0 comments/ 25407 views/ 0 favorites To Those Who Wait By: petra_bell She sat very still in the afternoon room, staring out the balcony windows. The green leaves fluttered lazily in the warm wind. Red flowers drooped over the iron railing, their petals fluttering down into the street below. She watched, raptly; she heard the slow sounds drifting upward: cars, laughter, shouts, flits of conversations- spiraling, the heels of a woman- clicking softly toward something. Nothing about the afternoon calmed her. Not the lazy, gold sun or the warm air or the familiar smell of 5 o'clock espresso shots from the café below. She sat still and tense, tight as harp strings. Waiting. Cassie's eyes, clear green amber, were always slightly red, slightly bloodshot—as if she'd been up too late or reading too long or was somewhere close to tears. The truth was, she liked them that way. Sometimes she even rouged the edges in red liner—though she never told anyone. She liked to let people think she was a little more desperate than she really was. She liked to keep her strengths hidden, pushed away for some reason—some reason she didn't understand. But then how many of us understand—she often wondered. She raised her hand absently, running her middle finger lightly over her bottom lip. Her eyes were riveted to the scene below. Where were they? How much longer? Had they stopped somewhere on the way? She hated thinking about them alone together. About what they might be doing to each other. About how far. . . . She wanted to watch every look that passed between them. Witness every touch. And yet the idea that they were somewhere doing something to each other made her somehow more alert, more excited, provocative visions of alleys, black skirts being pushed higher, flooding her mind. A memory suddenly came back to her. That night a year ago on the lawn behind Heeley's house. Stephen had leaned forward suddenly, grabbing Heeley's hair, pulling her toward him, kissing her. And she had watched the two of them—Heeley's surprised struggling giving way to his lips. When they moved away from each other, Heeley's eyes had glistened, stray tears, and she glanced over at her with a coy, almost shy look. "Now kiss Cass, Stephen," Heeley had said still watching her with that dark, glistening gaze. . . .and then his warm hand on the back of her neck, the dark night air— Cassie shook her head, a dark curl falling into her eyes, bringing her back to the present. Slightly annoyed at herself, she tore her eyes from the street. She picked up the lighter from the table next to her chair and lit three of the thick, wax candles sitting there. It would be dark soon enough. A sudden movement drew her attention back. Her heart stopped, then began beating painfully again as she saw Heeley round the corner. She wore a white shirt, a short black skirt, black stockings, and strappy platform shoes—just as Cassie had imagined. Heeley's wavy hair glowed gold in the last rays of sun and her red lips were cocked into a smile as she said something to Stephen. He laughed and put his arm around her shoulders. Pulling her closer to him, he whispered something into her ear. Cassie stood up, sweeping the magazines off the pink satin quilt onto the floor. She turned on the fringed lamp by the bed and went to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. Burning pink rosé sliding down her throat, she fitted the cork back into the green glass bottle, and the door swung open. Heeley's low rough voice flowed through the room somehow filling Cassie with a sense of calm. That sense of calm that had been missing all through these hours. "Well, I think it sounds like a good idea. Let's ask Cassie what she thinks." Cassie stepped out of the kitchen holding the glass of rosé to her lips. "Ask me what?" She took another strong sip. Stephen glanced at her, sending shivers down her spine. He tossed his black hat into the chair by the door and sat down on the couch, kicking his legs up on the coffee table. "Heeley here has the idea that we should play a little game tonight," he said, looking at her again, this time watching her more closely. She looked at Heeley, taking in her smooth skin, her flushed cheeks—they had definitely been fooling around. "Well, I just thought," Heeley said in that low, breathy voice, "that it was time we. . .um, you know, push our limits." She came toward Cassie. Taking the glass of wine from her hands, she reached up smoothing back a stray curl from Cassie's cheek. "Sounds like fun, doesn't it?" she said, bringing the glass to her lips. "Maybe," Cassie said, a sculpted