0 comments/ 9504 views/ 0 favorites Shelter from the Storm By: Magnolia13 It started innocently enough, as it always does. Curled together laughing, my head on his chest, his hand in my hair, two friends enjoying each other. Curled together in one anther's energy like a litter of playful kittens or puppies. Warm, calm, friendly wrapped up safe feeling. We always muck it up with words. Not in the way I am used to, in fact everything about this situation is backwards. Past experience, a dozen years of it, says that mucking up with words usually leads in the opposite direction of erotic horizontal positions. For us, well, the more we talk about our fuckered situations, the more we seem to be pulled together and into each other. And onto each other, hands and mouths and thighs, but I get ahead of myself. Some transformation takes us places when we create a circle, or even just raise energy a little bit. That inner fire we keep banked for the majority of our existence flares alive and comes crashing out and into each other. We each feed off of the other and that heat is so seductive and comforting and exciting and intoxicating and, well, glorious, I can't even try to resist. Does he? I'm afraid to ask. We talk. We talk about the reasons we shouldn't couldn't and won't let this wildfire crash through our lives. And then it's way too late and our lips have met and we're tasting that storm we create between us, feeding it and each other. All these weeks I've been thinking that I surely couldn't be remembering correctly. His fingers on my neck can't be so compelling, his lips on mine can't be so intoxicating. His mouth moving on my neck and ear and back to my mouth again can't be so erotic. And oh my God, was I lying to myself. It is all that and worlds more besides. His mouth gentle, then demanding, his tongue forceful but tentative at first and then drinking in my lips and crawling into me and I get lost in that taste and texture. I become hyper-aware of his fingers on the skin of my neck, brushing my hair away. His mouth moves then from mine, trailing up my jaw line to my ear and down to my shoulder, his hand pulling the collar of my shirt aside to expose more of my skin. I'm aching to feel the bite of his teeth, feel him hard and feeding on my flesh as we each feed on this feeling. But he is gentle, even in his urgent caress his hands are careful, his mouth demanding but not overly forceful, hands placed lightly on me. His skin is warm under my palms, sliding up his back, between his heat and the cotton of his shirt my hands explore his strong back, pulling him harder to me, like he needed me to confirm any more clearly how much I enjoy his exploration of me. I'm on my back then, suddenly it seems, because I don't quite recall changing positions, the whole event is all about sensation to me, not linear time. His lips torture my ear, his breathing harsh and so sweetly sexy in my ear, his fingers on my shoulders, in my hair. And then fully clothed I can feel him inside me. I know it is an illusion, we are both covered in two layers of clothes at least, and still, I feel him there. Not just his obvious pleasure and arousal pushing against me through constraining denim, but honest to Goddess inside. I wrap my thighs around him just as I would if we had been bare skin to skin. And my breath catches in my throat I want so bad to cry out loud. Instead I press my mouth to his shoulder and breathe in the scent of his skin, my fingers stroking his hair and his hips rock with mine until I'm not sure if we are still clothed, still in this room or even on the same planet we started out on. Nothing at all exists except the sensation I can still feel deep inside of me. His hardness, thighs, back, arms, makes me self consciously aware of my own softness. Finally coming to rest, breathing hard and still holding each other, I am supremely aware of our physical differences. It has been an extremely long time since I have felt so utterly female in the company of a so very overwhelmingly male presence. Later he looks at me, not with blame in his magically changeable eyes, but quiet, caring, careful knowledge. So casual with others around, we don't steal glances, act shy or coy to each other. Though I wish my knees weren't so weak I feel like I'm just learning to walk properly. Sadly, I'm thankful he has more control than I'd like, so there are no marks on my pale skin where his lips and tongue seared my flesh, no imprints of teeth I so wish were left behind to map his passage. I had a good reason to step up to the counter where he leaned casual and pleased with himself. I can't remember it now. Was it to prove the color of my eyes is blue not green? Testing the theory that my eyes will change with mood, he leaned in to me, rubbing his beard on my neck, cheek, lips following to drive me crazy. I'm not sure if he proved the theory or not. I know his knee pushed gently between mine made my knees want to buckle. I turned out the light so it wouldn't matter what colour my eyes were. Quietly sitting, fingers twined together, softly speaking in the barely lit room. Anybody could walk in, and maybe that is also part of the thrill, the danger added to an already out of control situation. The third time is a charm goes the cliché, and all my fault this time in teasing, I should never have playfully asked if I'd misunderstood the past occasions of his rather (how did I say it?) obvious interest. Three, if I remember correctly, such incidents. He rose above me, looking down with those changing eyes and in that low voice tells me that there was never any misinterpretation and kisses me, hands holding me, mouth moving over mine, in mine and then to the pale flesh of my throat. His hands take mine, he holds up my wrist to open his mouth over my pulse as he has just done at my neck. His warm lips on my wrist, palm, fingers. Again I am unbelievably undone. I can't remember a man ever kissing my hand like that, or ever finding myself turned to mindlessness by a kiss on the back of my hand. No dry chaste kiss on my palm will ever come close to the gentle assault of his lips, tongue and teeth on my skin. His hand cupping my cheek slides so near my lips. I can't resist a taste. His thumb slides past my teeth, my tongue wraps around and over and did I hear him make an almost audible moan just then? His fingers one by one get equal treatment, tongue slipping over the pad of each finger, teeth pulling each digit deeper to suckle. And I realize if I don't stop right now I may not be able to do so. Returning his hand to his own possession was a very difficult thing to do. One whole night we spent alone and uninterrupted and not once did we flare out of control like this. Here in someone else's space we can't go thirty minutes without closing ourselves in some wild expression of this connection. What kept us that night from the heat and so often since has failed to quench our hunger? Perhaps we are just contrary. We do what isn't expected and enjoy the unexpected moment stolen. Or perhaps we really don't trust ourselves to stop and need the safety valve we know is just on the other side of the door in this place. Shelter from the Storm It was stormy as they walked to the shopping mall. The wind howled round the empty car park and litter danced maniacal steps on the wild gusts. They huddled together for company, their collars raised against the biting east wind. She looked up at him with eyes that told him that she wanted comfort. He pulled her close, and felt that thrill the touch of her body always gave him. At that moment they passed an empty doorway and the icy wind seared into their flesh with thin fingers that tugged and tore at their coats. He dragged her into the doorway and span her round so that she was on the inside and he was sheltering her from the storm outside. She loved feeling his big body close to hers and when he protected her! Mmm! She felt so horny! And so it was that when he turned his back to the elements and shielded her from the weather, she felt the warmth of his body not the searing touch of the iced, east wind. She felt herself melt into him so that the rough cloth of their coats disappeared, as if the glow that she felt inside was from his naked skin not the love of her man. He reached his arms around her and hugged her like a bear, and she disappeared in the warmth, lost in his arms, safe in his presence, protected from the outside, suddenly serene and peaceful while outside, the winds howled and raged. She hugged him back, only her arms didn’t quite reach around him, so she pressed herself tightly to him and felt his hard body next to hers. For that moment time stood still, and she felt warmth not cold, heard his heart thumping not the wind howling, felt