2 comments/ 15779 views/ 0 favorites Rhapsody By: spankableBelle The music rushed over me; string melodies tugging at my heart offset by a sensual Latin beat that pounded in my blood. It flooded my soul and held me captive in it's power. Images of raw carnality flashed through my mind. If I closed my eyes, I could see myself on horseback, racing through the dark of night in a time of decadence long past, to the manor on the hill. A candle would be lit in the corner room at the end of the second floor. H- "Excuse me," whispered the rough male voice. I turned my head to glance over my shoulder at the man that had interrupted my musings, fanciful as they were. His eyes were alight with deviltry and the smile that played about his mouth was nothing less than wicked. It seemed that I had been caught; my thoughts somehow detected even in the cloaked darkness of the concert hall. I raised my eyebrows in question. "Are you alright?" I tried to play the innocent. I tried to pretend that I didn't know what he was talking about. I failed. He chuckled low in his throat, a sound that sent another rush of heat through me, this time though having nothing to do with the music. "You're blushing. Even with only stage lights to assist me, I can see that. You're restless. And have been for the last two pieces. Your breathing has changed slightly. Are you certain that you're alright?" His voice whispered in my ear, loud enough to be heard over the music, but not by anyone other than me. It was an understated voice, kind and pleasant, but there was a hint of fire, an only slightly veiled boldness and authority. In my mind, I could hear that voice speaking with blushing crudity when in heat. I nodded my head in response and turned my eyes back to the stage. The four young women that dominated the building played with passion and with love crystal clear. The music spoke to them on levels that could only be communicated through their instruments. Mere words would never fully convey the meaning. Their bodies writhed to and fro, trembling in bliss. Long slender limbs clothed in elegance, danced seductively, taunting and teasing, daring the captive audience into fantasy. Warm breath stirred the fine hairs at the nape of my neck and strong, sure fingers found the clips in my hair with ease, tugging them loose. I was so deeply lost in the music that I could form no protest to the advances of the man behind me. The spell that surrounded me was thick and so heavy laden with sensuality that my body and mind ceased to register the full concert hall, transporting me instead to a massive four poster bed and a sexy stranger with a voice that set my soul on fire. The heat of his hand massaging my scalp flowed through my body, melting me. There was tenderness in his touch. There was coaxing in his persistent attention. I closed my eyes and let myself fall deeper into my own imaginings, my own desires. Deeper into him. My ears heard and registered the raw sexuality of the music and my soul transferred it into arousal, keen and sharp. His lips whispered against my shoulder, the side of my neck. His voice breathed itself into my ear. "Come with me." He didn't give me time to think about it, just tugged lightly on my hair and urged me up out of my seat. Making my way to the aisle, I followed him, not daring to think of what I was doing, only letting myself get lost in the moment, feeling every sensation, every prickle of heat that flowed over my sensitized skin. He slowed to a near stop, but only long enough to reach back for my hand, twining his fingers through my own. At the back of the theatre, there were a series of curtained alcoves, lit inside by candlelight sconces. He stopped beside one of these and pulled the curtain, ushering me inside. There was only a moment to glimpse his face before his mouth covered mine, drawing forth such pleasure that my eyes closed in blinding lust. His tongue flicked out to lick the seam of my lips before slipping inside as if a phantom. His arms stole around me and pulled me flush against his body. He was taller than I, broad and solid against my soft roundness. His tongue danced inside my mouth, sliding against my own, coaxing it between his lips for a gentle but insistent suckling. His hands bunched up the back of my gown, baring my buttocks to the heat and strength of his palms. He pulled my groin tight against his own. I felt his hardness through the soft and warm fabric of woolen trousers. He rubbed against me, insistent, hungry. I barely heard his murmured wickedness. His lips lingered, then pulled softly away. He turned me towards the wall, placing my hands against the polished wood, bending me slightly forward. Fingers, deft and knowing found their way between my thighs, sliding through slick, pouty lips. I never once protested. I had waited my whole life for a moment such as this. For a man to want me this much that the where and when ceased to be of consequence. The music that echoed through the hall was that of a sultan's harem, of slaves performing elaborate dances of sex for guests of their lord and master. He was inside me before I could ask, before I could beg and plead for him to fill me. His lips whispered against my neck, his tongue danced along leaving a moist heated trail in its wake. One arm held me tight about the waist, pressing my lower body back into his pumping hips. His other arm wrapped across my chest, his palm cupping my breast through the velvet of my gown. "Fuck me," he whispered into the hollow of my ear. I writhed against him. His hips stopped moving, giving me room and motive to undulate my own, pulling on his cock, sucking his shaft with the heated mouth between my legs. I heard him groan and his teeth bit into the tender skin of my shoulder. With eyes closed and my soul lost in the music, my body sought it's release, it's completion. "Please." The whimper resounded in the small alcove as the tears of stolen moments streaked down my cheeks. "Legs closer together. Hold me tighter inside. Yes, that's it. Tighter, love." His arms crushed me against his hardness. His knees and thighs slid against the back of my own as he thrust up inside of me. Bending me closer to the wall, his hips angled forward. He was deeper, touching me everywhere. He danced with me to the music that filled the theatre. Our bodies melting into one another. The crescendo was almost deafening. My heart picked up speed, beating in time with the tempo on stage. I clawed at the wood. I bit my lip and tossed my head back. I felt him empty inside of me, the pressure and pulse of his cock pumping semen into my womb. My own orgasm shivered through me moments later. Glittering. Breathtaking. I hung limply in his arms as he whispered words in a language that I couldn't understand. His shaft slipped out of me and he pulled back to fasten his trousers. The skirt of my dress, hopelessly crushed, fell across my hips and once again brushed the floor. The concert was nearly over. His hand slid up my arm, back down again until his fingers clasped my own, raising it to his lips to kiss over my shoulder. I shivered at his sweet gesture. The enchanting moment would soon be over. I wanted to hold onto it forever. "I must go, sweet," he said, stroking my hair. I nodded my acceptance, unable to speak. His essence slid down my thigh. "Remember me. We will meet again." He was gone before I could turn around, leaving me with an ache for more of him and a smile of hope for fantasies yet to be fulfilled. Rhapsody This story contains explicit depictions of a loving and caring relationship. If you find real love offensive, I suggest you seek your thrills elsewhere. The story is dedicated to my love, 'my imp'. ***** The curtains are drawn against the night. The log fire is burning cosily in a brick fireplace. The sofa is pulled up close to the fire, the room is not dark, but glows from the light of the fire and a few candles, sending flickering shadows into the corners of the room, creating a mood of mystery and romance. We have Bach playing in the background, the cd player loaded with our two favourite pieces. For me, the double violin concerto, for you the Brandenburg. Not intrusive, just soft enough to lend ambience to the room. The sofa is old and welcoming, covered with soft throws in rust and green, my favourite autumn shades which blend with the shadows and lighting in the room. On the small mahogany table beside the sofa stands a goblet of brandy, partly consumed. A few warming mouthfuls, enough to relax not inebriate. Beside the goblet a pile of books - close inspection will show them to be poetry - Alice Meynell, Tennyson, Elizabeth Browning, and, of course, Shakespeare. I had been reading them whilst waiting for you. I am sitting quietly, comfortably in one corner of the sofa, facing the fire, reading, occasionally lowering the book to gaze into the fire, my face showing nothing, the depth of my thoughts evident from the unfocussed set of my gaze. A sound breaks my reverie, and my head turns to the sound, my face lighting up with intense pleasure as you enter the room and cross to me. You are wearing a long dark blue nightdress, with deep side slits to your hips, and a stretch lace bodice, all held up with thin straps. As you bend to lightly kiss me, my eyes roam over the whole of you, but always return to those eyes which sparkle