black brow rising slightly. "What does this little game entail?" "Oo, that's good," she said, taking another sip of the wine. "You want a glass, Stephen?" He just looked at her. "Well," she continued, "I. . .uh. . .made a trip to the store the other day." Cassie crossed the room and sat on the bed. She had gotten home from her job at the café a few hours ago. She'd pulled off her short grey dress as soon as she walked in, leaving it in a heap near the door. She still wore the black slip, black stockings, and tall black boots. "And what did you get at the store," Cassie said as she leaned back onto her arms. Heeley glanced at Stephen. "Well, go on, show her," he said, a note of laughter in his voice. Heeley walked over to her black bag. She bent down giving both Cassie and Stephen a clear view of her deep cleavage as she reached into its depths. She stood up pulling out a pair of glinting silver handcuffs. "These," she said, ". . .for starters." She held them up letting the cuffs dangle off her index finger. Cassie couldn't help the smile that came to her lips, drawing the corner of her mouth up suggestively. "For starters?" she laughed. "Yeah," Heeley sat down on the couch, leaving a distance between Stephen and herself. She shot Cassie a sudden dark glance. "So? What do you think?" "And who are they for?" still watching Heeley with a hint of amusement. "You," Stephen said suddenly serious. Deep lightning seemed to course through her body then, as her clear green gaze locked with his. Her breath suddenly quickened, conflicting emotions crashing in on her. Her right eye brow rose again, "Why me?" she asked in her best imitation of indifference. His eyes narrowed slightly. He stood up and crossed the room towards her. His gaze moved from hers down to the tips of her boots and back up again. "You don't think you'd like it?" he said softly, coming to a stop in front of where she sat on the bed. Looking up at him, the pupils of her eyes slowly widened as if he were blocking the light. She could feel her nipples rubbing against the satin of her slip, her breath coming faster. He grabbed her by the arms suddenly and pulled her up. "I think you would," he said quietly, his voice with a new intensity. He moved against her, holding her tight, pressing his hips against hers. She could feel the sudden heat of him, the heat of his erection. His hands moved to her back, her ass, pulling her harder against him. "Is this what you wear when you're all alone, Cassandra?" She winced, in confusion or longing, as his lips came to her neck, kissing then biting. Was this happening? So quickly? So easily? When just moments ago she was anxious about losing them. . .to each other. "Is it?" he said more harshly, shaking her slightly. "Y-yes," she breathed. She started in surprise when she heard Heeley's voice just behind her on the bed. "Now is the time to say no, Cass," Heeley leaned in licking her earlobe. "Now," she pulled it into her mouth, sucking, then letting go, "or never." Stephen had pulled back from her. They were on either side of her. Waiting. Cassie didn't meet either of their eyes. "I won't say no," she said gently. Stephen stepped away, taking off his coat, his shoes, his belt. Heeley kneeled in front of her, unzipping, pulling off her tall boots. They both moved away from her then. The air in the room snapped. Night had fallen. The three candles burned in the dark balcony window. Cassie stood up and took a sip of wine. When she moved the glass from her lips, Heeley was there, taking it from her. Stephen whirled her around and pushed her roughly back onto the bed. He hovered over her, his dark eyes burning into hers. "My pretty little Cassandra," he breathed, "What should we call you tonight?" His tone was intimidating, both amused and cruel. He pinned her wrists on either side of her, pushing his knee down between her thighs, and she closed her eyes, arching backward, the place between her legs hot, wet. He smelled like he always did, warm and sweet like dark caramel. God, she remembered the years of distance, of watching him from across the room, of waiting for any moment with him, for this moment with him. "We should call her Slut," Heeley said, her voice low and hard. Cassie turned, trying to blink the haze of want from her eyes, to look at Heeley standing by the bed. Heeley scanned her slowly, her chin cocked sideways, a wicked grin on her red lips. "Because that's what she is. She's a fucking slut." Cassie felt her heart start to pound. The whole situation still seemed almost confusing to her. Was this a joke? She wasn't entirely