safe and secure, not threatened by the elements outside. She looked up at him. He looked down at her. She looked so lost, so vulnerable, so small, that he just wanted to protect her forever. He reached his hand down and cupped her cheek gently. It was surprisingly warm. He slid his fingers from cheek to mouth, from mouth to lips and traced the line of her mouth. She parted her lips while looking him full in the eye. He felt a tingle inside him as he penetrated her mouth with his finger, and she clamped her lips tightly on his finger, and sucked hard with her hot, wet mouth. The tingling got stronger. She felt the stirring as their bodies fused in the doorway. She took his finger out of her mouth and pursed her lips and looked at his mouth, tilting her head slightly. He leant down and she closed her eyes and felt this man’s lips gently brush against her cheek with a gossamer touch, before kissing her forehead, her cheek and finally, landing on her lips, planting the most delicate and sensitive kiss on her wet mouth. She felt breathless with the moment, intoxicated with the sweet wine of the experience, and she pressed her lips against his and kissed him back, nibbling first on the lower lip, then the upper lip. He was becoming more excited, and she could sense his urgency increasing as he kissed her with more passion, and his breathing became heavier. He grasped her even more tightly, and as she adjusted her body position to ease the grip, she felt the stiffness in his groin press hard against her body. She almost had to break off her kiss to catch her breath as the marvelled in the effect of the kiss on both of them. She loved to feel his cock next to her, it made her so horny, like a woman. She rubbed her crutch next to his, to increase his sensation and surrender herself fully to him. She felt his body tremble as the thrill of sexual energy coursed through him, and she sensed the animal passion in him grow as he pressed harder on her mouth, and his grip threatened to squeeze all her breath out of her. She finally broke her mouth free and she threw her head back, and let him kiss her neck, her ears, her cheek, until he was peppering her face with a multitude of tiny kisses, and she felt that sense of sweet surrender that she always felt when she wanted him inside her. He was panting now, and she loved the control that allowed her to evoke such urges in this big man, who was now lusting after her, desiring her as she desired him. She milked his love, felt his desire, thrust her hips into his, gyrated slowly, and felt herself complete as a woman, loved, desirable, protected and whole. Shelter from the Storm The rain fell in sheets in Little Rock on a bleak late August evening. Betty Atkinson perched on a stool behind the desk of the Hotel Aragon, blankly watching old sitcoms on the flickering TV behind the counter. She poured another cup of coffee and flicked an ash from her Virginia Slim. A couple of old men sat in the lobby, staring blankly ahead in their well worn padded chairs. The lighting rumbled in the distance, the flourescent lights flickered, Opie pleaded eloquently with Andy, and time wandered by. The hotel was a memory of a more gracious time. The corners were softened by ornamentation and greasy chandeliers hung from the ceiling, wanly illuminating the lobby. Worn stuffed chairs and couches populated the lobby, with rickety end tables interspersed randomly among them. The daily paper was strewn around casually, the days running together in an inscrutable order: finding a section from that day's paper was an exercise in chance probability. Worn carpet and pitted linoleum underlay the traffic, and the windows were muddied by streaks of Windex and gathering grime. Wisps of cigarette smoke wafted and played in the stray currents from several windows and cracks in the walls: the Hotel Aragon was innocent of air conditioning in the humid Arkansas summer. The door opened and a thin black man entered wearing a hooded rain slicker. Throwing back the hood revealed a craggy face with high cheekbones, his ebony skin grizzled by three days' stubble and his wild black hair flecked with white. He could be Don King, only his gaunt frame and somber carriage marked him as a very different kind of man. A large nose with impossibly big nostrils dominated his face, giving him a hawkish appearance. He put a small satchel on the floor and looked around to orient himself. Betty took a deep drag on her cigarette and sized up the stranger. Another old scarecrow, she thought to herself, just like all my tenants. He was shaking slightly and his eyes were very bloodshot; her hand rested close to the phone ready to punch the 911 speeddial in case this was another dope addict ready to go off the deep end. Most of her tenants were this kind of scarecrow: addicts, alcoholics, or on methadone; wasted old men, black and white, who had fought their demons and lost. As long as they paid their rent and didn't cause trouble, she didn't care. She didn't care about a lot of things other that staying warm and that her supply of coffee and cigarettes didn't run out. The man shook off some of the rain and came over to the counter. He leaned on the desk and asked softly: "Can you help me, ma'am?" "Maybe," came the short reply flavored with the Ozarks twang. "I'm looking for a gentleman named Corky, Corky Toussant." The voice was gentle, and there was a hint of Louisiana underlying the unexpectedly dulcet tones. "Corky Toussant," Betty repeated hollowly as she searched her memory. After a moment, she smiled wickedly and snapped "He's gone back ta school." The dark, grizzled head shook in disbelief. "I don't understand. How could he go back to school? The man was in his seventies." She took another drag and blew out a pungent cloud. "He's helping med school students learn what 50-plus years of doing dope does to a black man. Croaked last week, Thursday, no family. You come for his stuff?" The man sighed and his demeanor sank. Betty noticed that he would not look her in the eyes. "No, ma'am. I've come north to escape the storm. Corky and I went to school together, and toured for many years: he was the only soul I knew in Little Rock." She paused, taken aback for her sarcasm. There was something about this rough looking man she couldn't put her finger on. "I'm sorry. A lot of men die here, or go to live on the street. If you wanna room, I can give you his. Joyce cleaned it yesterday." The man took a deep breath, collecting himself. "I guess I do need someplace to stay. It was a long drive getting here. How much is a room?" "Thirty three dollars a night. In advance. No credit." She took another puff on her cigarette and ground out the stub. "All right. I'll take a room for three nights." He took out a wad of bills and peeled off five Twenty dollar bills. It reduced the roll dramatically. His hands were lean and strong, an artist's hands, marked with age spots and slight wrinkles. She reached across and took the money. Putting out an antique guest book, she pointed to an empty line. "Sign here. Oh, and I gotta see your driver's license." The man fumbled out a Louisiana driver's license. James Wilson, New Orleans, it proclaimed. The picture was close enough. He signed the book and put Betty's pen down beside it. Betty jotted down the driver's license down, and returned the license to him. "Room 318, third floor. Sorry the elevator ain't workin; no time to get it fixed. Need any help?" "No, thank you, ma'am." He picked up his satchel, and after looking around a moment, started toward the stairs. "You all right, Mr. Wilson?" she asked, "You look like you've had a hard day." "Drove all night and all day. Awful traffic all the way to Baton Rouge. Looked around town, but the clubs are all different since the last time I was here. Finally got a lead on where Corky was and came here." "Oh. If you want any o' Corky's stuff, just lemme know. He don't need it no more." He gave her a grim smile and walked off. Betty ran the driver's license on the Internet and found out James Wilson had no criminal record. Good, she said to herself, at least the cops won't be coming around to kick down another door. She lit another cigarette and looked at the flickering tube again, but her eyes wandered toward the stairwell from time to time. ***** He found the room without any trouble, and after opening the door, he laid his satchel on the nightstand and turned back the sheets. I'm lucky this time, he thought to himself, there don't seem to be any bedbugs here. There was liquid soap in the bathroom, and although he was exhausted from the trip, he stripped and washed his clothes out by hand, hanging them on the two wooden hangers on the rack and the lone chair. Club owners were more open to clean