at me. I smile softly as I lift your hand to my lips and after kissing your finger-tips pat the sofa beside me for you to sit with me. You seem to pour yourself onto the sofa, and between us we organise a comfortable position for us both. You are stretched full length, your hips nestled in my lap, and your head and shoulders cradled in my arm so that I can reach your lips with my own, and later, other parts of you with my other hand. For now, you are cradled in both arms, and I smile happily at your deep sigh of comfort and contentment as I hold you to me. "Read to me, love, please." Gently kissing your forehead, smiling down at you, "What would you like?". "You choose, whatever you were just reading." I lifted the book I had been reading, and lying it against you, used my free hand to turn the pages until I found what I was looking for, and in a low voice I began to read: "I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, I shun the thought that lurks in all delight - The thought of thee - and in the blue Heaven's height, And in the sweetest passage of a song. O just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng This breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden yet bright; But it must never, never come in sight; I must stop short of thee the whole day long. But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, Must doff my will as raiment laid away, - With the first dream that comes with the first sleep I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart." The sonnet had special meaning for me. I had read it to myself many times after we first met, before I had found the courage to tell you how I felt, before you and I had become 'us'. When I finally told you of this at one of those soft post loving times when confession is so easy, you had declared it henceforth, 'our poem'. You loved me to read it to you, and I did often. "Does this please you my love?" I whispered, looking down to see your face watching me, knowing I was remembering, as were you. "Yes love, this pleases me very much," is your soft response. For a while we simply share this time together, allowing the flames and the music to wash over us, fill the room, with you lying completely relaxed in my arms, and me holding you gently to me, my head leaning back on the sofa, eyes closed. In the warmth of the room, I am conscious of your perfume, the strawberry shampoo in your hair, the soap from your recent bath, and other much more intimate scents and aromas. One of my hands is lightly making circles on the skin of your shoulder, but eventually my brain registers the fact that occasionally you make a small moan, and the tiniest of shivers runs through your body. I lift my head, frowning and look into your face with concern. "Are you cold, child?" and then remembering the fire smile at the stupidity of the remark. "Are you getting too hot?" You raise one hand to my cheek, stroking gently, whispering, "Love, I'm getting hot, but not because of the fire." And smile shyly at me. Through the music-induced fog that is my brain, I realise what you are saying and shake my head, despairing of myself. I smile down at you, lowering my head to press my lips against yours. "We can't have that, can we?", and am suddenly overcome with a husky desire for you, my beautiful love. I want so much, to just crush you against me, ravish your mouth, your breasts, every inch of your glorious body, but I will not. I will not break the mood, it will be soft, quiet and very, very long, as long as we can both make it. My arms tighten around you, pulling you against me, as I deepen our kiss. Your arms slide around me and I feel you tighten your hold on me. Bliss. Absolute bliss, to feel you wanting me this way. Our lips take on a life of their own as they search and slide, then part to allow tongues to delve and probe. My heart surges at the feelings, wanting this moment never to end. Briefly I raise my head and draw my lips from yours, the tiniest of gaps, but even that gap brings a moan of frustration from you, as you look into my eyes to see what is wrong. I move my arm from your back and shoulders and bring it round to softly brush your hair from your face, snaking my fingers into your locks, returning your questioning gaze. "Keep your arms around me love, no matter what I do, just hold on to me, let me know how you feel, with your hands and your mouth." With relief you smile, happier now that you know nothing is wrong, and that I am planning to please you. "Anything", you whisper back, and with one hand draw my head down to you to continue our exploration of each other's mouths. Gradually our kisses deepen, mouths open wider and wider, lips becoming moister, tongues searching, but both seeming to know instinctively when to slow, when the wanting becomes frenetic; both wanting this time to last as one of gentle but intense rousing and loving, not frantic coupling. It is too special to spoil. I tentatively remove one arm from your back, and am pleased to feel your hold behind me tighten on my shirt, to stop your body falling away from me. My hand moves up to your shoulder, caressing the skin with feather touches, which make you moan into my mouth against my tongue, and I feel you shiver. I caress along your shoulder and up your neck, underneath your red mane and back down again - this time gathering the inconsequential strap of your nightdress and push it off your shoulder and on to your arm. Without releasing your mouth (as if I would want to, I am in heaven) I reach for your hand to briefly remove it from me so I can slip off the strap. This done, you replace your arm around me and my hand moves lightly up and down the soft flesh, eliciting more shudders. With the strap released I can now move part of the bodice down and uncover the first of your breasts. As I do this, and my hand lightly gathers your breast into it, I feel your arms tighten around me for the first time as you push the breast into my hand, wanting more contact. Your body begins to squirm, not much, but enough for me to know I am having an effect. Our mouths continue to slowly dance with each other, occasionally breaking away to just drop light brief touches on each other's lips, a time to take deep breaths, to slow the sensations. Briefly during these breaks, our eyes meet and my heart races at the passion and arousal I see in yours. My mind has been wrestling with a slight problem, that of removing your other strap, which currently is nestled between my arm holding your shoulders and my breasts. There is no other way. I break away from you and slightly lift your body from me. I hear your moan of frustration, see the look of consternation on your face. "It's OK love, I just need to get to the other strap." The relief on your face almost makes me laugh, but I will not, it would hurt you. You lift your body slightly and to the accompaniment of light kisses up and down your neck and shoulder, I slide the other strap off and lift your arm through. Now. Now we can continue. You are about to move back to your position, when I feel you hesitate and look up at me. I know, I just know what you are asking, and I smile and nod at you, steeling myself for what is to come. Happily you sit yourself up, a vision with one succulent breast peeping above the bodice of your nightdress, the other fighting for escape. Soon. You reach for the buttons of my shirt, slowly releasing them and leaning to place soft kisses on my skin as the shirt is opened. You finish your task and push the two sides apart, sliding your hands up to my shoulders to ease it off. I quickly shrug off the offending garment and smile to hear your moans of delight at what you see. Your hands are trembling, your breathing becoming shallow and rapid as you reach for my bra, and moving your hands around behind me, release the clasp and slowly slide it off my arms and discard it on the floor. As my breasts, and more importantly, my nipples are revealed, the desire in your face is quite open and brings a lump to my throat. You look up at me briefly and then place your mouth gently over one nipple, drawing it in, lightly brushing it with your tongue. Oh goddddd, I won't be able to stand too much of that. I allow you to suckle for a few moments more, and then gently draw your mouth away. Your eyes fly quickly to my face, "It's OK love, But I won't last too long if you do that. Later. Later." With a slight sigh and a nod, your lower yourself back into my arms, smiling and shivering slightly as you feel my now revealed nipples pressing gently against your skin, just above your own breasts. My hand reaches for the bodice of your nightdress and now drags the whole piece down over your breasts, loving your gasp as the edge of the material is dragged over the nipple of your second breast. Your arms begin to tighten around me again as you feel my free hand begin to play with and caress your breasts, both of them, back and forth, now caressing the sides and underneath with fingertip touches which make you shiver and then squeezing the nipple between a finger and thumb, which makes you moan and gasp through our kiss and lift your body towards me. As you gasp, your mouth opens even wider allowing me to probe your mouth even deeper with my tongue, scouring the inside of your mouth, slowly, continuously, until the point arises when you