sure—but Stephen's arousal was definitely genuine, and the look in Heeley's eyes told her she intended to enjoy herself. Stephen moved off of Cassie as Heeley came to the bed. She held a black sash with white edge stitching. She leaned forward, her sinful eyes turning to slits, as she kissed Cassie with her red lips. They tasted like strawberries and rosé. Cassie's breath quivered. And suddenly the black sash was over her mouth. Heeley gagged her, tying the sash tightly behind her dark curls, while Stephen hand cuffed her left wrist to the bed post. They had two sets, the other Heeley used on her right. Apprehension and anticipation warred through Cassie as she watched Stephen take off his pants, boxers and shirt. When he was naked and glowing almost bronze in the flamelight, he approached her again, running his hands up her legs, slowly dragging up her black slip. She wore a lace garter belt holding up her stockings and no panties. She bent her knees up protectively. "Just what I thought," he said, his voice low. "You were right, Heel. She is our little slut. What should we do with our little slut?" Heeley reached forward, turning Stephen's face toward her with a finger beneath his chin. "Actually," she looked from his eyes to his lips and back again, "I want to watch." Her eyes looked almost black as she stared at him meaningfully. "I want to watch you fuck her." For a moment he just stared at her. Then he brought his hand up and pushed her backward, his erection throbbing, quivering. "On the couch, bitch," he said, looking back to Cassie with an errant smile, "Watch us." His eyes flicked up Cassie's body, stopping on her anxious green gaze. "Put your knees down," he said, the smile gone from his voice. She hesitated. "I said do it!" He slapped her lightly across the face. "Don't make me ask you again." He pulled the black gag down suddenly. Before she could react, his hand closed around her neck pushing her head back, coming close to her. He grabbed her lower lip with his teeth, pulling it, letting it go. "Show me how a slut behaves," came his dark murmur. He paused, staring at her intently, then pulled the gag tightly back up. Without once looking away from his eyes, she lowered her shaking knees. He sat back and picked up one of the candles burning on the table. "Did you light these for me?" She looked at him, unable to keep herself from nodding once. Calmly, he tilted the thick pillar, rotating it, flames flickering through his sable eyes. He moved closer to her, and the flame seemed to hover over her wet, yearning sex. Without glancing up, he tipped the candle slowly, carefully dripping wax onto the space of exposed thigh above her stockings. It flowed quickly, hotly to the inside of her leg. Silver heat coursed through her and her head fell back. She groaned, closing her eyes. "I know you like it, slut. You've wanted me to burn you before." Her upper arm still sported the small moon-shaped scar. Sometimes she found herself unconsciously running her fingers over it, trying to remember the delicious pain of it. He dripped more wax onto her thigh and tears came to her eyes as she bathed in that all-consuming feeling. She pulled against the cuffs without realizing it, her erect nipples shadowing the black lace slip. That was next. She felt him rip the thin straps and pull it down her body. He undid the garter easily, like only a man with practice can do, removing the lace belt. He began to roll down one of her stockings and then stopped, his lips coming to her thigh, kissing just above the aching wax. He kissed the other thigh, nipping with his teeth, closer and closer to her hot, swollen cleft. She wanted him. Needed him. Closer. Closer. And then his lips came up, over her stomach to her breasts, the stockings forgotten. She writhed beneath him, and he pushed her back roughly, holding her still. Their eyes caught, for a moment, hers were rung in silver tears. His were black with unsated desire. He leaned forward taking her nipple into his mouth, ravishing it with his hot tongue, his cool breath. His hand ran up her thigh again, slowly, as he continued to devour her breasts, finally finding the wet folds of her sex. She couldn't help herself—twisting again beneath him— as his fingers, fingers she had longed for, fingers she had kissed, slowly entered her. She moaned behind the gag, unable to scream, Yes. god, yes. He found the hot pearl tucked there and began, in slow circles, to torture her toward euphoria. Abruptly, he stopped, wrenching a groan from her. His lips, too, left her and he straddled her quivering