smelling piano players than ones who smelt of urine, vomit and old sweat. Finally, he stretched his dark, lean frame on the bed and allowed himself to unwind from the journey. As his consciousness swirled toward grey, the memory of his departure replayed in his mind. He shared his house with Red Foster, an old trumpet player he'd toured with when he was younger. Red got him started in jazz, and the repayment was caring from Red in his old age. His body had failed in his mid 80's; he lost most of his sight and his legs to diabetes, and acid flashbacks would make him difficult to manage from time to time. One Sunday mid-morning, after playing in his usual club, then jamming after hours until well past sunup, he found Red very agitated in front to the television. "Puddin'head, Puddin'head, you gots to get outta here." "What are you talking about, Red?" "Days a storm a comin'. Dat big hurricaine they sayd wuld drown us someday. It's a comin'. De shit's gonna hit de fan. You gotta go." The old man's arms waved about dramatically as he sounded his prophecy. "De mayor sayd evrybodies gotta go. Get outta here, Puddin'head get outta here." "All right, Red, all right." Puddin'head looked at the forecast and knew Red was right. Folks had been leaving town for the past day or so; business at the club was awful that night. "Let me get you ready and we'll go." "Bullshit, you stupid nigger. I ain't goin', I ain't goin'. I cain't leave. Nawlins is my home: I cain't live widout it anymore. I gotta stay. I'm a used up ol' man, and I ain't afraid of nuttin." "But Red, I've got to get you someplace safe." "No. Leave me be. I been a daid man fer years. Never thunk I'd live to see eightie-seben, and don't wanna see any more. Ever since my Lucy went, I been jus' goin' thru de motions." Lucy had been Red's common law wife; they had lived together for forty years. They had several children who had all moved away and lost touch with their parents. "We've got to get you to your daughter's house in Baton Rouge. We can still make it, Red." The old man swatted Puddin'head's arms away with unusual force. "Little Lucy's got enough ta worry 'bout widout 'nother useless man 'round de house. De storm's a comin', you gotta go, NOW dammit!" Red continued to flail away, and rain fell on the roof of the bungalow in the Ninth Ward of New Orleans. Finally, Puddin'head put a few things in his satchel, gathered what money he had, and took it out to the car. The sky looked awful and things were only going to get worse. He went back in and confronted the old man. "This is a bad storm, and your chances here aren't good. I'm not ready to let go of you yet. Are you sure you won't let me take you away from here?" "Listen to de wind, you stupid nigger. Time's a waistin'. Get outta my sight." Red started throwing closed fisted punches when Puddin'head tried to approach him with surprising force. "Look, you gotta future, you only sebenty and you still got de magic in ya fingers. You's the best pianner player I knowed, best since Nat King Cole. Your music ain't done yet, mine is gawn." The ancient eyes grew sad and tired. "My chops is busted an' my fingers is stiff. Le' me go, James, le'me go." The old man sagged, and stared at him with leaden eyes. His heart was thumping and threatened to choke him, but Puddin'head went out, started his car, and began navigating the maze to escape New Orleans. His car was rattling badly he thought it would shake apart at time, but it gamely held together. He had to stop every couple of hours or so to check the oil and let it rest, gassing up twice on his way North, taking even more time. As he reached the Arkansas border, reports that the leavees had breached and the Ninth Ward was under water warbled faintly on the radio from a distant station. The long drive through the hills to Little Rock was a damp purgatory of desolation. ***** Tuesday afternoon was the day Betty went to the store to lay in supplies for the week. She didn't sleep much: her son would stagger in after an long night's drunk to watch the desk for a few hours while she napped and did a few necessary things for herself. She would be at her post from mid-afternoon all the way through the night, living on Maxwell House, Virginia Slims and TBN until just after dawn, when her drunk son would stagger in again. Her grotesque daughter would clean the rooms three times a week, at least the rooms that were empty and the ones the tenants were sober enough to let the cleaning lady in. As she passed an alley between the hotel and the grocery store, she saw a familiar figure rooting around the trashcans. The man who checked in last night, James Wilson of New Orleans, was rummaging through the garbage behind Pete's Diner. She increased her pace, laden with sacks, her lip curled in disgust. Another bum, she thought, in three days he's going to be living under a bridge. Getting back to the Hotel, she put her groceries away and went to the bathroom. After relieving herself, she washed her hands and looked at herself in the mirror as she lit another cigarette. Her face was never beautiful, her nose squashed in and her lips oddly full for a small mouth, the bottom lip larger than the upper. Her brown eyes, one lid drooping, rested beneath large, dark eyebrows that met in the middle. She had always been thin, with small breasts, and she touched one that held a dark memory. Grey had invaded her mousy brown hair, and she usually left it to its own devices in an anarchic nest. Her son Johnny was sitting at the desk, a plump, scruffy man in his mid-thirties with half a head of brown hair, and a half-full bottle of bourbon on the shelf underneath the counter. Two old men were sitting in the lobby, staring into space as usual. She whacked him on the shoulder and screamed: "I tol' you not to drink when you're here, stupid. My God, I wish I aborted you when I had the chance. Git outta here, you idiot. Crawl in your bottle somewhere else." The young man sulked off with his bottle, and Betty mounted her throne. It was a quiet evening. A couple of scruffy old men inquired about rooms, but they didn't have cash, so she shooed them back into the night. A bald man in a trenchcoat with a huge suitcase and a thin black headed woman obviously naked under her raincoat with several piercings and tattoos checked in: she was shooting him constant adoration, to which he responded with practiced disdain. They were regulars, young people who came by twice a week, to spent a few hours in perverted sex before leaving around midnight. Their neighbors had complained about shouting, groans, and the sound of leather hitting flesh coming from their room, but the couple always paid double rates, so Betty left them alone. After nine, a few limpid, sour notes came from the lobby piano. It hadn't been tuned for years, and the right weather and good fortune made it bearable this particular night. Betty started to get up off her stool to chase the pianist away, but the exploratory notes soon became a melody, accompanied by sparse chords, and she stopped short of chasing the pianist away. It was James Wilson of New Orleans, sitting with his eyes shut at the piano, and his stark face contorted as the music wandered into shades of blue. How he'd snuck in without her noticing scared her momentarily, but her program was reaching a climax and she could get very absorbed in lives that weren't her own. She drifted out from behind the counter to look at the man from New Orleans: he was sitting peacefully, his eyes closed, his hands moving effortlessly with an economy of motion. Betty's eyes closed and she stood there for a few moments, while unfamiliar feelings washed through her. The piano was significantly out of tune, but the music embraced the burr of bad intonation and made it part of its language. The sound he wove seemed to pull in a bass player and drummer with the spell it wove, even though those players weren't there. Betty sighed and turned on her heel back to her desk, where she turned off the television and sat there, smoking cigarettes. The old men blinked and cocked their heads to rally their ancient failing ears toward the music. Gunther came in an hour later. His sparse grey hair was plastered to his head over a dark brown overcoat; the weaving of his step indicated that he'd had a better evening than usual soliciting dollars for unaccompanied opera arias. A lean, profusely lined face of Teutonic origin still stood proudly above his frail frame, his back beginning to bend with the years. He wobbled to the counter where Betty sat and leaned over: "I think that chu may be Jewish, fraulein," he whispered menancingly. Betty blinked and snarled at him. "I'm not and it don't matter, you old Nazi. The war's over, and you ain't huntin' Jews