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A Story About the Body Ch. 01

By: CallMeBambi



Author's Notes: Well, here we go. I'm halfway done the third part of this novella-length story, which will be five parts long (and should approach somewhere in the neighbourhood of 35,000 words at its conclusion). It has a long build-up (nothing technically happens until the second part) and a strange and brisk first part. Might not be worth reading, but hopefully if I put it out there it will at least give me the impetus to finish it.

Indebted thanks to my good friend, who has waded through what I have finished and been altogether very helpful and encouraging throughout the process.

Enjoy!

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PART 1

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It was a late autumn afternoon, and I was sitting in a quaint coffee shop off of Main Street. My head buried in my laptop and the open word processor in front of me. For three days, with little sleep and a great deal of caffeine I had poured over this short story, about a young girl who sought out her father in Ireland after being abandoned by her mother, and, like everything else I'd written in a long time, it too had been rejected from publication. The only indication that someone had even read the manuscript I sent was the scrawled words "too unclear" written on the top of the first page of the physical copy I had at home.

So there I was, like every other failed writer, penning out my great works in a café on my laptop. Normally I hated to be that person, but, as a young woman trying to make it on her own as a professional writer, not having had anything published in nearly a year was something of a problem. Most of my very modest income was made doing editorial work and ghostwriting for internet fluff.

But today I was determined to discover what exactly it was about this story that made it "too unclear".

I sat alone at a corner table, as I always did; hunched into a little ball, as I usually was. Most days I found myself in this small café, though most days I chose the company of a book over my own shortcomings as a writer. I enjoyed the small establishment for its ambience and my status as a regular patron. If people wanted to talk to me, I'd let them. I wasn't unapproachable, in fact as a young, fairly attractive woman, I thought I was fairly inviting—and any other day I would have enjoyed a conversation with someone.

But today there could be no interruptions.

And then Cassandra appeared.

Sitting down at the table nearest to me so that she was within reach of my body, she delicately pulled on a segment of my long, teased blonde hair. I jumped in my seat at her touch, promptly closing the screen of my laptop so she couldn't see what I was doing.

"I love your hair!" she blurted out. Gently she continued to tug on my locks.

"Um ... thank you," I said, tilting my head away from her trying to show that I wanted my hair back. "Are you—"

"Like, I love, love, love your hair," she swooned through my words. I was becoming concerned about what her intentions were. Quickly I stole a glance at her hands to make sure there wasn't a pair of scissors lying there in ambush. "It's so long, and soft and ... it's so, so beautiful!" She rubbed my hair against her cheek as if to further test its softness.

I looked around uncomfortably.

There was a table of girls on the other side of the coffee shop, maybe six in number, who were all trying to be quietly oblivious, though their rather obvious laughter made them stand out.

"Thank you," I repeated, this time more sternly. I found myself becoming very quickly annoyed; I wasn't here to be the amusement for some pretentious bitch and her entourage. Again I tried to pull my hair out of her vice-like grip, tilting my head away from her; and, still, she held on to it, stroking my hair with her free hand, like a greedy child who had stolen someone else's candy just to tease them. Determinedly I placed my hand on hers to signal my intentions to reclaim my hair.

And had she been anyone other than Cassandra, she probably would have let go.

For the first time then, I really looked at her. What I wanted do was loudly tell her to let go, but instead, I said nothing. She was a petite girl with strawberry blonde hair and a colourful plaid-style scarf draped around her neck. She smiled at me when I looked at her, and her pale freckled cheeks dimpled as she did. It was her eyes, though—those large dark swirling brown orbs—that kept the words in my throat, and my hand on top of hers.

Suddenly I felt incredibly foolish and guilty.

"How do you keep it so soft?" she asked with innocent guile.

"I, um, I just do—Sorry, who are you?" I asked much too quietly. I took my hand off of hers, letting her hold on to my hair, and found myself considering an apology.

"Oh, right! That might make this more fun!" she laughed. Taking her hands off of my hair she clapped them together. "My name's Cassie, but you look like the kind of girl who's going to call me Cassandra—so you can call me that, if you'd like."

I opened my mouth to speak for a minute, and then decided against it. I didn't know what that meant exactly: what does a kind of girl like me look like? Is it a bad thing? I found myself very worried that it was.

"And you?" she asked with a sweet smile.

`Well—"

"No! Wait! Don't tell me! Let me guess," she said throwing her hands into the air. Cassandra leaned in close to me and whispered. "I'm psychic."