pull your head away, gasping from the continual onslaught on your senses. "Lover, please, please......... I can't take much more. Please." Delighted with your restraint so far, I pull your mouth back to me, pretending to ignore you, but that was the signal I needed. Now my hand grants your breasts a reprieve as I move it to glide down over your hip, your thigh, as far down your leg as I can reach. Back and forth, using my hand to caress the material over your soft skin, making you tingle and tremble even more. Your breathing is quite rapid, turning into those delightful gasps each time I caress the back of your knee. Reaching out as far as I can, I gather the material into my hand, bunching it up and sliding it slowly up your leg towards your waist. As more and more of your body is revealed, my breathing becomes more laboured. Calm. I must stay calm. This is not the time to get carried away, this is not about me, this time is about you. Your pleasure. Finally, the skirt of the nightdress is now gathered at your waist, along with the bodice. I allow myself a brief break from your lips, your wonderful mouth, and turn my head to look at you. Soft sensuous hips, gently rising belly, flaming red bush just begging to be touched, to curl around my fingers, and then those long, long, sexy legs. A deep sigh escapes my lips at the beauty displayed before me. Turning my head back to you, you are watching me, panting slightly, but still hanging on to me, your fingers clutching at my skin. Your eyes are clouded with desire, the lids soft and drooping. As I reach out my hand, sliding it down over your belly, over your hips, up and down your thigh, I lower my head, not to your mouth to a nipple, sucking it softly into my mouth as if I was drawing on a straw. Your back arches, pushing the breast into me and a long moan escapes from your now gaping mouth. Your head lolls back on my arm, and your hands resume their desperate clutching at me. As my mouth continues to gently, oh so gently ravage your breasts, moving back and forth between them, my hand now dips through your curls into your dripping centre, and as I slide one finger in to you, another moan is forced from you lips and I feel your legs tremble. Wanting more, I remove my finger and lift your leg at the knee, opening you up to me. Your thigh is trembling almost uncontrollably, but you manage to keep it there. My finger returns to you, accompanied by another, and then another, as I begin a slow, rhythmic pumping in and out. By now, you are so wet, so open, I add the fourth finger and this time your moan becomes a wail. Your whole body is trembling, you are near, so very near. Your arms are pulling me closer to you, keeping your breast in my mouth - a state of affairs I am quite happy to maintain. My hand continues to glide in and out, and although I want so much to speed it up, I make myself keep this rhythm. Your body and your senses are dictating the speed of your climax and would appear to be prolonging the exquisite build up. Between gasps you manage to utter, "Pleeeeeeeeeassssssseeeeeee", a long heartfelt desperate moan for release. Although I would be happy to sit here and fuck you for the rest of my life, I move my thumb to your hard, throbbing clit, at the same time sucking harder on your nipple. At the first touch your hips lift towards me, and a scream, a real scream is torn from your mouth. I touch once, twice more, gentle flicks, and you explode against me. As you lift your hips to me, and push your breasts against my mouth, I quickly withdraw my fingers, curl in my thumb and with a gentle push, my whole hand slides easily into your dripping, yearning, hungry centre. I do nothing more, as you push yourself back and forth against me, each thrust against my deeply embedded hand forcing a strangled cry from your lips. You surge against me, again and again and again, in fact, so long its as if you are never going to stop. I continue to suck and tease your rock hard nipples, but leave my hand simply resting inside you, feeling the trembling and movements of your inner walls against my skin, as they finally slow and your hips drop back to my lap, your whole body slumping against me, my one arm holding you - exhausted, throbbing, panting. Gently, slowly removing my hand and lifting my mouth from your breasts, I gather you softly to me, gently pulling the skirt of your nightdress back over your hips and legs. After a lengthening time, I frown in slight concern, and softly whisper, "My love...?". Your eyelids flutter but do not open, your panting is slowing slightly, but your chest is still rising and falling deeply. You lick your lips, gasping for breath and manage to utter, "I'm OK, just let me come back down." In relief I re-arrange your position so that your head is now lying in the crook of one arm, the other holding you against me, and as your breathing slowly returns to near normal, you turn more on your side, into me and curl your legs up. I am content to hold you this way until you have recovered. The music is still playing, the fire is still warm and glowing, but I feely you shiver. Although I know you are not cold, I reach for the soft blanket kept on the back of the sofa and open it, laying it over you, cocooning you in it and my arms. I close my eyes happily, but a short while later become aware of movement and jerk in surprise as I feel your hand on my breast. Then your mouth on the other as the nipple is gently sucked into your mouth and held there. I look down at you questioningly and those mischievous green eyes sparkle up at me, gazing at me in all innocence. "You did say later, love. This is later," and lowering your eyes, continue to suckle on my breast, curling yourself contentedly into my arms. The end ............... or do I mean the beginning?? (The Sonnet: "Renouncement' by Alice Meynell circa 1893) Rhapsody in Blue Dichotomised – A Golden 20's D/S Conversation via letters For to love truly is to be lost forever 18th November 1927 Darkred nail polish is applied to my hands, hands that are writing the chronicle of my life at this very moment to last for eternity as an example of how one comes to submit to the slavery of being human – a concept no one can escape, least of all us who have encountered their living mirror image in the flesh. Did you know that I hate to wear nail polish on my fingers? Many do laugh, but it gives me the feeling to suffocate, yet! Here I am extending each period of application, every time a little longer. Why? It is because I have looked into the mirror felt myself splitting apart. I cannot suffocate any longer for I have stepped out of my physical body attached my very matter of soul to the knowledge of your existence. I watch from afar how this fair intricate woman struggles for her sanity, how she keeps looking up and around in the hope to catch one glance of you, one hint that you too have been touched by her coming into your world; that you feel in some distant distorted way how the connection though severed by your will has not broken – for it is not your will alone that dictates the flow of – shall we call it destiny? – that thing that we as humans manage to create by fighting stubbornly for what we believe in with our deepest most secret desire. Neither ghostly shadow that I am nor corporeal fragile past me could have anticipated how the fulfillment of her, our ideal could bring forth such a plethora of scintillating emotions, could affect daily life in ways that are far beyond what either of us intended or pictured. And yet it happened. I find myself amazed by its power, the pain, the suffering that I now place on myself in so many ways trying to understand why I am always challenged so greatly in life, by the security and genuineness of my feelings, the intensity of my intent to not let pass the good that has been transformed to be part of that me, that cut in half presence still trying to stand proud in this hailstorm of absurdities. I hope you are smiling now, for I know how foolish this love is I feel for you (how very foolish indeed as we talk of looking at each others' face in a mirror! Cocky irony that never fails to amuse me; you know how much I love cocks.) My heart is drowning in a fire that you just as foolish as I keep burning high in your refusal to tell me you don't love me, don't want me, don't need me. Your half hearted fuck off, forget me, I am no one is unconvincing at best. It is not you who has faded to be, it is me, my newly discovered true self that was left to stumble blindly in the deep dark woods of old fairy tales with wolves attaching to my scent the instance you vanished, wolves that seek to tear and kill in cold absence of any emotion. There is something to be read in your choice of words so marked by the different level of awareness and investment. I know that I love you way more than you feel for me, but see I realized when it comes to that one special person it does not matter, in the end I would give all of myself unconditionally either way, the difference lies in whether it will contribute to both our happiness or just yours if you ever dare to take it in via whatever way. The funny thing between us is that you specifically asked for it – all of myself in utter completion– not maybe in conversation, but with every word between a breath, in the many dreams and stories you shared with me. I believe you when you take a moment to think and defy yourself it may have been unconscious, but however it was, I heard your call and I strove, still strive to answer it. Did you not think it possible that such a thing could happen? It angers me that you were so inattentive, that you did not protect me like a good D should have done and at the same time it endears you to me as the whole being you are beyond our lived structure. It's good to see imperfection where everything else seems to fit so naturally and easy like a missing puzzle piece. You have still no idea how much I miss the peace that the ease of our connection gave me. Maybe I am too easily satisfied, but truthfully I think I only fall for what has shown its worth; and did we not fit together well despite the countless difficulties? Hence I must admit it is still hard for me to stop envisioning the endless possibilities of what could have been if circumstance had been more fortunate, but I am getting better and back to realism so I put my effort into these lines. I know that already things will never be the same again the occasion for simplicity in mutual joy has gone forever. Just know that I would love to have the chance to get to know all of you, the D, the man, the boy, the friend, the father, the accomplice to crimes and all the little glimpses of normality. 