in Poland anymore. Let me get Wiesenthal on the speeddail." A pair of sneers completed their ritual greeting. "Get lucky tonight?" "Nein, mein' Schatzi, but a nice man gave me a hundred dollars to shtop singing outside a very nice restaurant on the rich side of town. So I vent to a favorite shpot for some schnapps." "Good for you, Gunther." He noticed the music and did a double take. "I see ve have a black Orpheus with us tonight. Were's he from?" "New Orleans." "Ah, what a pity. The shtorm has been so bad there, lots of people fled all around the country. Vas he on a bus?" "No, he drove in. Storm?" Gunther nodded. "Ja, a hurricane. Katrina, they is calling it. New Orleans is completely under vater. This man must be from a Jass club there. Did he have any suitcase or luggage?" "A satchel." "Ah, left in a hurry. Doesn't have more than the clothes on his back, I tink. Maybe he left his lady love there." Another sneer. "Why should you care, Gunther? Your bread is buttered on the other side." "But it would be such a tragic love story." Gunther took a deep breath and began to sing as sweetly as his gravelly voice could: "Che farò senza Euridice! Dove andrò senza il mio ben?" As he tottered across the lobby, he continued to sing in harsh counterpoint to the genteel piano in Italian until he reached the hallway and wobbled off into the distance. The shrill aria faded off and was cut off by a closing door. Betty smirked at the incongruous counterpoint until she heard the melody assimilated and transformed by the piano. Opening her browser, she looked put the text she heard into Google and found the aria from Gluck's Orfeo. Che farò senza Euridice! Dove andrò senza il mio ben? Euridice, Oh Dio! Respondi! Io son pure il tuo fedel. Ah! Non m'avenza, più soccorso, più speranza, nè dal mondo nè dal ciel! What shall I do without Euridice? Where shall I go without my treasure? Euridice! Oh god, answer me! I am your true, faithful slave. Alas, no salvation, no further hope, neither from earth, nor from heaven! A tear crept from her normally arid eye and ran down her cheek. The music wove around the classical melody for forty five minutes, caressing it, softening it and transforming it, taking her from sorrow to agony to redemption as she smoked and wept. Then the pianist paused for a few minutes before taking up Some Enchanted Evening, causing a tingling that she hadn't felt in decades. ***** Little Rock was very different from the one Puddin'head remembered. He'd played with Red and Corky for three months at a club fifteen years ago, but the building had been demolished and the club wasn't in the phone book at another location. There weren't many jazz places in walking distance of the Hotel Aragon. Not one gave him a chance to audition for them, and the best he could get was an offer to take part in an open jam session the following Tuesday. He treated himself to breakfast at a Denny's, but his wad of bills was dwindling. If he stayed much longer, he wouldn't be able to afford the gas to get to Fayetteville, much less Kansas City. He'd heard about Branson, but didn't think they would be interested in a jazz player. He went around to some of the posher hotels to see if any were looking for a cocktail pianist, but there were no leads there, either. It was nightfall when he returned to the Hotel Aragon to make lemonade out of the sour lobby piano there. Playing was like breathing, even in an awful place like that, and he had to play. Coming back in, he spotted the same lady at the counter that was there when he came to town. Her look toward him changed over the past couple of days. "Mr. Wilson," she began, "how's yer day been?" "Not good. There's no work, can't find a place to play. Do you mind if I play here tonight?" "Absolutely not, Mr. Wilson. Please, help yourself. Is there anythin' I kin get ya?" "No, thank you. I'll be fine." Seating himself at the piano and assaying a few chords, he noticed it had been tuned that day. The lady must like the love songs, he said to himself. All right, let's keep it up, who knows? So for the next hour he explored Hello, Young Lovers and found her entranced when he stopped to take a break. He went over to the counter. "Excuse me, ma'am." "Betty. Ma name is Betty Atkinson. Please, call me Betty." "Betty. Nice to meet you. Please call me Puddin'head." "Puddin'head?" "Yes. It's a nickname that I picked up over the years. It's the title of a Mark Twain novel, Puddin'head Wilson, and the guys in my first band started calling me that, because there were three other Jimmys in the group. I've never gotten away from it." "Oh. Never heard of the book. What kin I help ya with, sir?" Shelter from the Storm "I was wondering if you knew of any clubs or hotels that need a piano player? I haven't had any luck on my own, and since you're a local business person, you might know something I don't." Betty snorted. "Well, I ain't been to the local business club meetings, don't have no contacts. You might call the Musician's Union tomorrow." "I don't belong to the Union, ma'am." "Oh. Well, can't think of anythin' right now. I'll let ya know." He went to the water fountain, allowing a rusty stream to clear before taking a long drink. After walking outside to look at the sky a moment, he returned to the piano and variations on classic love songs. ***** Betty was starting to be embarrassed with herself. A proper Southern girl, she grew up recoiling in horror at the thought of miscegenation that terrorized all the women of her generation. Her experience with men of her own race had been almost completely negative: a cousin raped her at age fifteen, and a couple of boys from high school had actually put a pillowcase over her head while having sex with her. At nineteen she met Terry Coombs, who married her after getting her pregnant with Johnny. Their life together was flawed from the beginning: they were married at five o'clock on a Monday at the courthouse after work, and lived with his parents the two years they stayed together. His family were all hopeless drunks, and didn't notice when she snuck her son and daughter out of the house one morning as they slept off yet another weekend drunk. She'd worked hard to support herself and her little family over the years, living with her aging mother and working two jobs at a time, managing to scrimp and save a nest egg. In the various places she worked, she'd found men willing to have sex with her, stolen moments in storerooms and bar bathrooms, her bent over at the waist doggy style so they wouldn't have to look at her face. She put up with the humiliation in exchange for sex: it was the only hint of tenderness in her life. Another baby came; no one cared about her having illegitimate babies, and at age thirty, a hysterectomy solved one problem. Her body was always very thin, and as she aged and grew a little pudgy, interest decreased even from the desperate men who never got laid. The Hotel was a mirage, promising her a lifestyle independent of the arrogant bastards she worked for over the years, but it was more decrepit than advertised, a money pit, and she finally gave in to her fate of maintaining the limping establishment, dully trudging through her fifth decade toward old age. Her son married young as well, an alcoholic like his father's family; her older daughter managed to marry at eighteen despite inheriting her mother's looks, but Betty was always afraid that Susie would find her way back here with children in tow. History had a way of repeating itself in her family. Sherry enlisted in the Army right out of High School and was in Iraq, and Betty avoided the war news avidly, not wanting to know what her baby was going through. Her life was the same shit every day until this black man appeared. His music brought the world into focus, made life worth living in a way she'd never thought possible. True, he was gaunt, his skin stretched painfully over his body (that she could see), his face reflected unknown pain. Foxnews had shown the pictures of New Orleans to her. Revulsion was slowly melting from the magic of this dark troubador, who gave her life more than shades of dark grey. ***** Puddin'head's third day in Little Rock was no better than the first two. The bed was lumpy and he didn't sleep well, dreams of New Orleans haunting him regularly. If he had more money, he'd buy a bottle of gin to help him sleep, but his wad of bills was far too small. His wanderings led him to a better stretch of trash cans to pilfer in search of leftovers, outside some of the better restaurants in town, but he noticed the price of gas was creeping up. Worst of all was discovering a yellow ticket on his car: he'd parked in the wrong place. Tracking the Louisiana tags was probably more difficult now