The sweet smell of her perfume flared my nostrils as she leaned towards me and I took a deep breath, trying to inhale as much of the aroma as I could. It smelled of citrus and sugar, and made my nose crinkle as I inhaled. In a way, it smelled like Christmas, and left me feeling warm and bubbly.

Cassandra puttered and purred, a finger pressed to her lips, her brow furrowed as she tried to divine my name from nothing. I looked at her too, examining her more closely. She had style I realized, with an expensive-looking brown fall jacket and a pair of thigh-high dark brown boots that, alone, were probably somewhere in the same price range as my laptop. As I realized just how disparate our incomes were I protectively pulled my laptop closer towards me.

Even still, I found myself amused as she stared at me, her small frame trying to look tough and determined, as if she was staring me down in an interrogation room.

"Hmm," she purred, leaning closer to me. Instinctively I tensed as she neared. I felt nervous. Strange questions raced through my mind. Did I smell okay? Had I showered this morning? Did the cappuccino stain my teeth? Were my teeth already stained?

Her free hand came back to my hair, and she softly stroked it once with the back of her hand. "You're a tough one!" she admitted.

After purring out another sound that must have been crucial to the divination process, she spoke again. "Let me ask you a question: did you buy your top at La Fontaine's?"

I eyed her curiously. The shirt I was wearing was a simple tee, with large horizontal stripes of colour that alternated with thick white stripes. How she knew where I had bought such a mundane item surprised me.

"Yes," I said, trying to sound smooth, as though I expected nothing less from her; instead my voice cracked as I spoke.

"Hmm ... " she purred again. "Very cute, by the way." Her hand reached over and gingerly patted the top of my knee before retreating back to her lips. "Now, would you say that you prefer to be seduced, or to seduce?" she asked me.  

"I don't—what? What does that have—" I huffed.

She giggled to herself and touched my knee again. "I'm only teasing you, Serena," she assured me.

My jaw slacked. "What did you call me?"

"Serena?" she said with a big smile. "That's your name, isn't it? It's very pretty."

Her guessing my name was ... surreal. She was surreal. The entire situation was surreal. And there it is, I thought to myself; this is a sequence in a dream; I'm dreaming. It had to be a dream. Nothing this strange could be real. I was in a dream; probably in a coma—maybe dead.

I was probably dead.

"Who are you?" I asked for what sounded to me like the third or fourth time.

"I told you," she laughed. "I'm psychic!"

"We must have met ... or are ... are you stalking me?" I was aghast, reeling back from her, trying to understand how any of this made sense.

"Maybe," she teased, twirling a strand of her own hair in her fingers and biting her lip. "Have you ever been stalked before?"

My eyes widened in fear and, as I began to protest in the unintelligible syllables of no known language, she reached over with her arm and put it on mine and whispered with a sly wink. "Would you like to be?"

A long silence passed.

This had become too weird for me. In my mind this being a dream was suddenly a best case scenario, offset by increasingly worsening alternative scenarios, the pinnacle of which was that I was to be the first victim of some beautiful young female serial killer who approached other young women in coffee shops, killed them and dumped their bodies in the swamp.

But that was the worst-case scenario.

I realized then, as my paranoia kicked in, that the gaggle of girls on the other side of the coffee shop had stopped their stifled laughter altogether, which meant they had most likely stopped paying attention. Personally, clutching my laptop more tightly in my fingers, I hoped they were watching, or that at least that someone was paying attention to this abduction-in-the-making.

"Serena, I'm not stalking you," she giggled. "You're really not my type."

I exhaled deeply and felt more at ease, until I realized that that is exactly what a serial killer would say.

"Good, because you're not my type of serial killer," I shot back, though it had sounded much less juvenile in my mind.

She laughed once, looked at me curiously and then laughed again.

"Even so," she continued with another small giggle. "I think we should hang out sometime! For example: this weekend, at the dinner party that I'm hosting." She looked at me with those deep brown eyes, her shoulders hunched and I couldn't help but see her as suddenly very delicate; as though my direct refusal would shatter her into a million tiny pieces.

"What?" I did a double-take. "What?"

"You. Dinner party. Saturday. Yes?" she said with some rudimentary sign language.

"Cassandra—it's Cassandra, right?" She nodded her head. "This is the weirdest ... anything, that I've ever had." I tried my best not to sound torn, but I wasn't. This was crazy. She, was crazy.

Like a puppy she tilted her head and looked at me. "How so?" she asked.