23rd of December 1927 Now shall we talk about responsibilities and guilt? The gracious wise might say neither of us could have known what would happen once innocence and inexperience meet curiosity, defected longing and lust. Whose trait is whose shall we play a game and wonder? Fact is that you bid your time and I happened to walk past your alluring den of darkness, risked to peek into the primal hunter's grounds to be spotted and lured deeper and deeper. Oh how I enjoyed our hunt of witty back and forth my own feral nature yearned to sink completely into that soft warmth that comes when entering your own hidden core. It satisfied you to just watch casually how I stepped closer and closer until you were able to touch me with your fingertips from behind, teasing me to turn and want for more always more. You felt yourself as the one in control but I brought my own mix of light and shadow and how you craved it both as well! ; were mesmerized by my sudden appearance and took your advantage. I was your Opium as you were my pheromone; I too was hunting you in a way sought to make you mine. The toy has come alive my Master, such is the power you execute. Here we must make a short turn into my past reality. Until I met you my life was a tool to idealism, I was a messenger of sincerity, fought against powers that tried to quench my passion always to no avail. If you like similes I used to see myself as an angel sent to earth a task engraved upon their wings, infallible in their devotion until - until I met you, a son of Judas and my devotion all of a sudden was not mine to give any longer. Stop here and let that sink in will you, for me. Can you imagine what it felt like to understand that this is what I always had hoped for? It was a selfish wish and more selfish was my response of willfull surrender, it made me human. Finally human! It was the want to share one's existence with one being instead of an abstract greater good. How could I not have wanted you especially since you lacked that same blow you from your feet experience, too if for different reasons. Tell me have you ever cried tears over a woman before? If nothing else my secret longing that you will do so for me should make it clear how we both are inherently tainted. If angel I was so I was doomed or destined to find myself left broken, exposed tied undone to my own St Andrews cross of black ebony, incapable of dying, incapable of giving up, cursing light and darkness in search of futile salvation. The cross keeps me up straight, pain feeds my starved soul while your caring watch was forced to retrench. If only physical pains could actually match and alter what goes on in my mind... 2nd of January 1928 Excuse me for I had to cut short my last correspondence with you right when I intended to talk about what may interest you most. I have just returned from a weekend in the countryside, a secret gathering of like-minded souls to spend the turn to a new year in well mannered cultivated hedonism and pure kinky frivolities. It wasn't quite like the scenario you came up with in your dreams, but it had its own charms. I loved to be presented and prove myself worthy of what had been promised of me. You should have seen the dress I wore, black with an application of white feathers and a slit so long it went nearly up to my crotch. Still out to make you proud... I had on my black pearls, the long silken gloves and intricate underwear gartered for easy access. I shone that night. The host put on a gaudy version of a famous play in their widespread gardens and once it was over the real celebrations began. I was taken upstairs, past lit torches and the moans sometimes cries of other women and I could feel myself going into that state of calm reverberance. After being told to undress I was tied and cuffed, ah the feel of the cold wood against my breast. I was given a choice for which tool would be used, but not what was to follow. The one who took over what should have been your privilege is skilled, too, and he talked calmly prepared me for what he intended to do. I close my eyes, strain my ears and feel his presence like a cloak that will protect me from all these other pairs of eyes watching on in silence. What they don't know is that I like the fact we are being watched, it turns me on and lets me feel like thus the world will know how much I give to him, my other, my upper. He was worthy of my bowing to his being, the others were not. I can picture him how he scans my naked skin, plans where to let each strike fall, the concentration that pours from him, the affection he feels for me as I feel it for him, the way he raises his arm and lets the cane glide through the air. It is a special handmade order with thorns all over it you would call it effective I can imagine. The first hit finds me and I flinch, the pain seeping through my body like sweet honey but it won't stay like this of course. The second and third strike follow soon and I let my bound hands grab the wood with more force tighten every muscle in my body (I wonder why). The hits come faster now some go down twice or three times at the same part of my thigh or cheek and what have been near to silent exhales turn into whisps of outcries. Twenty times; thirty; forty. I am burning now inside and out, but I don't scream, may throw my head back to make the pain travel through all my body. He does not hold back in strength and I can hear the spectators getting aroused. They talk with him astonished, some stand beside me and whisper they are surprised how good I am doing, how I make him proud. By now the marks he left must be clearly visible, everyone in the hall is watching while I am sweating and my breathing is fast. I am calm and feel safe as he unties me shortly to turn me around. He smiles and I nod as we begin anew, arms legs, thighs and breasts creamy in sight and consistence are claimed and painted as he likes. Our breathing synchronizes and I cannot help but moan when he steps close for a sweet caress of my face and a kiss. We are the main number of the night. When the cane comes down one last time I bite my lip and draw some blood. He comes to embrace me and wipes it gently away. Five minutes turn to an eternity as we just stand in silence and feel each other's trust; I am still tied, late night has fallen. When he steps back I close my eyes once more and think of you, how I wished we could have had more time – I miss you, so much, for reasons you would find to be so very me. With you I would have been lost and floating completely, you know it don't you, just by hearing your voice like we used to. And immediately I am flooded with guilt, guilt of betraying both of you with every step I have taken since July. Sadness burns its way up my throat, I open my eyes and inhale. I cannot let myself go like this, not in these kinds of moments. But of course I always do. In the meantime he has brought it over and sets it up, the devils machine. Now I really feel like crying; he takes one look at me and knows, embraces me once more, takes his time to assure me. "It's ok, you can do it. " I am scared to death, but he is right: I can and I will for him. I smile bravely, he turns the lever several times to load the new wonder of technology, a simple wooden box he built with electric wiring going through it. The end he holds in his strong hands has two contacts, if loaded they will give a shock to whatever is touching them. And you can imagine where this is going. This time I scream. The undersides of the feet are worst, so is the patch of skin right above the silence of my warm folds. I cannot say how long it took, but it must have been over an hour, pain turns thought and feeling into slurs, I don't know who I am just that this pain is connected in some way to the hole that you my love have left in my heart. When he finally unties me and lets me fall into his arms I can barely stand. I am transforming from one shape into the next over and over again, but into what and for whom? He whispers comfort to me our eyes locked sending back and forth warm emotions and trials to see into each other's soul. What is it that we see? What is it that we seek in each other? I feel like I have lost myself, cannot say what and why I am doing it; as with all of us no one forces me to yet here I am again and again. I wish I could understand what has happened with me since you found and claimed me, but you left before I was able to form the question. Other men ask for a try on the machine with their women, but nearly all of them give up after a few shocks. Later he takes me lovingly, slowly, pride and sincere affection all over his features and I am glad to be his, to be of real use, to be wanted. In many ways I feel myself growing into another kind of love for him, too. May he forgive me my weaknesses as I forgive yours. That same night I declined to torture another woman - a funny mention - there is not a sadistic bone in my body, ah but you know that, you named me for what I am after all- and danced to our delight into the morning. Isn't it wondrous how our dreams come true in ways that make them both fulfilled and into nightmares? Are you faring well? Truly? 