body. "Now, slut. You'll suck me," his voice was deep and strained. He pulled the gag from her mouth, exposing her lush pink lips. The dark lashes of her eyes closed and then opened again as she felt the cool air on her mouth. He straightened, positioning himself over her, and she titled her head to take him into her mouth. As she moved, she caught Heeley's eyes behind him on the couch. Heeley had one hand in her open blouse and one between her legs. Her eyes were dark and fevered. Watching Cassie watch her, Heeley silently mouthed the words, "I love you." Trembles ran through Cassie's body. Her eyes closed and Stephen pushed into her mouth. She sucked him reverently. The taste of his hot skin, the drops of his liquid—all she wanted was more. more. She wanted to take him to oblivion. He groaned as she sucked him deeper. Leaning forward, he grabbed onto the bedpost for support, and she looked up at him—his eyes closed in a grimace of pleasure, his hair falling forward. god. When he knew he was too close to the edge, he stopped, "Enough, Slut, enough." Finding her breasts again, kneading her. Gliding his fingers over her impossibly hot cleft, his lips found hers kissing her desperately, intensely— a kiss, a forgotten kingdom of intimacy. Her strawberry lips longed for his, deeper, deeper. "Ah, god, slut." Then she felt the head of his erection pressing against her. She arched toward him—she wanted to tell him to enter her—now. Now! Only- her voice was gone, lost in a sea of passion and submission. But even without words, he knew what she wanted—he wanted it too. He entered her, slowly. Stretching her tightness, filling her mind with scents of dark caramel and sweat, fitting himself inside her— her pussy, a hothouse flower. He groaned as he pushed into her burning, delicate depths. She tensed against the restraints—the silver cuffs cutting into her wrists. He started the rhythm then, exquisitely slow at first, moving almost all the way out, waiting, pressing against her, and then gently back in. Back and forth in an amazing display of self-control. A control that finally snapped as he pulled back, catching her eyes darkly, and then slamming, driving into her hard, harder, faster. A moan broke from her pink lips as she arched her back, raising her hips, helping him deeper inside her. He was fucking her hard, and yet somehow still tenderly, thoroughly. The way she felt to him—so warm and soft, tight and gorgeous—he was losing himself in her. "Oh, god," he groaned, "angel." He turned his lips to her ear, "my angel. Oh, god, Cassandra." She cried out, her voice breaking, as his words sent her over the edge. He found her lips again smothering her cry with a kiss, and then his head fell back as he too found that bliss. He came powerfully, feeling her body milking him, rippling around him, still undulating with her own release. Some minutes later he slowly pulled out of her, kissing her neck, her breasts, the gentle curve beneath them. Cassie raised her head, her dazed eyes on Heeley as Stephen unlocked her cuffed wrists. Heeley's mused hair and flushed cheeks told her what she needed to know. Freed, she curled on her side, as Stephen spooned her, wrapping his warm arms around her. She looked at Heeley with a sleepy, evocative smile, "So. . .what else is in that bag of yours?" To Those Who Wait... Arturo was born above this bar, 52 years ago. He entered the world amid a flurry of Catholic wailing, rosary beads, and steams of hot water, on a sweltering night in July. Ideally for his father, this meant that there was no chance of the birth, or subsequent birthdays, interrupting a football match. Arturo loves the bar, Barca, Catalonia and Spain - strictly in that order. Arturo is a perpetually lean, bespectacled, benevolent man. His world is within 100 metres of the bar, which gazes benignly onto a small square off the Avinguda Diagonal, in Barcelona's north east. Arturo lives above the bar in an apartment no-one has seen. It could be a large loft, bereft of furniture and personal details, in the modern minimalist style sweeping Barcelona, like every other European city. Or it could be a time capsule, filled with the memorabilia of his father's bitterness at the Civil War, and his mother's descent into madness. No-one knows for sure. The bar is a stone's throw from the Camp Nou stadium. The floodlights illuminate its terracotta-tiled roof. For seventy years, the bar has shed slivers of powdery plaster as Barca fought to preserve the Catalonian soul through the simple, powerful geometry of football. The square has echoed to car horns, and the