that before the hurricane, but if he couldn't gas it up, he'd probably have to sell it in a couple of days in order to live. If he left town soon, he probably wouldn't have to worry about the ticket, but it made staying in town with the car more problematic. Staying in Little Rock seemed like a death sentence, anyway. He walked past the local Mission to the homeless. Many of them were Betty's former tenants, high on drugs, drunk, hopelessly addled with untreated mental illnesses, or a combination of any of the three. The people inside seemed to be panicked: other refugees from the hurricane's path were there, street people from the Gulf coast, and the place was swamped. Several loud voices with Mississippi accents were shouting: demanding attention, demanding food, demanding incoherently. I could spend a week here and die in the lobby without anyone noticing, Puddin'head thought to himself. He stopped by the Musician's Union, and asked to see a register of membership. The receptionist was reluctant to show it to him, but when he told her of his plight, she offered it in case he saw a name he recognized. She had been to New Orleans, and heard him at his old club. No luck there among the names, and his only gain was a smile and a free cup of coffee. Wandering around town was frustrating: he'd stumbled into a part of town where they didn't have places he could play. He gave up around mid-afternoon, and wandered back to the Hotel Aragon. ***** As the strange man called Puddin'head entered, Betty was surprised to see him back so soon. Surely a man of his talents would have found something, she thought. But the look on his downturned face and the heaviness of his steps told her that he was unsuccessful once again. "Mr. Wilson, Mr. Wilson." He came over to the counter, looking down. "Yes, ma'am, can I help you?" "I was wonderin', would you like to have supper with me tonight?" There was a long pause and he shifted his weight on the balls of his feet. "I don't think that would be appropriate, ma'am. This is the South, and we might attract undue attention." Betty shook her head vigorously. "This isn't 1959, Mr. Wilson. In dis neighborhood, nobody cares. Nobody cares about nothing 'round here," she lamented softly. There was another long pause. "If you've got some leftovers, I would be obliged, but I would be uncomfortable sharing a meal with you. Too many years, too many people to watch out ; too many years coming and go through too many back doors. I've seen too many friends killed for hanging out with white women hooked on good music." After another long awkward, silent moment, he spoke again: "May I play your piano tonight, ma'am?" "Oh, Mr. Wilson, you don't have to ask nomore. Sit down and play anytime you want." "Please ma'am, call me Puddin'head." "All right, ah, Puddin'head. Please call me Betty." She smiled sweetly at him, hoping that he would glimpse it despite his downturned eyes. His face was unmoving and his lips barely parted as he almost whispered: "Betty." "Do you take requests, Puddin'head?" Growing more animated, he replied: "Of course. What would you like to hear?" "Killing Me Softly" Another long pause. "I don't know. Been a long time since I played that song. Not sure I remember it." She ground out another cigarette. "If you'll play it for me, you can stay another night, free." ***** Killing Me Softly was Paula's song. He was fifty one, she was nineteen. She found him in his club in New Orleans: an orphan, she was just released from court supervision a year before. It was a night he played that song, and she fell for the song, the music and him a the same time. A talent as a jazz singer and pianist who sat at his feet to learn from him. Her fingers were inspired and her voice angelic. They had played together for a year; two pianos when they could find them, she sang when they couldn't find them. The crowds grew and their income did as well. She slept in his bed, and made love to him in ways he had never known before. Her body was long and lean, her hair luxurious, her breasts ample, and her tan body clung to his dark one compulsively through their nights together. Making love to her was a dream; heaven on earth no matter what they did, embracing and kissing for hours, tracing delicate music on each other's skin. Her nipples were soft and rubbery and sensitive; he could nurse them for hours to her delight, making her orgasm again and again. He was afraid of making her pregnant, so he always insisted on ejaculating outside her vagina. Blue eyes beamed up at him as she drank down his nectar and lit his world with fireworks. Puddin'head knew it couldn't last; she was too good for him. Their lives were too perfect, their joy too complete to last. A couple of agents wanted to sign her up; manipulative men who Puddin'head knew would ruin her life. It was only a matter of time before an offer too good to pass up came by, so he used his contacts to get her a regular gig and a safe place to stay in Kansas City, where she would be managed by trustworthy people he knew and get noticed. Last he'd heard, she had moved on to Philly, where she was making records, singing regularly and raising a suburban family with a college professor. The last time he played the song was her last night in the old New Orleans club. She spoke at length about the song's origin, that he was her Don McLean, her inspiration, how much she loved and revered him. He started the song before she finished talking, unable to listen, missing her already. It seemed to last forever, they prolonged the set as long as they could, and when they finished, there was no more music that night. There no more women after her in the empty time since. He paused at Betty Atkinson's request for the song. His throat went dry, his hands shook, all the years of his life landed painfully on his shoulders. She couldn't know what this song would do to him, but he needed another day to figure out what to do. Another night's shelter was gold. He put his fingers on the keys. ***** Betty smiled as Puddin'head started Killing Me Softly. She lit another cigarette, and smoked as the melody coursed through her veins. Her eyes closed, fingers danced, her thighs grew moist. She'd taken hormones since her hysterectomy to keep her chemical balance right: when she didn't take them she became hysterical and incoherent easily, and she hated the feeling more than spending the money on the prescriptions. Now she discovered that all the old urges were still there: she was sixteen again, longing to feel a boy between her legs. Looking at him, she saw that his face was cast in iron, stern, impassive, totally out of sync with the sweet magic he wove with his fingers. Someone must have hurt him with this song, she thought. It looked at though his eyes wanted to weep, although the ages of emptiness had dried them beyond repair. Her eyes started crying for him as the moisture of her underwear built and the tingling between her legs grew. Her baritone voice, roughened by forty years of tars and nicotine, struggled to find the words: "Strumming my pain with his fingers Singing my life with his words. . ." ***** At last it was over; at last he could finish the song. He must have played it long enough to make her happy. His brow was damp with sweat; thank God he didn't cry. A look at Betty told him what he needed to know: the broad smile on her face despite the tears streaming down her face told him that she would make good her promise. He sighed and sat in silence. One of the old men shuffled across the lobby and laid a hand on Puddin'head's shoulder. "Do you know the Moonlight Sonata?" queried a high, thin, weak voice. "Yes, of course." "You're playing is wonderful, but I'm not that fond of Jazz. I'll give you ten dollars to play some Beethoven for me." The man reached into his wallet and produced a worn bill. Puddin'head smiled and began the dreamy triplets and profound bass line that ushered in the poignant classical melody. ***** A new world of emotion flowed through Betty. She didn't know the Moonlight Sonata other than from TV commercials, but the moonlight illuminated her world brightly, and gave her some ideas. The cloud of smoke built in the moonlight, shaping a dream, and a resolution was made. Taking out a comb, she attacked the tangle on her head. After working out the knots, she resurrected a brush and began brushing her hair dreamily to the music. It took on a luster it hadn't known for years. ***** Puddin'head got back to his room around one o'clock. Betty had given him a smile and wish goodnight as he left the lobby. The other old man had given him twenty dollars for a Duke Ellington tune; a little cash and a free night's stay buoyed his spirits although he knew it wouldn't sustain him long. He'd