29th February 1928 Maybe you ask yourself why in my last letter I was telling you all these private details of my recent endeavours. In your answer before last you urged me to find someone else and so I tried. Let me tell you it is not easy, to find someone who feels right after being with the one you know without a doubt is. You left me unprepared to deal with my new world and other genuine D's can sense it. Most I felt a real connection with have declined me, politely for they knew my worth on sight, but irrevocably, too. That could mean they were no fit after all, I will never know. You once called me the near to perfect S, a genuine if emotion ridden moment no doubt but it has stayed clear in my memory, because I am - for you. In case you don't know: To me you are a seducer of the highest rank and order, a perfect persona maleficum. You are most desirable, highly capable in both mind and body, your skills whether in work, life, family and our structure of Master and Servant are hard earned and without failure (except if I mention your being a demonic and foolish human – I am laughing silently); you possess creativity, wit, humour and a passion that rivals my own when it comes to be the best that nature has to offer in bestowing us. It was this predisposition that allowed you to see me for what I am, the shine that no one else has spotted before. I am the diamond you sought all your life that you intended to make your very own treasure and - of importance too - you found me willingly gliding into your beloved hands. Yes Sir, there always were others that wanted me, there still are, but none of them ever saw the whole gem, just a shine or a glint inside a kaleidoscope. You made me feel you did see it all. Even if I err the fact that I believed it for one second raises you from the crowds, makes you special. It has never happened before. Not once. It is funny after all this time I still am not sure whether I can read you, or of course it could be your intention to cloud your true core even from me. But, excuse the old lament why then have you called me into your very own darkness? It's the one question that returns over and over again in my mind. Is human weakness really such a simple explanation? Be that as it may I am now bound to you for we both merged my shadows with yours. Irrevocably. One day there might be a song about how a Master and his woman are bound by a golden string, a string that I feel reverberating between us, the cities of B and B, since I hesitantly followed you into the night – the fallen angel Lilith filling the footsteps of the son of Jude. I know it: you too once were a saint. You wanted me because we are of the same kind, but you got scared and left me in Hades, damning yourself like only fools do it. We give heaven a good headache I bet. I am still shaking my head, cry often at night. You have encountered what you desire most in life – the strongest of all women willing to defer to your love and every wish because it is her dream as well as yours – the desire you sold your soul to the devil for. Whether you take her on or not, she now cannot return to a vision of freedom that has been proven wrong. I am scared cursed lover, scared of the light of morning like I have never been scared before. Where to shall the fallen angel turn now that it cannot exist any longer without darkness as it used to be thriving on light? Is there a place that unifies both, a place where we may meet again to wash our hearts from sin and open our true core to see all weaknesses for what they really are? For if you are my Sir I am your Lady. Master and Submissive are equal in their strength and devotion is not just a flowery expression. I know I caught you as unaware as you caught me but that is no reason to act like a Jerk. You really need to reread my every letter and let each word tell its intent and feeling. I will be waiting. Not that I could help it. The birds sing it from the rooftops, hear me personal demon for if it comes to you my every law every rule every reason is out of order. You are the exception in my life, uncalled for, unexpected but graciously welcomed. Is it so wrong of me to want, need to know if I am yours, too? It would not alter the pain, the circumstances or a thousand other hindrances. Yet, even toys come alive need input to find a new direction. Move your strings one more time for me. I am your proud creation, forevermore the place you can find peace from the toils of the world. For to love truly is to be grateful for having shared it even for a second Always yours, Sweetheart Rhapsody in the Rain The day started off normal enough. Well, normal enough for Melissa Holbrook, if for no one else, including Michael Edward Deford, her riding buddy. Suddenly she stopped peddling, jumped off her bike and sprinted over to a man walking his dog as he puffed on a cigarette. "Excuse me, but don't you know that smoking causes lung cancer and heart disease? Not to mention that it annoys those around you and might cause collateral damage to them. You really should stop." They had been peddling along on a lightly trafficked, semi-rural road when she saw the man. Straddling the top tube of his custom Seven road bike, Michael watched the scene unfold, somewhat embarrassed. After all, in his book, you didn't tell other people how to live, strangers especially. And that's just what the man told her, cutting off her lecture about Surgeon General's warnings with a lecture of his own on the principle of live and let live. They argued for about five minutes before Melissa gave up and harrumphed her way back to her bike. The man kept puffing away as he watched them peddle down the road. "You can't get through to some people," Melissa said. "He's killing himself and doesn't know it." But the man was right—wrong to smoke but right about the live and let live thing, and Michael told her so. "Of course he knows it," he said. "It says as much on the front of every pack of cigarettes he buys. The medical information has been out there for close to fifty years. Believe me, he knows. But he also knows it's his right to smoke without some crusading do-gooder lecturing him on the hazards of taking up a bad habit." They stood up on the peddles to crest a short but steep hill, then resumed sitting as the road flattened out. Melissa then said, "Maybe you're right. But I still feel compelled to at least reason with people like that. What they're doing isn't rational." "Nope, but that's the nature of addictions, irrationality to the point of absurdity. I mean, why would anyone do something that's as potentially deadly as smoking? People drink themselves to death, stick needles in their arms, jump off bridges, do all kinds of crazy, dangerous things." Melissa shrugged, then changed the subject. "So, Michael, any weekend plans?" "Weekend plans...no, not really. I'll get a ride in, of course. But it's my guess you're asking if I scored a date for Saturday." "Good guess. Did you?" "I'm seeing that nurse I told you about. Third date coming up." "Third date already? Sounds serious." Melissa routinely teased her friend about his checkered social/romance resume: Michael Edward Deford, thirty-nine year old orthopedic surgeon; never married; drops women like a hot iron if he perceives any imperfections, aesthetic or otherwise. In truth, he didn't think he was THAT picky, though Melissa thought otherwise. "It could be," he responded. "She's got a beautiful pair of gastrocnemius muscles." "Great calves, you mean," she said proudly. "I read anatomy charts too, Mr. Orthopod." He believed it, knew that Melissa was a voracious reader of everything, anatomy charts included. And he thought she had some hot looking gastrocnemius herself, firm, shapely, beautifully tapered. In fact, if not for the little inconvenience of her living with a guy she was engaged to, he thought they could be something other than cycling buddies. Sure, her bossy, controlling personality put him off at times. Still, she possessed great wit, made him laugh, and they could discuss things outside cycling: Medicine. Music. History. Food. Philosophy. Sometimes they even got personal—his dating life, her