"You just—a coffee shop—my hair ... touching ... dinner party!" With great exasperation I tried to sort through the chain of events that led us to this point in the conversation.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Makes sense to me!" she said, wide-eyed and smiling.

I just kept looking at her. I was really confused. I had been approached, in a public place, by a glamorous young woman who had proceeded to complement my hair, stroke it, and then insist that I hang out with her at a dinner party that was happening in the next two days. To even try to wrap my head around the blitz-like attack of friendship I was undergoing, gave me heart palpitations.

I started to wave my hands in front of me. "I ... I just—I don't know—it's short notice, and I'm pretty busy, and ... I have absolutely no idea who you are!"

Hindsight being what it is, I shouldn't have yelled that last part as loudly as I did. But it was true. I didn't know her, and I wasn't much to do things with people socially. I preferred the concept of friendship, to acts of friendship.

"Oh," she said, slouching into the chair, but, as surely as I thought I had started to talk some sense into her, her resignation was replaced by a quick glimmer of hope and she lit up. "But! If we got to know each other better ... then you'd have to come!"

"Well, I—I guess, but it's—"

"Perfect!" She grabbed my hand. "Come with me!"

Despite being smaller than me, she already had me halfway to the door by the time I managed to stop her and explain that I couldn't just leave my laptop behind.

My lungs filled with the chilly autumn air as we left the café. I took a deep breath, relishing the smell of damp leaves and frost.

"La Fontaine's?" she asked when I had finished fumbling through my jacket's buttons.

"What, right now?" I asked.

"Right now!" She repeated excitedly, and began to walk away with me in tow. "We're going to get you something super cute for Saturday!" she told me.

"We're what?" I grabbed her by the arm and stopped her.

She turned around to face me. "We're going to La Fontaine's ... To get you something cute to wear ... For Saturday." She said it slowly, trying her best to help my obviously inept mind process the information.

"But I don't know you!" I blurted out. And for some reason, I started laughing. Cassandra looked at me weirdly, and then, slowly, she too lost herself in the madness and started laughing. A few full minutes passed as we stood in front of the café, just laughing at each other, and every time we thought it was over, one of us would catch the other's eye and we'd start all over again.

"You're ridiculous." The last few laughs escaping my body.

She laughed a few more times herself. "Yeah," she smiled at me broadly. "I hear that a lot."

"Just insane," I said, getting control of myself. And as I regained that sense of control over myself, I saw the situation for what it was and stopped smiling.

This was just too weird. "Cassandra, I really can't go to your party Saturday."

"Why not?" she asked softly.

"I don't know you," I repeated, trying to remain expressionless. Truthfully, she was melting my heart.

She smiled kindly to me, hooked her arm underneath mine, and started walking me in the direction of La Fontaine`s. "So, talk with me!"

I could have pulled away from her I suppose; could have taken my arm back, or pushed her away and just avoided the situation but a part of me was really enjoying her bizarre company. As we walked, her arm still wrapped around mine as though we were the oldest of friends, we began to talk

"So, really," I asked. "Have we met before? Did we share a class at the school, or meet in a bar somewhere, or something? How did you know my name?"

She raised her head and seemed to consider the question thoughtfully for a few seconds before answering. She took a deep breath. "Well, small confession: I lied. I'm not actually psychic."

"I figured that part out."

"I guess I must have heard it somewhere in the coffee shop one time. I go there all the time too, and whenever I come, you're always sitting by yourself, in that same corner, alone. So, as I was leaving today I thought to myself: 'Hmm ... she seems like the type of girl who wouldn't mind a nice casual dinner party.'"

I took a minute to digest what she was saying. I guess I was pretty introverted. I didn't have very many actually close friends, and most of my days were spent either reading at the coffee shop, or at home, writing; but I didn't think of myself as lonely. I liked my introversion, and the friends I did have understood and didn't mind.

"Of course, if you're not the type of girl who enjoys a casual get together with super delicious food, then you don't have to come—but you will." I could see the smile creeping across her face as she spoke.

"You seem to think you know a lot about me, for just meeting me," I said. She looked down at the ground, still smiling.

"I'm pretty good with people," she admitted.

We walked and talked the rest of the way. Eventually she slipped her arm out from under mine, seemingly content that I was going to be a good girl and stay at her side on my own. As we walked she told me about her life. She was 23, and a chef. She owned her own private catering company. She was born in the city and had lived here for all of her life, except for the four years she had spent studying culinary arts in Paris. She had been finished school for only a year, but seemed to already be doing very well for herself, considering her age and the competitive nature of her profession.