Catalonian anthem, screamed out in support of the team, and in defiance of General Franco. Above the bar counter is Arturo's prized possession – a signed photo from Cruyff himself. Arturo is single, and always has been. He claims to be wedded to the bar, and few could contradict him about that. He never seems to leave. At 7am, he is putting out the shiny metal chairs onto the courtyard, waving to his neighbours in the clean morning light. He is already wearing his trademark waistcoat and bow tie, his glasses glinting and sending tiny shards of light into the apartments around the plaza. He is providing churros and tostadas for those weary teenagers staggering out of the all-night clubs in the area, diplomatically avoiding a look at their exposed midriffs and glistening, tanned thighs. And at 3am, he is the one wishing the last regular to leave a courteous "hasta luego", as he fastens the metal bolts on the doors, switches off the lights, and climbs the stairs. Rain or shine, every day. Discrete. Yes, that is the word for him, always the soul of discretion. Softly spoken, quiet and dignified, he runs the bar that his drunken father won in a poker game. Always a good word for everyone, always there. And yet, especially by the ebullient characteristics of his countrymen, he is a reserved man. Everything with Arturo is sotto voce, a deliberate counterpoint to those around him. It might be thought that this is simply his way of allowing his customers to take centre stage, as every wise bar owner does. But there is more. Arturo is in love. He first saw her ten years ago, when the Antilonez family moved in across the square, opening a jewellery shop. The daughter, Maria, had not been with them at first. She was studying Goya in Madrid, and then was a warden in a nature reserve near Cadiz. But one day - and yes, he does remember the exact day – she came into the bar. Barca was playing Real Madrid, and the bar was suffocating under the weight of people, passion, and the expectations of a city. All eyes strained to see a television high in one corner. Hands held high in exhortation, and holding heads as Barca struck the crossbar. With five minutes to go, and the teams deadlocked, no-one noticed Maria come in. Except, that is, for Arturo. The defining moment of one's life can be a shattering explosion of knowledge, ripping into one's heart and burying itself deep inside. Or it can be a simple non-event, unnoticed by all concerned – a seemingly casual incident that grows in magnitude and significance only later. For Arturo, it was the former. He had simply never seen a woman like Maria before. Lovely women, beautiful women, they had entered the bar down the years. But nothing like Maria. She carried herself like no-one he had ever seen. She had a simple, quiet dignity that spoke of boundless self-knowledge. Not haughty, not distant, just beguiling, as mesmerising as a sunset. She slid effortlessly between the watching customers towards the bar. Arturo's heart was electrified. Her rich, liquid-brown eyes swept across the bottles behind him, and then she looked him in the eye. There was a softening in her look that even he, modest and unassuming, could not mistake. She dropped her eyes in a strangely demure moment, before she selected her wine. He inclined his head slightly and turned to fetch the bottle, sneaking a glance at her in the mirrored tiles behind the counter as he did so. She played absent-mindedly with a pendant around her neck, and he felt a longing to touch her throat, just to caress the honeyed skin for a single second. As Arturo went to speak to her, a young customer turned around and decided she was worth deserting Barca for. With an arrogance of youth, he moved towards her and they started chatting. Arturo laid the glass of wine quietly on the counter, and eased away into a corner. The young customer used the noise of the watching patrons as an excuse to move closer still, to touch her arm as he spoke, and Arturo felt his chance slipping away. He stood, cleaning a glass with a white cloth, half-watching the football, and sneaking glances at Maria. He watched her fingers sliding around the glass, and her hair as she moved her head. And felt helpless, bereft, and lonelier than anyone in a crowded room should feel. After a while Maria left – alone. Some of the regulars had noticed his stolen glances, and began ribbing him. No-one had seen Arturo display anything less than old-fashioned, if stilted, courtesy towards any female customer. He felt somehow powerless to take this joking without embarrassment, and found himself