relationship. He got the impression that she was less than satisfied with this guy. Not miserable, not particularly unhappy, but less than satisfied. You spend time with someone, in their case once or twice a week between spring and fall, and a picture forms. After a series of small hills, they came to a relatively flat stretch of our route. Relatively flat because anyone who's ever ridden a bike knows that there's no such thing as a perfectly flat surface. Cyclists can feel the undulating subtleness of road topography more so than drivers in cars and even pedestrians. This was a fast stretch, a slightly sloping piece of asphalt road that allowed them to ride in their big chain ring while keeping a cadence of around eighty RPMs. A mile later, the sky darkened and the wind picked up. Then it started raining. "Let's get moving," Michael said. They were about five miles from the parking lot and he figured they wouldn't get too wet if they jacked their pace up to seventeen and the rain didn't escalate beyond a drizzle. "Go ahead, Michael. I'll stay on your wheel," Melissa said, motioning for him to pull in front of her. Since he was the faster rider, it made sense for him to charge ahead, pulling Melissa along in his slipstream. The air temp felt as if it had dropped a few degrees, still warm enough for the short-sleeve jerseys they wore, though barely. Trees flanked both sides of the road, an ancient wood of thick oaks and poplars, perhaps the most beautiful part of the route. In dry weather, they'd take the time to enjoy it. But the drizzle had morphed into hard rain, so sightseeing was no longer an option. Melissa pulled alongside him and said, "I think we should find shelter, wait this thing out. It's getting bad. Look, there's lightening." She was right. It was pouring, and riding in electrical storms could get one cooked. Still, if going solo, Michael would have toughed it out and sped to his car, lightening be damned. However, he didn't feel right leaving her alone. One, he was a loyal riding buddy. And two, he knew how pissed she'd be if he left her to fend for herself. Intrepid on the bike, he'd rather face lightening than a woman's scorn. "Okay, you win," he said, pointing to a house a few yards ahead, just past where the woods gave way to open fields. The house looked to be a century old. It had yellow clapboard siding and a wide porch that wrapped halfway around. The gravel driveway was empty, a good sign the occupants were out. They hauled their bikes on to the porch, leaning them against the white wooden railing. He admired Melissa's new machine, a black, super light all carbon Scott loaded with high-end Campy parts that cost in the neighborhood of three grand. It was impervious to rust, as was his titanium steed that had served him well for the past few years. There was nothing to do now but wait until the rain stopped or at least let up. Save for the clash of thunder, it was quiet. Occasionally a car would whoosh by, wipers on full blast, fender wells spitting liquid. Melissa flapped her arms against her chest and shivered. "I'm getting cold." Goose bumps formed on her smooth, tan skin, and her light brown ponytail, sticking out from beneath her helmet, hung limp and wet. "Me too," he said, rubbing his arms. "Let's hope this passes over fast." He wanted to wrap his arms around her. They'd both be warmer, though, truth be told, keeping warm wasn't his only reason. He wondered if she was thinking what he was thinking. Her social/romance status gave him pause, tempered his impulse to find out. She gave off no overt signals and besides, getting romantic could jeopardize a nice friendship. So he just stood there, shivering a little himself, watching the storm, debating the pros and cons, when... "I hope you don't mind," Melissa said, bumping up against him, "but I need to borrow your body. I'm getting really cold." Mind? Hardly, he thought. They hugged each other, sharing body heat as the rain came down and the cars whooshed by and the thunder clapped and lightening lit up the heavens. Melissa was average height for a woman, standing about a half foot shy of his six feet. She pressed the side of her face against his neck. "Your bod feels great, I'm warmer already," she said. He held her tighter, again fighting impulse, this time to lift her face to his and plant a kiss on her full, sensuous mouth. Just then, a black Dodge Ram pickup pulled up. It drifted just past the entrance, stopped and then backed up into the driveway. Its two occupants, a man and a woman, watched them for a few seconds before alighting from the truck. Michael and Melissa decoupled fast. The couple appeared to be in their forties. The woman wore white shorts and a tight v-neck blue short-sleeve shirt, and her fine, dirty blond hair was pinned up in a knot. The man wore jeans and a light maroon rain jacket over a black T-shirt. His reddish brown hair crept below his ears. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Melissa leaned slightly over the railing and said, "Is this your house? We were just waiting out the storm. I hope you don't mind." Without answering, they ran on to the porch. "Not the best day for bike riding, is it?" the man said. He took a long drag, then exhaled. "It was dry when we started out," Melissa said, batting away the smoke that drifted toward her in the humid air. Michael tensed up, thinking she might launch into another don't smoke lecture. She had that condescending, contemptuous look. The man tipped his worn baseball cap and said, "Well, you can stay here as long as you need to. But isn't there someone who can pick you up?" Melissa said she'd call her fiancé if need be. The man nodded before he and his wife went inside. "Okay, Mike, do me again," Melissa said, rubbing her arms and shivering. She kept her arms folded against her chest as he embraced her. He thought she smelled really good, a strange but pleasant mix of perfume, sweat and rain water. He faced her back with his face snuggled against her neck and his crotch against her butt, with nothing in between save for thin black spandex shorts. "Geez, Michael, you're getting a little personal there," she said, obviously aware of his hardening cock pressing against her derriere. He pulled away, genuinely embarrassed. "Sorry, but that's one body part that I can't always control." She turned and smiled. "No need to apologize," she said, glancing down at the bulge. "I kind of enjoyed it, to be honest. I've never told you this..." She looked away, said nothing more. "Yes? You never told me what?" "Look, let's just resume what we were doing, okay?" And so they did. But after a few minutes, he became restless as his cock pressed against the spandex, yearning to break free. He started to pump her from behind while he kissed the back of her neck. She rolled her head and moaned, then reached back and rubbed her hand over the bulge. Then they slipped off their helmets, dropped them on the porch and began to smooch. He had one arm around her back, the other grabbing her butt, pressing it hard against his crotch. The downpour continued as they kissed and dry pumped. "Your poor balls must be on fire," she said, sensing that his nuts felt ready to explode. He stood there with a pained smile, confirming her assessment. "Well, maybe I can help." She reached inside his shorts, closed her hand around his stiff cock and began to jerk him off. "This might be the most compromising of compromising situations I've ever been in," she said. "I, I doubt that fiancé of yours would approve," he said, breathing heavy. "That fiancé of mine—" She stopped at the sound of rapping against the window. They jumped, spun around and saw the scowling faces of the couple pressed against the glass. Seconds later, the man was on the porch, waving a scolding finger at them. The other hand held a lit cigarette. "Where the hell do you two think you are? You ain't gonna do that shit around here. Rain or no rain, off the property! Now!" "Sir, I was about to call my fiancé to pick us up," Melissa said, looking contrite. "He's not too far away." The guy guffawed, took a drag and shook his head. "Your fiancé, huh? What would he think if he saw you with your hand down another man's pants? If you were my old lady, I'd stuff your head down the toilet." "We were trying to keep warm, sir," Michael said, knowing full well how lame that sounded. The man flicked his smoke off the porch. "I bet you were. Look, don't make me do something we'll both regret. Now take your bikes and get moving." A bolt of lightning, followed by a thunderclap added a sense of menace to his presence. "Not until I call my fiancé!" Melissa barked. Zipping open her saddle bag, she pulled out her cell and hit the speed dial button. "Stanley, it's me. Look, we're stranded in the rain on some guy's porch at 854 Tamar Road. Can you drive over and—" They both froze when the guy pulled out a small handgun from the pocket of his jeans. Melissa felt paralyzed with fear. She dropped her phone and stepped back. As Michael hugged her in a protective embrace, the guy rushed forward, stooped down and snatched the phone from the floor. One hand held the gun, the other the cell. He shouted into the phone. "Stanley is it? Okay, Stanley, for your information, your fiancé or girlfriend or whatever the fuck she is, is here on my porch gettin' dick