As she told me more and more about her life, I began to find myself becoming ever so slightly jealous of her. I was 24 and the most I had accomplished in my professional life was a small number of published short stories and a number of failed novellas, which a myriad of publishers and literary agents had decided were either too unclear, or too refined.

I don't know if she had sensed how I felt about her job, or if she just didn't care, but not once did she ask about me, and it left me with a feeling of gratitude. The worst part of meeting any one new, I always thought, was trying to explain my professional life in a way that didn't leave me sounding like the biggest hack in the world. It felt like walking into an interview for a job, with no idea what the job was or what you were supposed to say, and at the end of every conversation with a new person I met, it felt as though I was leaving without the job I had wanted.

As the walk drew on, I found myself listening intently as she told me a story about one night in Paris when she and her roommates had snuck down to the red light district and the Moulin Rouge to see a late show that night. She told how they slipped in through the back entrance, and waded through the parade of mannequins and clothes racks in the back, admiring the different fabrics and jewels and garments. Among the throngs of people backstage, the girls somehow slipped through security without trouble. Everyone seemed too busy to bother with anyone else. The performers were applying last-minute touches of makeup, or making last-minute adjustments to their costumes. Everything glittered. It was like, she said, the kind of glimmer you see from the ocean in the moonlight, a thousand little glimmering patches of light reflecting off a thousand sparkling surfaces. Before not too long, all of the performers started moving towards the wings of the stage and the girls followed. As the performers took to the stage, they watched from the wings, mesmerized by the show.

"They were amazing!" Cassandra said as we continued to walk. "They had so much grace and raw, raw sexuality. It was so, so incredible. Even their costumes were just, ugh! It was just amazing."

"And then, after watching for a few minutes we decided to leave—before we got caught. So we start to leave, going back the way we came, through the staging area where they all the costumes were and then past the dressing rooms to the door. Only, it was deserted this time, so Madeline—one of my great friends there—she stops by one of the headdresses that the dancers wear. It's this big sequenced hat, I guess, and she puts it on. And, before long, we're backstage at the Moulin Rouge trying on all of these different costumes—these gorgeous, gorgeous costumes. And no one stops us! It was so, so amazing!"

"Wow ..." I said. It sounded really unenthused, but actually I was just teeming with the teeniest bit of jealousy and trying not to show it. She had gone to one of, if not the, most famous burlesque houses in the world and tried on the performers' costumes. I don't know why I was jealous, exactly; it wasn't like that was one of my dreams in life, but that she had done it, it just seemed too incredible to be true.

"Yeah, but that's not even the best part of the story!" she told me. I could see it in her eyes, the rabid excitement of telling the story. She was practically drooling to tell me. "After a few minutes of trying on these things, we start to all get a little weirded out, right? What if someone comes and finds us? We're in the Red Light District of Paris! So we put everything back like we found it, and start to leave, when I hear this quiet, faint moaning. So naturally, I follow it. It's getting louder and louder with every footstep, and it leads me to this slightly ajar dressing room door. Now it's so loud and I can tell it's definitely a woman; it sounds like she's moaning right in my ear as I stand there in the hallway and its giving me goose-bumps just listening. So I peak my head in the room, and I see the most gorgeous man. He's naked and glistening in little beads of sweat standing behind this beautiful, leggy brunette. They're both completely naked and I can just tell they're both dancers. He has this incredible body; completely toned and just, amazing. And she's just beautiful, with these soft rosy cheeks and a beautiful pale body. I can see the scratch marks across his perfect, glistening chest, and I can see the way she's shaking from the pressure of his body.


A Story About the Body Ch. 01



"But I wanted to see more. So I gently, gently pushed the door open to get a better look at them. Only, she opens her eyes and stares right at me. I try to look away from her but I can't. I was just mesmerized by her eyes. It was like I could feel her passion just from standing there; I could smell the sweat in the room and—and it was like I could feel the heat radiating off of their bodies across the room. But she didn't say anything; she just kept looking at me, moaning, while he builds up his rhythm with her ... and she's just getting louder the entire time. And when I'm looking at her, that's when I realize, he's wearing a wedding ring and she's not. Her fingers were just hanging over the back of the chair, completely bare.