have to find a way to gas up his car and leave. A rattle bothered him as he lay naked on the bed in the dark. His one set of clothes hung damply on the hangers and the chair. Someone was opening his door with a key without knocking. The harsh light picked out his dark form against the clean white sheets in the humid night. He groped for a sheet to cover him, and barely got it over him before the lights went on. "Puddin'head, I brought you something to eat," Betty Atkinson warbled into the room. She was wearing a thin, pink robe and bunny slippers as she shambled into the room, bearing a tray with a steaming bowl and a plate. "I've heated up some tomato soup for you, and there's a ham sandwich here. You're way too thin, and I've worried about you. You need to eat." He sat up and she gasped as she saw him. He was rail thin: his ribs were prominent on his torso, his chest hollow, covered with grizzled and grey hair. His arms were rail thin, as were his long legs under the cover. Taking the tray over to him, she set it on the bed, and perched daintily on the edge. "Why are you doing this?" He said, looking directly into her eyes for the first time. She blushed and looked away. "Cain't say. Your music meant so much to me, I wantid ta show you my appreciation. You're so different from any Black man I ever met." Taking the bowl and spoon in his hands, he took some soup, blowing on it to cool it. "Different? How?" "Well, you talk so good. Not like the other niggers 'round here." She put her hand to her mouth and gasped at her faux pas, hoping he'd let it pass. "My mother insisted I speak proper English," he began between sips of soup. "She went to college as an English major, always used proper syntax and grammar, and whupped me good when I talked like my friends around the house. She said that good speech and good manners would help me make a better life for myself than my father did." "Your father?" "I barely remember him. He left us when I was three." "Oh." "My Mother worked hard to support us, and it was tough since she was an educated woman. Doing laundry for ten households was hard on her in more ways than one, but she did it so I could have music lessons and a good education. She also taught me not to resist the white man, not to look white people in the face, to keep my place. Said I was too precious to lose to some ignorant Cracker's anger. Unfortunately, I was stupid when I was a young man, dropped out of college, and started playing clubs." "Your music is wonderful," she crooned. "Yes, but I never caught a break. Never." She looked down and then back up again. Her head looked down at the floor. "I never did neither. They called me a pig when I was growin' up, butt ugly, a one bagger. Even let a couple of boys put a bag over my face so they wouldn't have to look at me while they was fucking me. Got in trouble and had to marry a drunk who beat me and left me with two little children that I had to sneak out of the house one morning. I worked my butt off thirty five years, and what did I get? Three useless children, and a run down hotel I can't ever get rid of." He drank down his soup from the bowl after it cooled enough. He took a bite from a sandwich tentatively, then wolfed the rest down, his hunger pulling like a magnet. She watched him take every bite, her eyes shining and her face glowing. "So why are you here?" he said when he finished. "I was hopin'," she said, looking away and twisting her hands nervously, her lip trembling. "I was hopin' you could give me something I ain't had for a long time." "What?" A pause, a trembling, a hesitation before speaking. "A good fucking," came a deep, soft, quavering request. He looked down was silent for a long moment. "You probably think that all black men are well endowed," he murmured. "We've all got big dicks in our pants that get rock hard for white women at a moment's notice. Not here lady." "You don't understand," she protested softly. "Your music wooed me: I can't resist you. It don't matter what you have or don't have. It don't even matter I'm not a complete woman any more." He looked at her. "How so?" "I had a hysterectomy. Some disease that woulda turned into cancer." "So have a lot of women," he said as he shook his head. She twised her hands and looked away for a moment before continuing quietly. "I had a lump in my breast taken out. About fifteen years ago. They didn't take it the whole breast, but I have a pit in my tit. I'm ugly and I have an ugly body. Always have been, always will be." Her vulnerability stirred him; his cock began to rise under the sheet. "That wouldn't matter to me. You're the first woman who wanted to make love to me in twenty years." A trembling smile creased her face. "Does that mean?" "My dick isn't very big for a black man. I can only get it up to five inches, maybe six. The colored girls always laughed at me when they saw it. Only one woman ever made love to me more than twice. Always had to beat off when stray stimulation made it hard. Haven't even had to do that very often the past twenty years." "I don't care. I want you." She flung herself in his arms and kissed him fiercely. A long moment passed and he moved her aside, setting the tray off the bed on the floor. "Which breast was the lump in?" Her hand trembled as she opened the left side of her robe. In the harsh light, a depression was apparent under the nipple on the outside of her breast. He reached up with a delicate finger and put it in the indentation, sweeping it gently and probing its depth. It then traveled up to swirl the nipple; she melted again at the touch on the hardening nub that hadn't known a lover for longer than she cared to admit. The light was switched off beside the bed, leaving the room in the harsh glow of the neon lights outside. The shadows were picked out in harsh detail in red and blue and green. She drew his sheet down, questing after the stiff organ with her fingers, wrapping them around the dark cylinder warmly. He sighed as she started pumping gently, moisture accumulating inside her index finger. Her other hand pulled her robe off completely; it fell to the floor. Bending over, she took the ebony bulb between her thick lips and began licking all over. The play of her alabaster skin, relieved of its blotches in the dim light, against his nightshade hue thrilled him as never before, as did the sweet work her tongue performed on his manhood. It had been years, even years since he last masturbated: nothing stirred him to arousal like she did. "I'm almost there," he quavered, and she stopped. "Roll me over and take me, Puddin'head. I want you inside me. Fuck me, fuck me hard." They rolled over and she held her legs up high, resting them on his shoulders. She guided him inside her with her hand: she felt as tight as a virgin and slicker than a hurricane soaked blacktop. They started pulsing slowly, seeking each other's rhythm, her slit eagerly embracing his member. Going slowly, they savored their joining, unwilling for the union to end. Shelter from the Storm After twenty minutes, she gasped and urged him faster. He responded and she climbed the ladder of her passion until a scream of ecstasy echoed in the night. Their passion kept going like a runaway engine, and he fought his old body as it sought its release. "Give it to me, Puddin'head, give it to me," she whispered. "I want your sperm inside me. If you can't cum in my cunt, I want to suck you down." His arms gave way and he fell on her, still thrusting with his hips as she reached another climax. She rolled him over, allowing him to rest on his back, swooping down to suck and stroke him until his long denied gonads surged in prolific orgasm, flowing out the sides of her hungry mouth and running down to make a white smudge on his black skin. Stroking his testicles to milk them dry, she sucked every drop she could from him, licking the overflow off his public hair and stomach greedily. Keeping at her work until he went flaccid, she cleaned him throughly, then rolled over to spoon against him. They lay together on the bed, side by side, his arm over her. For a moment, Betty's vision lifted above them, where her ingrained prejudice recoiled in horror at her lily white body enclosed by his thin black one. Then she returned to the moment and savored a tender embrace she had known so rarely in her life, snuggling into her partner in gratitude. Puddin'head lay next to Betty amazed that a woman would love him so after such a short time. Betty had done things no one did before: Paula was the only other woman who cared for him, and it was several weeks before she came to his bed. This woman was like no other, and her odd face reflected dimly in the mirror was more lovely than any he'd seen before. A whisper broke the