would that mean to him? I'm worried that he's going to start down the 'exclusive' path, but why would he? There's no intimacy, really, not beyond the physical. With my eyes closed I hope that there's a look of mischief on his face. Then I would know he's just goofing around, that it's nothing serious, but when I open my eyes again, I can see that he's still serious. Suddenly I feel tired, bone deep exhaustion. But I realize that it's not my body taking me down. It's my soul. I'm so tired. I haven't realized before but I'm so very tired and have been for a long time. And I'm sick of it, having to hold him off like I do. It costs me too dearly, shutting him out all the time. I can't do it any more but then that would be the end of it. I'd have to end the deal and not by letting him in. It would be no more, no more fucking. And I'd still see him in the elevator, the odd time at press conferences, in the neighbourhood. What then? What then? I'm so tired that I'm no longer making sense to myself. I'll have to move away, get another job in a different city. But where? It can't be Vancouver. Calgary? English Montreal? Breaking in down in the States would be unlikely. "Do you?" he asks. I haven't answered him yet. "You know...when they're good they're great, when they're bad they're awful, huge mistakes." "Yeah, I guess," he says, but he's not done. "Good because you're trying something new and, hey, sometimes it's...wow!...And no strings attached either...which can be good...I suppose..." Is he lecturing me? "Uh-huh." I'm too tired, tired and too lazy right now to say anything more. "...but I always had to be in the mood or it was a letdown...if she's thinking just one night and you're not...pretty bad...it's different when there's something there, you know?" All I can do is arch my eyebrows. "Me?...best when there's something at least...a bit of affection...then it's better." He's hit the line in the sand. I sit up in anger. But I make another mistake. "So what are you saying? Now we're heart to heart? Is that it?" Demanding to know the agenda, his agenda, because it sure as hell isn't mine. And that starts it. He's not pussyfooting around it anymore, making his own demands, laying out his expectations. And I'm defending the deal we made, trying to stick with that and I'm being an idiot about it, saying things, bad things, but I'm so fucking angry, so fucking tired and I can see it all ending, ending tonight, right now, and I don't want that, I don't. And I'm growling now, like an animal, so fucking frustrated, like I haven't got words anymore, barely containing the rage, but is it rage, I wonder? Is that really it? I'm so confused and now I'm fucking pissed at myself because the things I've said, they're enough to end it just by themselves, like I'm the one taking this away from myself, ending it myself so he can't do it, can't do it to me. And we're out of the bed both of us. I'm crying, sobbing and I hate myself for it, trying to find my clothes and he's trying to help me, apologizing, gushing, and I hate that he's trying to help me. I can't find my panties so, fuck it, it's commando now. And when I try to get into my jeans I lose my balance but he catches me and holds me tight and for a second I'm sobbing into his chest. I can't do that, sob like this, so I push away, Let me go! Let me fucking go! And I've got my sweater over my head and pulled down, decent at least, my bra and panties in my hands, where are my fucking shoes? There, and I'm out the door, running away and stabbing the button for the elevator. Don't let anybody else be there, nobody else, nobody, please, nobody and there isn't and then I'm in my own hallway digging for my key and my hand shakes so much I can't unlock the fucking door and I feel like I'm going to just scream. But now I'm in and I'm on the couch crying it out, crying it all out. If first the one, then surely the other will follow. ~ It has been weeks, and good in some ways, a break from his agenda with me. But also a break with his cock and that, that is not good. I picture it in my head, the proud curve, and my hands have their memory of it, just long enough that I can almost get both of them on it, one above the other. The taper, like a tree truck strong and thick at the bottom and tapering from there. Is that why he feels so good coming inside me, that taper? Stretching my pussy to that taper, the deeper he is inside? Maybe. Coming home after work I'm on the elevator on the ground floor waiting for the doors to close. They start to move. "Hold, please!" I can't see, but I know it's him. I've been dreading this for weeks, even changed my schedule to make it less likely. I reach for the button to hold the doors, stop dead and, finally, press it. He breezes in, trotting. "Oh...," he says, "...I'll...," and he turns to leave. "NO!" It's too loud, too vehement. I calm myself down. "No. It's okay. You don't have to." The doors close on just the two of us. He looks so fucking good. I catch his aroma. It's like before, when we started. He's leaning back against the wall, head hanging down and his hands in his pockets. "Listen, Lindy...," he starts. Everything depends on what he says next, if he says anything. He turns his head to look at me and his eyes are sad. I imagine I look the same to him. "You okay?" he asks and I nod my head, yes. I'm trying to hold it together until I can get myself inside my front door, or maybe just until he's off the elevator. We're on the way up now. There's nothing more until the doors rumble open. "Take care of yourself, okay?" His words pull at me. Just moments before, they might have pushed. "Yeah. Thanks. You too." And there's no agenda in what I've said, nothing hidden. This little moment of being myself, allowing myself to just be authentic for a second, feels good. He nods his head and slowly gets off the elevator. ~ He's picked up his phone but I can't speak, not yet. "Lindy?" "Come up, okay?" He doesn't answer. "Come up," and I can't cover the emotion in my voice. "I want to but...," he says. The last time, the fight, the awful things I said. "I want you to. Please. Come up." He hangs up the phone.