from another man. Just lettin' you know, dude." Melissa's fear turned to rage. "You're fucking crazy, you know that, you self righteous bastard!" More lightning and thunder shook the sky. A sadistic smile creased the man's thin lips. Without a word, he tossed the phone in the air. Reaching out, Michael caught it with one hand, then gave it to Melissa. The man tucked the gun into his pocket and stepped inside his door. "Twenty minutes," he said. "You got twenty minutes. So if I were you, I'd tell Stanley to get his sorry ass over here in a hurry. And no more hanky panky. Got it?" "I'll explain everything when you get here, Stanley. Just hurry, please," Melissa pleaded before flipping her phone off. They debated the merits of calling the police, then decided against it. All they wanted at that point was to get the hell away. But lightening still flashed through sheets of liquid, and this guy's damn porch afforded the only shelter for the next couple miles. The man's wife continued to watch them through her window. Melissa and Michael kept their distance, silent, walking around in circles, rubbing their arms and legs. Ten minutes passed before he spoke up. "So, what will you tell Stanley when he gets here?" "Not a damn thing unless he asks. And then I'll tell him what you told that redneck, that we were trying to keep warm." A sound strategy, he thought. He had met Stanley a few times. He and Melissa belonged to a cycling group that held cookouts about twice a year. Stanley didn't ride, but she usually brought him along. In fact, save for seasonal lawn work, he didn't do much of anything in the way of exercise, which Michael suspected was one reason Melissa wasn't too happy with him. He was an out of shape accountant, a couch potato more attuned to watching ball games on weekends than using his muscles for anything more than channel surfing. "Michelin Man" was a favorite pet name she'd throw around. Looking up, they saw Michelin Man approach, just under their twenty minute "deadline." He pulled his white Ford Excursion in the driveway behind the Dodge Ram, then climbed out wearing a hooded forest green rain jacket, plaid knee-length shorts, a blue T-shirt and tan dock siders. Stanley was a big man, big boned and tall, standing about six-foot-two, tipping the scales at about two-fifty. His thinning, poker-straight black hair hung loosely over his forehead. "Thanks for coming out," Michael said, receiving in return Stanley's cold nod as he opened the rear door of his SUV. Just then, the man came out and stood on his porch, arms crossed against his chest. He watched as they shoved their bikes inside, smirking. Stanley shifted his eyes between Melissa and the man. Then he asked, "Is that the guy I spoke with?" Melissa glanced at Michael, then faced Stanley "Yeah, that's him." The man kept smirking. Stanley looked at him again before slamming shut the Ford's rear door. Then they climbed in, Stanley behind the wheel, Melissa in the front seat, Michael in back. Stanley popped a wad of gum in his mouth before easing out of the driveway. "So start your splaining, Melissa," he said after they were about a mile down the road. He raised his voice in deference to the rain crashing against the roof and windshield. She glanced out her window, then turned toward Stanley. "The guy's nuts. He pulled a gun on us." She looked back at Michael for confirmation. "She's right," Michael said, watching Stanley's prominent jaw muscles flex as he chewed. "So what's this about you getting dick from another man?" He glanced over at Melissa, flashed a bemused smile. "Like I said, the guy's nuts. He got pissed because he felt we had worn out our welcome. Well, what were we supposed to do, risk getting struck by lightning? Not to mention getting soaked. He nodded, craned his head backward. "Would you know anything about that, Michael?" "Stanley, the only dick I know about was the one tucked firmly in my bike shorts, Michael said, trying to pacify. "He was obviously trying to make trouble." Not a total lie—his dick HAD stayed in his pants as Melissa stroked it. "Oh, okay." It came out as a sarcastic snort, Stanley's signal to them that he was anything but pacified. Then he added, "So maybe it was HIS dick he was talking about. Could that be it, Melissa?" She took a deep breath, squirmed in her seat. "Cut it out, okay? I'm not in the mood." "You're never in the mood," he shot back. "That's the problem." "Whatever," Melissa said, staring out her passenger side window. Michael looked away too, wishing he were elsewhere. It was moments like this that convinced him he was better off single. Relationships could be tough enough when he was just dating, when he could retreat to his own digs after feuding with his lover de jour. Not so those two; they shared the same space. Nothing was said for the remainder of the ride to the parking lot, a newly resurfaced piece of asphalt set next to a wooded stream valley off the main highway. Commuters used it as a park&ride during the week. After they unloaded the bikes, Stanley gave Melissa a parting shot, his tone stern and hostile: "I'll see you at home." By the time they racked their bikes, the worst of the storm appeared over. It still drizzled, but the dark thunder boomers were drifting eastward and behind them, on the far western horizon, a rainbow. "Thanks for shielding me from possible harm on that porch," Melissa said, opening her arms for a goodbye hug. "We could have been killed." She then embraced and kissed him the way he had always fantasized, deep and passionate. After about a minute of that, she said, "You know, my pussy is wetter than the rest of me. And I can feel that you've got your own issues; specifically, inflation—and I'm not talking in monetary terms here." "And you've got an angry fiancé who wants you home ASAP. So, unless you leave soon, my epididymal hypertension is only going to get more hyper." Melissa looked at him quizzically for a few seconds. "In laymen's terms, blue balls, right? "You are correct. Not that you can do anything about it now." She smiled and focused her eyes on his car, a dark blue, late model Audi A4. "Hmm. Do your seats fold down?" "You're not serious." She sighed. "Michael, back on the porch, I started to tell you something." "Yes, something about this thing you never told me." "Right, well, sometimes it's not easy simply being your friend and riding buddy." He played coy. "No? And why is that?" "I think I just showed you why. Do I need to spell it out? Or would you rather me demonstrate?" When he mentioned Stanley, she waved her hand. "Like he said in the car, I'm never in the mood. With him, that is. It's been over a year." Her revelation took him aback. He knew their sex life had to be less than stellar. Even so, he never imagined it was THAT bad. "Wow, you must be starved," he said. Rhapsody in the Rain She rolled her eyes. "More than that, I'm unfulfilled. On several levels, not just sexually. The first year we lived together was okay. Not great but okay. I've spent the last year, especially these last few months, thinking of ways to break our engagement and leave him." Probing for the finer details got him nowhere. "Look, right now all I want is for you to hold and kiss me and make love to me. Think you can do that?" He drove to the far side of the lot, pushed the passenger seat all the way back and dropped the windows. The heat had returned and the humidity, which never left, kept them damp and sweaty. "I love the smell of your leather seats," she said, straddled on his lap. After dropping her cell into the car's console, she snapped open her sports bra and lifted her jersey. Like the boobs of many female athletes, they were on the smallish side; no more than a B-cup, but very firm and tanned from nude sunbathing. He sucked on them awhile before she sank to her knees, pulled down his shorts and did with her mouth what her hands had tried to do on the porch. She had full lips, perfect for this kind of thing if one knew what they were doing, and she did. Unlike some women, she knew to keep her teeth at bay. Pouting, she said, "I'd love to have you in me. But I'm not on the pill and I'd guess you're fresh out of condoms." "Not quite," he said. Leaning forward, he popped open the glove compartment and pulled out a pack of Trojan lamb skins. "A doctor should always be prepared." Her face lit up in surprised glee. "But first, let me return the favor. I've got the fastest tongue in the west, you know." "Is that right?" she asked, her tone tinged with faux sarcasm. "Okay, prove it." They changed positions, putting him on the floor with his face up against her crotch, her legs draped over his broad shoulders. Then he went to work, stabbing his tongue in and out of her wet hot pussy and around her clit. "You ain't kidding, doctor," she moaned. "I'd say you've got the fastest tongue in the east as well. Oh my God, I'm either going to explode or faint. You, you better fuck me already while you have the chance." They changed positions once again. She eased onto his rock-hard cock, then began pile-driving his epididymal hypertension into oblivion. With his hands clasped around her oblique muscles, he lifted her up and down, adding momentum to her own piston-like vertical thrust. She rubbed her boobs with one hand while she grasped the top of the seat with the