silence. "Stay. Please, stay. You're too precious to lose, Puddin'head." "I will, Betty. I will." Shelter From The Storm The rain dripped from her hair. She could feel the drops rolling down her face, slipping down into her shirt, between her breasts. She'd walked to his house, hoping he'd take her in. Hoping he'd care. She didn't know where else to go. She rang the bell and began inspecting her shoes. They were soaked and her socks with them. Her clothes clung to her body. She was a mess. She was close to tears and wasn't prepared to answer for them if they came. At least the rain would act as camouflage. The door opened. She took a deep breath, summoning the courage to look him in the eye and ask him if she could stay. "Get in here," he said, before she'd even lifted her head. A wave of relief passed through her. "I'm sorry. I didn't have anywhere else to go," she began rambling. "If you're busy, I can go. It's just that..." Her voice trailed off. She was afraid of saying it out loud. "I told you that you could always come here. You're always welcome. Now, get in here before this storm gets worse." He motioned for her to come inside, holding the door open. The meteorologists had been crowing about the storm for days. Stores had been emptied of batteries, candles, and non-perishables. The possible severity, the idea of being without power for days while stuck with Adam had been too much. Without even packing a bag, she left. She would worry about that later. Now she just wanted to feel safe. Peter led her through his house, to the bathroom. She'd never been inside before. He opened the door, ushering her in. Without speaking, he took her purse from her shoulder and hung it on the doorknob. She took her shoes and socks off as he turned on the tub faucet. His eyes watched her's intently as he lifted her shirt over her head. A shiver ran down her spine as his fingers brushed her skin while he undid the button on her jeans. It was the first time he'd actually touched her. She'd thought about the possibility for so long it was difficult to think of it as reality. But he was really here in front of her, caring for her, helping her out of her clothes. He pushed her jeans down her thighs and she stepped out of them. He came in close to her, his hot breath against her cheek and wrapped his arms around her to unclasp her bra. He took the straps in his fingers and pulled them forward to remove it. The bra slipped from his fingers as he moved his hands to her hips. Slowly, he pushed her panties down until they were around her ankles. She couldn't calm the goosebumps on her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself as the air chilled her. Peter sat on the edge of the tub and dipped his hand into the water. "Get in. It's nice and warm," he told her, meeting her eyes with his. She stepped into the water slowly, letting the heat emanate up her legs before lowering her body in completely. A wave passed over her as the goosebumps began to dissipate and her body warmed. Peter began lathering up some soap on his hands. He slid on the edge of the tub until he could easily scrub her back. Slowly, he began bathing her, beginning with her back, his hand rubbing slow circles on her skin. Mustering the courage to leave Adam had been difficult. It'd taken two years for her to decide to take the chance, staring the possibility of being alone in the face and deciding it was better than the rut she was stuck in. The cracking of the eggshells she was constantly walking upon was grating. She felt like she'd sold herself for an idea of marriage that didn't exist and she regretted it and the years she'd lost. Now sitting in the tub feeling Peter's hands cleansing her skin, she tried to shed the weight of those years, if only for one night. Let them drip from her body like the rain. She sat like a rag doll, letting Peter do as he pleased, looking up at him periodically. His hands cupped her breasts, massaging soap into them as she closed her eyes. Her body shivered beneath his touch. The months of anticipation, the days when she'd just wanted to say something to let him know she wanted him. A sigh escaped her lips as he pinched a nipple lightly. He gently washed her stomach, then moved to the other end of the tub to attend to her legs. He massaged each foot as he washed it, taking his time. Teresa breathed deeply, forcing herself to relax, to enjoy. The feel of his hands on her body excited her, she wanted to touch him back, but now wasn't the time. She drank him in, let each touch be seared on to her memory. Peter moved closer to her on the ledge. His hand brushed through her hair as he looked into her eyes. He leaned forward, kissing her as his other hand reached between her legs. Teresa moaned as he rubbed her clit. She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair, keeping him close to her. She breathed him in, tasted him. She knew she'd made the right decision. Even if this was only for one night, better once than never. His fingers traced the folds of her lips and teased her clit beneath the surface of the water as they continued their kiss, refusing to break apart. Her moans were silenced by his tongue. He pulled her hair, forcing her head back. He kissed down her neck as he slipped a finger inside her. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to thrust against him. "Bedroom?" he asked her. "Mmhmm," she moaned in response. Peter stood up and got her towel. Teresa stepped out of the tub and he wrapped her up in it, kissing her again. Peter began toweling her off, dabbing the towel along her damp skin. He hung it up, leaving her naked and grabbed her hand. He lead her down the hallway to his room. Teresa didn't have a chance to take anything in before Peter grabbed her face in his hands and kissed her. She moaned as she grabbed at his shirt, clutching at him for support. She pulled his shirt up until he took over, tossing it aside. Teresa ran her fingertips over his chest, enjoying the feel of his hair, his skin, and the satisfaction of finally getting to touch him. She trailed her hands down to the his pants, undoing his belt and zipper, before placing them in the waistband of his boxers and pushing down. He stepped out of his clothes, forcing her back onto the bed. She hadn't realized it had been so close. The lightning periodically brightened the room to the symphony of the thunder. For Teresa, it was a sort of absolution as well as a release. Peter lay next to her. He ran his hand through her hair, kissing her again as he began to trace the contours of her body. She wrapped her arms around him, wanting to hold him close, her shelter from the storm. She kissed him like she may never again have the chance to, wanting to taste all of him, know all of him before he slipped away. The months of fantasies heightened her anticipation, but she knew the moment might only be temporary. Her body pressed against his, feeling the warmth of his skin in contrast to her coolness. The light flashed across his face, his hair and beard made iridescent, the curve of his arm, the movement of his muscles as he touched her. Teresa closed her eyes as she sank into his kiss. His hand ran over her ass, then pulled her closer to him. She placed a leg over his, wrapping herself around him as she felt his cock against her. She grew wetter at the thought of it inside her. He slipped his hand between her legs, running his fingertips along her inner thigh, stopping just outside her wet lips. A gasp caught in her throat as the desire grew. Peter slowly ran his fingers along her labia, seeking out her clit, "Shh," he whispered, as he kissed her again, slowly, deeply. Her quiet moans fell against his lips as the thunder echoed around them. He ran his fingers slowly around her clit, before rubbing it lightly. Her body tensed next to his, her thighs pulsing slightly as she took in the pleasure. She bit his lip as he slipped his finger into her. He began slowly then quickened his pace as she continued to push her hips against him. A loud clap of thunder startled her just as he returned to her clit, forcing her to break their kiss as she gasped loudly. Teresa leaned back in towards Peter, kissing him as she pushed him onto his back. He acquiesced, curious to see where it would lead. Teresa wanted to succumb to him, taste him, feel him within her. The previous months had been like a sensual tango without physical sensation; a libidinous dance with only glances and thoughts. Now as she made her way along his body, gliding down the bed as her hands explored, she felt the rhythm of the tango return. Finally, she reached his cock and took it in her hand. She looked up at Peter, catching him in another flash of lightning, before she licked up his shaft. Everything slipped