overly-occupied with the pressure of the barrels in the cellar. There, he took deep breaths of the cool, musty air, but could not clear his mind. One might suspect that, having experienced this cataclysmic change, Arturo would have done something about it. But he did not. Arturo is a creature of habit. All his life has been centred on this plaza. He is an intelligent and well-read man but his knowledge of the rest of the city, let alone the rest of Spain, is sketchy and second-hand. His understanding of current events stems largely from snatches of television news in the quieter hours, and the one-eyed rants of his louder customers. People – suppliers, his accountant – come to him. He is the spider in the web and, like all spiders, cursed with infinite patience. So, after that first meeting, he simply waited for Maria to return. It was four years. Maria's mother died and, as he always did for the citizens of the square, Arturo used his bar as a free venue for the post-ceremony tapas, condolences and polite conversation. All was provided, and nothing asked for by way of payment. Arturo had the integrity to carry this off, without offending the bereaved family's dignity. Maria was shrouded in a veil, but he did not see her cry. She greeted friends and family alike with a closed, distant kiss on both cheeks. As guests drifted away, she spoke briefly to him to thank him for his generosity. He expressed his sympathy at her loss, and shook her hand. He felt a rush of heat swarm across his body as he touched her for the first time. She said that she would now be moving to the city from Zaragoza, to take over the jewellery shop. He inclined his head again, and said that he would be proud to help in any way that he could. As she left, he found himself staring, but in his naïve way, he had not noticed that he was the only person for whom she had lifted the veil, and for whom her eyes sparkled. Months and years seemed to drift by. The world revolved around Arturo's bar but the bar, and Arturo, did not seem to move. He eschewed modern touches, and the bar continued to be filled with ill-informed debate, loud regrets of love affairs undertaken or allowed to slip away, football and laughter. Each morning, he saw Maria lifting the shutters over the shop's windows, and carefully setting out sparkling brooches on black velvet. His nod of greeting, across the hustling swarms of morning commuters, became over the years a lifted hand of recognition, and then a wave. He noticed that she always wore something black, whether it was a skirt, a blouse, or just a scarf. She noticed that he always wore a waistcoat, and a bow tie. Today, she comes into the bar. It is quiet, and Arturo is placing some more tapas onto plates on the counter top. He hears the doorbell chime as she enters, but does not look up. It is raining heavily outside, and he can hear the roar of the rain on the cobbles, and the clatter of people running for cover as the hot spell breaks. Thunder wrenches the humid air. And suddenly, she is standing before him. Drops of water glisten and cling to her jet-black hair. Her mouth is open from the exertion of rushing across the plaza. He is too much of a gentleman to look at her blouse, which clings to her skin in all the right places, and leaves the other customers open-mouthed. "Arturo, is there somewhere we can talk? In private?" Arturo glances at young Iker, who has started work ten minutes ago. Iker nods quietly and moves to the other end of the bar. He is well-trained, but Arturo knows he will begin gossiping as soon as he can. Arturo gestures the way with his hand, and he and Maria climb the stairs to Arturo's apartment. He swallows and tries not to notice the elegant sway of Maria's hips as she climbs the steps, or the way her hair shimmers in the light, or the way her fingers caress the rail. In the back of his mind, Iker's agitated conversation fades away. Did you ever see such a thing? No-one ever goes to Arturo's apartment, except Arturo. And now, that Maria from the jewellery shop. He opens the door for Maria and stands back to allow her to enter. His hand does not shake as he thought it would, and he feels oddly calm. This moment, the one he prayed for but never expected God to grant him. She steps into the apartment, and is astonished. It is about twice the size of what she expects. It consists mainly of one room, the polished floorboards flowing down a series of levels towards a large arched window, through which the muted grey light of the receding thunderstorm drifts into the apartment. To one side, a raised area embraced