other. "You've, you've got quite a top tube there!" she nearly screamed, her breathing heavy. "Give it to me! Yes, like that!" "Thanks," he said, chuckling at the symbolism. "Glad I could put you back in the saddle." It was tough changing positions squeezed between the door and console. But they managed, allowing him to take topside, his favorite position to crescendo. Minutes later, his hot cum shot into the Trojan like water from a high pressure hose. Somehow he willed himself to stay in a few seconds longer for her to climax. Then they climbed in back, fell into each other's arms and kissed like two love struck teens. For a little while, she was able to lose herself in his soft kisses and sweet talk, losing track of time, almost forgetting she even knew a guy named Stanley. It reminded her a little of her high school days, weekends spent with this cute guy she had met at a Bruce Springsteen concert, romping in the back seat of his dad's Lincoln. Memories of that fun, relatively innocent time, coupled with this special time with Michael, warmed her to the bone. She was on cloud nine, as the cliché went, and the cloud had taken her to a very special place. Then reality intruded. Her cell went off. "Damn it!" Melissa shrieked. "I bet I know who that is." She grabbed her cell from the console, then glanced at her watch. "Holy crap! Where did the time go?!" They both rushed to dress while she spoke into the cell, trying her best to remain calm. "I'm sorry, Stanley, I had a bit of car trouble. My radiator overheated. But it's okay now. I should be home in a jiffy." Michael followed Melissa out of the Audi, then wrapped his arms around her for a goodbye kiss. Just then, he saw a white SUV speeding across the lot, heading right toward them. "Don't look now," he warned, "but I think you'll need to come up with a better excuse than an overheated radiator." "Huh?" She spun around. "Oh. My. Gawd. He must have been across the lot the whole time." Stanley made an abrupt stop in front of her silver BMW and jumped out. Sans the green rain jacket, he was dressed in the same casual outfit. "Well, doctor, I didn't know you were also an auto mechanic. Fixed Melissa's radiator, did you?" He brushed back his hair, then threw his hands on his hips. "I'm sure that's not all you fixed." Stanley had size on him, about two inches and at least thirty pounds. But, because he was so out of shape, Michael felt confident he could handle himself if things got ugly. He wanted to take off but felt obligated to protect Melissa if need be. He went into high alert mode, prepared to get physical if Stanley decided to bridge the three-yard chasm between them and pounce. "Calm down, guy, we can explain," he said. He lied, knew damn well there was no way he could explain his way out of this without looking ridiculous. Stanley backhanded the air between them. "You really don't need to. I get it. It's obvious. Now, I think it best you leave, let me settle with Melissa alone. At home." Michael turned toward Melissa. "Are you okay with that?" She met Stanley's hard stare with one of her own. "No, I'm not okay with that," she said, keeping her dark brown eyes on him, arms crossed against her chest. Then she paused, took a deep breath and dropped her arms to her sides. "Look, I'm not going home with you tonight except to pack some clothes. I need time to think, to sort things out." Stanley looked away, shaking his head. "I can't f-ing believe this. And just where do you plan on staying?" Melissa turned to Michael with pleading eyes, didn't say a word. "You're shacking up with him, the good doctor here?!" Caught off guard, Michael spread his arms, shook his head. He lived in a three-story townhouse in a gentrified downtown neighborhood. The house was equipped with a roof deck overlooking the city's beautiful harbor. Melissa and Stanley knew it well, for Michael had hosted a number of parties there for the cycling group. "Don't look so innocent, Michael. I bet this has been in the works for quite some time." Melissa stepped a couple feet closer to him. "That is so not true, Stanley. The only thing that's been in the works for quite some time is the dissolution of our relationship. It's a sham and you know it." "That's because—" "Let me finish." Grudgingly, he nodded and she continued. "We haven't had sex for over a year because, well, frankly, because you turn me off—and not just because of the way you keep yourself, although I can't deny that your fat, flabby self is a big part of that. We don't have much to say to each other anymore because of your pitiful lack of interests outside your work. When's the last time you read a book, any book? I find it quite ironic that you, a bright guy, math whiz, high IQ and all that, never reads, save for accounting journals and the newspaper once in a while. Sure, professionally you've done quite well for yourself, big bucks and all that come with it. I mean, we both know my piddly government job alone would barely pay the utilities of that fancy house in the burbs—your house, really, the one I moved into after you put that rock on my finger. But you've always been stingy when it comes to lending me emotional support for things that I take an interest in, that mean a lot to me. In fact, in the last few months, you've been tossing out snide remarks every time I leave the house for a bike ride. Well, I'm damn sick of it. And let's not forget the time you slapped me across the face in a fit of jealousy. So no, Michael didn't have squat to do with my decision to leave. What he did do was give me a glimpse of what it means to once again be happy." Seeing her tear up, Michael stepped forward and threw an arm around her. This wasn't easy for him either, watching a bitter, angry woman lambaste her cuckold fiancé. He kind of felt sorry for him; that is, until he got nasty and said: "A glimpse of what it means to once again have a guy's cock in your mouth is what you mean, don't you? Now get your ass in that Beemer that my hard earned doe is paying for and follow me home. And I mean to stay, not to collect your clothes to live with this idiot doctor." Michael had never in his life been caught in a love triangle, and didn't wish to start now. On the other hand, if something happened to Melissa he'd carry the guilt forever. He felt obligated, made privy to business that shouldn't have been his business but for present circumstances. Stepping toward Stanley, he said, "Be reasonable, let her have her space." Stanley smirked. "Space with you, you mean. Uh-uh. Not happening." He leaped forward, reached behind Michael's back and grabbed Melissa's hand. "Get the hell away from her!" he snapped. Then he swung at Michael, an awkward left hook that missed but found its way to Melissa's chin. She collapsed in Michael's arms, out cold. "Way to go, big guy," Michael said after lowering her to the ground. "You just racked yourself up a domestic assault charge." Michael stooped down to attend to Melissa while Stanley stood frozen in place, his eyes locked on to his unconscious fiancé, as if amazed by his own handiwork. Then he got agitated. "You, you made me do it," he accused, his voice shaking. "If you had left when I told you to, this wouldn't have happened."Grimacing, his fists clenched, he moved toward Michael in menacing fashion. Michael sprang up to confront his adversary. "Don't get stupid. You're in no shape to tangle with anybody, much less an endurance athlete who practices martial arts as well as routinely rides a bike sixty miles at a clip." Michael laughed inside knowing that he exaggerated the martial arts part. But it worked. Stanley backed off, though he again blamed Michael for not leaving. "If I had done that you'd have beat the crap out of her," he retorted. "Now I think it best that YOU leave." Melissa was beginning to stir. Michael cradled her head in his lap, resisting the urge to kiss her, knowing full well that pulling a Prince Charming move like that would really set Stanley off. Soon she came to, sat up, shook her head, moved her jaw from side to side. Nothing appeared broken. Still, Michael was concerned she might have a concussion. Hours later, after a trip to the ER (other than a slight headache, she was fine), Melissa was back in Stanley's house, throwing her clothes into two large suitcases, collecting some odds and ends and discarding something—her engagement ring. She agreed not to press charges if Stanley let her leave while Michael stood by. All this time, he hadn't actually consented to her staying with him. He just let it happen, figuring she wouldn't stay long, perhaps a week or so before she'd either get back with Stanley or get her own place. A week turned into two weeks, then four, then eight, then... A year after that fateful, rainy day, they were still together. Not married, not even engaged. Neither of them was in a hurry to go that route. And they still cycled together. One of their recent rides took them past that old farmhouse. Coincidentally it started to storm just as it did a year ago: lightening, thunder, the whole bit. This time Melissa toughed it out to the parking lot. Just as last time, upon their return, the rain had let up. Before heading home, they stood there for a few minutes, soaking wet, holding hands, gazing at the dark clouds swirling eastward and the rainbow arched across the western sky.