away as she focused on his pleasure, the feel of his cock against her tongue, his balls in her hand, as she began to take him in her mouth. Peter watched her until her lips slipped over the tip of his dick. He closed his eyes, feeling the ministrations from her tongue encircling him, lapping at his frenulum. He moaned lightly as Teresa sucked on the head before returning to hungrily licking his shaft. She lowered her head, taking his balls into her mouth one at a time, sucking on each in turn, before licking her way back to the tip of his cock. Peter brushed the hair from her face so he could watch as her mouth engulfed him again. He closed his eyes, trying to pace his excitement. He knew he'd have to stop her, but hated the thought. Begrudgingly, he opened his eyes, taking in the image of her lips around his cock one last time, before reaching for her chin. Teresa looked up and reluctantly let him go after one last lick. She slid up next to him. Peter kissed her, rolled onto her, trapping her beneath him. The pressure of his body against her grounded her, kept her mind from floating away to places she wasn't prepared to go. He kissed her passionately, his hands seeking hers out, and pinning them to the bed. Beneath him, the feeling of safety she felt when he invited her in returned. Peter's fingertips trailed down her arms, his lips traced the contours of her jaw line. She sighed, clenching her thighs to stave off her own arousal. He descended down her neck, paving the path with kisses, until he reached her breasts. He paused to caress each breast, his tongue flicking over the nipple until it hardened, then delicately holding it between his teeth until she gasped. His hands ran along the curve of her ribs, flowing to her waist. The kisses turned more mischievous, as he interspersed small bites to elicit Teresa's gasps. He enjoyed the feeling of her body writhing beneath his mouth as he teased her. His tongue licked playfully at her belly button, before he readjusted his position. With his hands on either thigh, holding them down, he kissed and nibbled along one and then the other. He loosened his grip on one thigh and slipped a finger into her pussy. Teresa's body arched sharply, she'd expected his tongue. Peter chuckled and continued fingering her, finally locating her clit with his tongue. Her body quivered beneath his touch as his tongue flicked at her clit lightly. He took his time, licking around it before flicking it again. Peter sucked the nub into his mouth. Teresa's body arched, lifting up from the bed before floating back down, her moans filling in the room. She'd imagined his tongue teasing her so many times when they worked together, saw opportunity at each step. She knew where the cameras couldn't see and the visions would cloud her judgement as she attempted to hack away at her work. Now the sensations of his tongue dancing along her clit, teasing around it, brought waves of pleasure over her body. Her clit was like the spot in a pond where the pebble was dropped, her nerves carried the ripples along her flesh until she quivered with delight. Peter took his time. He searched her from the inside with his fingers while he learned her folds with his tongue. He changed his rhythm, continually keeping her on the edge as she was left not knowing what to expect. Teresa grew louder as he prolonged her pleasure, begging him to continue. "Yes, yes, please," the words coming from her lips were a reflex. She had no control over them as he took away her reasoning by drowning her in sea of bliss. Teresa climaxed as Peter continued to explore her, inside and out. His tongue delving into her pussy as his fingers rubbed her clit. He could feel her muscles clenching, yet he continued, hoping to take her even further. Teresa's body writhed beneath him, her nails clawed at his shoulder as he buried his face between her legs. Her moans competed with the thunder until she begged him to stop. Peter extricated himself from between her thighs and glanced up at Teresa's body spread before him. She lay with her mouth open, trying to catch her breath as sighs continued to escape, her eyes closed. Her hands clasped the sheets, grounding herself during the summit. He smiled as he lay beside her again, her back pressing against his chest. His arms encircled her, holding her tight. He ran a hand through her hair, then allowed it to follow the curve of her body. His fingertips danced along her flesh. His hand glided over her leg; she lifted it slightly at his touch. Peter pressed his hips against her, his cock now at her entrance. Slowly, he slid into her, sighing heavily against her neck. The rain pounding against the window seemed a pale echo to the heavy beating of his heart. She rocked her body in time with the rhythm of his thrusts. With his arm beneath her, he clutched her to his chest, his hand cupping her breast. His other hand traveled to her clit, gently rubbing the sensitive nub as her moans grew louder. The wind blew branches against the window as the drops continued their cacophonous symphony. Peter slid Teresa's hair from her neck, kissing her, slowly biting her. The sharp intake of her breath led to quiet moans that resonated within his body. Her sounds of pleasure increased his desire. His hunger grew and he bit her deeply, causing her to press her ass against him harder. Peter thrust into her more deeply and his speed quickened. He lifted her leg higher and wrapped his other arm around her body once again, keeping Teresa at the pace he desired. Teresa felt invigorated, finally feeling Peter within her. His hands on her body felt natural and exciting. He breathed new life into her. For a moment she worried that it would end too soon. She pushed the thoughts from her mind and returned her focus to the sensation of his flesh on hers, his hand playing with her nipples as the other teased her clit. The scratching of his beard against her neck, his strong chest against her back, and his cock filling her and making her feel whole. Peter cupped her chin, turning her face towards his and kissed her passionately. Teresa felt the breath sucked from her body as time stopped. For once, things felt right. He broke the kiss to devour her flesh again, taking her breast into his mouth and flicking her nipple before biting it. With a smooth motion, Peter rolled onto his back, taking Teresa with him. She bent her knees as she straddled his body, facing away from him. Peter's hands grasped her hips driving them onto his hard shaft. "Ahh," Teresa gasped, surprised by his ferocity. She leaned forward, her hands on his thighs, moaning each time he brought her hips down against him. "Touch yourself" he whispered to her, and she obliged, running her hand over her clit as he kept her steadily pounding against him. She ran her nails over his balls, causing him to gasp, then returned her fingers to her clit. She could feel her body gripping Peter's cock tightly, as she brought herself to another climax. Peter ran his hands up her sides until they found her breasts. Teresa leaned back slightly, placing her hands on either side of him as she ground her ass against him. She focused on her hips gyrating above him as he pinched her nipples. She placed one hand at the base of his cock, massaging his balls as she continued riding him. Peter's breathing grew ragged. He released her breasts and grabbed her hips again, pumping into her savagely as he finally released himself. His fingers dug into her flesh as he held her tight against him. A long sigh escaped his lips. Peter sat up beneath her. He kissed the back of her neck sending shivers down her spine, then rolled them both onto their sides again. They lay, silent, as the storm continued. The rain lulled Teresa to sleep; even the whistling of the wind could not keep her awake as she felt Peter's rhythmic breathing on her shoulder. ~~~ The first thing Teresa heard was a branch scratching against the window screen. Slowly she became aware of where she was. Peter was still nuzzled up to her, his arm around her. She didn't want to move and wake him. The room was still dark, but she could tell it was day. The storm had yet to subside, the rain and wind continued. Teresa looked around the room for the first time. She found Peter's alarm clock and noticed his power had gone out. She laid her head back down and tried to relax. "What's wrong," Peter whispered, half asleep. "Nothing," she replied, "just trying to figure out what time it is. The power's out." "Mmm," he said, stretching. He yawned, then returned to his position beside her, holding her tight to him. He didn't want to ask her what her plan was. He didn't want to think further ahead than he needed to. Teresa melted back into him, drifting off into sleep again.