by a mahogany balustrade contains a sleeping platform, with translucent fabrics draped over the bed like a canopy. On the other side, a second platform contains an antique desk, topped by sepia photos. And around, all around, are books, thousands of books. Most are old, elegantly bound in faded leather, a galaxy of muted gold letters on their spines. Books held in crafted shelves. Books piled on the floor, on a table, everywhere. Books that have bred, and sprawled, and taken over Arturo's world, and saved him from the horror of a life without intimacy. But only just. She turns to look at him. He has the expectant, hopeful look of a small child, who is presenting his father with something he has made at school. His innocence spears into her heart, and makes up her mind. She smiles. He smiles. "Arturo, this is exactly what I would wish for you. Somewhere beautiful, and private, and perfect. This is the most wonderful place in the world." Arturo can barely hide his astonishment. Because what he has shown her is not his apartment. It is his soul. It contains every essential element of who he really is. Not just the discrete, gentle bar owner. But every last bit of him. And she has accepted him. "Thank you. I had always hoped that one day you would see this place, but I never thought that you would. A woman such as you will never be short of admiration. I had always thought that my admiration would somehow be less important than someone else's." His words came out in a rush, a secret long-hidden, a confidence opened up to the world. She takes his hand. "Arturo, do you know why I always wear black?" He shakes his head. He has always assumed that it is a sign of respect for her mother, a form of mourning and a perpetual reminder of her loss. "When I first came to the bar, I was young and foolish. I was intrigued by you, but I was too easily swayed by silly, peripheral things. I did not know myself as well as I thought I did. I allowed myself to be distracted, and I could not think of a way to speak to you again. When I came back for my mother's funeral, I saw that you were still here, and that the things we felt were still there. I don't know how to describe it because it was all unspoken, but I do not need to describe it to you. I know that you feel the same. But when you did not pursue me, I felt a dream had died. I felt that we would both forever hold back, forever look at each other across the plaza. And both grow old, wanting but never having, dying inside like desert flowers. I wear black to remind me of the day I truly lost my heart to you. 'You are more patient than me. More patient than anyone I know. You waited for me. But a patient man will not come and get me. I have more passion than patience. So, instead, I have come to get you." Maria moves forward, and Arturo finds himself falling into a kiss. Ten years of yearning wells up inside them. The kiss is long, but slow, and gentle, not rushed or needy. It is a form of consummation, the end of a long dance, and the start of another. Thoughts rush through Arturo's head but can find no rest. They are crowded out by, for the first time in his life, the sweet sensation of simply feeling. No analysis, no quiet contemplation of the written word. Just being in the moment, and relishing what it has to offer. They seem to reach the bed without breaking the kiss. Later, they would tell each other how a sacred hand seemed to be guiding their every move, their every caress, their every look. As if some deity had decided that, yes, Arturo and Maria should be together and make each other very, very happy. It does not seem to be their actions at all. Every last vestige of the nervous inaction, the tentativeness of their silent courtship, melts away. Their instinct for each other does not fail. The touch of their fingers sooths and thrills. Their eyes become the centre of the world. Arturo's lips trail down her neck, tasting her skin, relishing her sweetness. He barely registers her short breaths, as his tongue finds her nipple. His hands caress her flanks and cup underneath her, drawing her in. He wants to taste her, breathe her, live her. She moves slowly beneath him, her hands sliding through his hair and gently pushing him down. He slowly pulls down her skirt, and moved her panties to one side. For a moment he simply looks at her flesh, relishing the perfection she offers, strangely sure of himself and of her. For the first time in his life, he feels no fear, no agitation. He looks up at her face, which radiates her simple pleasure at being with him like this, at his need for her. He smiles, and blows gently on her pussy lips. She whimpers, and grinds her ass further into the bed, beckoning him on with her hips, and touching his cheek. In the oncoming evening light, he can see her high cheekbones as she smiles, and closes her eyes. His first lick is the sweetest moment of his life. Something buried inside him tells him to remember it, to burn it into his soul for all time, and never to forget. He feels her tense as he eases his tongue into her, and begins lapping at the juices that are gently oozing onto the pink flesh of her pussy. Slowly his licks become longer and deeper, as he becomes emboldened. He wants to feel her arch under him, feel her body flex and stiffen as she comes. He can feel the heat emanating from her body. She begins to writhe, calling out his name in hoarse, hissed whispers. He gets a sudden subliminal flash of her, making herself cum in the apartment above her shop, hissing out his name as she reaches her peak. It brings him to full hardness, and drives him on. His flattened palms press her thighs into the bed, making her push against him as she comes. He feels her fingers tighten in his hair, then her back lifts from the sheets, her head is thrown backwards, and she lets out a guttural scream that echoes around the room. When he feels that her gasps for breath have receded, and that she is something close to controlled, he inches his way up her body, licking her sweat-covered stomach as it rises and falls in shallow breaths. He can't keep away from her sweet throat, licking and sucking it with a hunger he has never felt before. And then, there is her smiling face, glowing from inside with an intense combination of satisfaction and desire. He cups her face in his hands, and they exchange one long, slow, delicate kiss. "Oh my God, Arturo!" He smiles. "This is really happening, isn't it Maria? After all these years?" "Yes, my love. It is." Her hand reaches down and grasps his cock, slowly caressing the smooth skin, and gently flicking her fingers across the exposed head. "Because, my love, everything comes to those who wait........" She eases her body over his, kneeling above his cock as she takes off the last of her clothes. He drinks her in with his eyes, lingering over every curve, every hollow, every inch of her skin. She sees the enraptured look on his face, and feels a flush run through her as she realises the depth of his admiration, and his love. It feels so right, so natural, that she has none of the fear she'd always anticipated. It feels like coming home. Their eyes lock as she slides down on him, her pussy smooth and wet against his skin. Her heat transmits through his body, and she leans forward, snaking her arms around his neck as they kiss. He begins to move, small concentric circles with his cock, easing himself gently against her pussy walls. She seems to flow with him, joining his rhythm and the cadence of his gentle fucking. Their tongues find each other with a greater urgency, and he begins to fuck faster, harder, and further. She meets his passion with an increased ferocity, and they find themselves bucking against each other. Ten years of pent-up desire is pounding in their heads. Ten years of wishing, and hoping, fears and fantasies. Their skin slaps together, a thin film of sweat linking their bodies. His hand runs through her hair, grabbing a bunch of it together as he pushes himself deeper into her, raising himself off the bed as she rides him. His grunts match her short, sharp moans as he seems to find new depths, new angles, and new points of contact with each thrust. She is burning from the inside out, and heat is everywhere inside and around her. She ceases to feel where her skin ends, and his begins. They are one person. At last, they climax together, a moment too perfect to allow it to pass without a scream from each of them. Her fingers dig into his shoulder blades, as she feels skewered on the moment. It is impossible to hold back, and she seems to melt as she calms down. He holds her tight, wanting that release to never finish, knowing that he has found something he'd quietly searched his whole life to discover. It has been worth the wait. They lie quietly in the bed. Her head rests against his shoulder, and it is too delicious for either of them to move. Their breathing syncopates, the echo of their screams still lingers in the room. Their tanned limbs are entwined, and they each know that this is what they deserved. * * * * * Thanks for reading this. I would love to hear what you think of it, either through public comments or via e-mail. Thank you.