"And that's when Madeline touched me on the shoulder!" Cassandra laughed. "I almost jumped out of my skin, thinking someone from security had caught me. So we left them there and went back to our dorms. It was the craziest, bestest, experience I've ever had!"

We were only a few shops down from La Fontaine's now. It was located on a strip of the old city, where buildings were all joined together with old stone faces.

"Wow," I said, very quietly this time. "Did that really happen?"

"Maybe," she said slyly, as she opened the door at La Fontaine's for me. "But you have to admit: it's a really good story. And, you know, I learned something from watching them, as creepy as that is. When I saw that he had a wedding ring and she didn't, I didn't look at them and think 'Oh no!' like I always had before when I found someone had been cheating. It was just ... they seemed so happy; so happy that all I thought staring at them was 'How beautiful'."

I entered through the door, mulling over the incredible tale she'd just told. Even though I had gone through the doors first, she led the way through the store; she seemed to know it even better than the people who worked there. La Fontaine's was a high-end women's department store, one of the very few large stores left in the city anymore that wasn't a corporate chain. It had been around for nearly a hundred years and featured some of the finest in lady's fashion from all over the world; from beautiful, and expensive, evening dresses to the most intimate and expensive of lingerie—La Fontaine's had it all.

"I'm a writer," I said to her, while she looked through a rack of dresses and I followed in her wake. She looked back at me, skeptically.

"Really?" she asked, turning her attention back to the dresses. She pulled a dark red dress out from the rack and looked at it for a second longer than the others, and then set it back in its place. "What do you write?"

"Well, I, uh, mostly write short stories and that kind of thing," I said, trying to look as uninterested as she did by poking through a couple of the dresses she had already passed.

She stopped where she was and turned to look at me. "What's 'that kind of thing'?"

"It's, like, you know, novellas and poetry and, that," I told her, nudging my way by her, taking the lead as I looked through dresses.

"Who's your publisher?" she asked.

"Anyone who will," I laughed. I felt uneasy talking about my failed career, yet I continued when I normally would have given up and changed the subject. "I mostly do freelance stuff now, and ghost-writing sometimes."

"Ooh, ghost-writing. Spooooooky!" she raised her hands in the air and shook them back and forth in front of her face. I couldn't help but laugh at her. Even though she was mocking me it felt almost cathartic.

I came to the end of the rack of dresses and Cassandra wasn't too far behind me.

"None of these are really ... Oh. My God!" she said, her jaw opened wide. She had reached the end of the rack and was looking around the store when she had spotted it. She pushed her way past me and I followed, curious and eager to see just what had taken her breath away. On a raised pedestal not too far away there was a female mannequin wearing a strapless, tight blue sheath, with a large, beautiful blue ribbon on the side.

It looked incredible.

And expensive.

"This is perfect!" Cassandra said as she circled the mannequin, reaching out to touch the fabric. She petted it the same way that she had my hair when we first met and looked up longingly at it.

"That's a little bit ... fancy, for a casual dinner party, don't you think?" I asked. She continued to circle around the dress observing it from every angle.

"So, small confession," she said, taking a deep breath. "It's actually more of a semi-formal-slash-formal, large dinner gathering, with an emphasis on the formal ... But you still want to come, right? I mean, look at this dress—you'd get to wear this dress!"

I looked up at the dress, and then down to Cassandra. I didn't know what to think. Somehow this incredibly pushy, strange, amiable woman had managed to dredge me out of my normal routine and had me dress shopping to go to a rather important-sounding party in only a few days. She was asking me, still as a stranger, to wear something fairly revealing and be meet a bunch of her friends for the first time, all at an important dinner.

"Cassandra, this is a lot," I told her.

"Oh, don't worry—I'll buy you the dress!" she said as she finished her final lap around the pedestal.

"I—what? I meant everything that's happening ... you'd buy me that dress? Just like that?"

"Oh," she said again, sighing. "Okay, yes: it is a lot at once, in the span of a few hours—"

"It's been like, 30 minutes!" I corrected

"Okay, okay! Like, 30 minutes—but still: this can be so, so, so much fun!" She took a step towards me and put her hands on my shoulders and looked up at me with her big, brown eyes. "Please, Serena."

"I really don't—" I started, looking away from her.

"Okay—you don't have to say you'll come, but just try the dress on. It's so gorgeous and I think it would look so amazing on you. And if you try it on, I know—I just know you'll want to come!" Cassandra rushed off somewhere to ask for help before I could say no.

After she disappeared I looked back up to the dress. It was a very nice dress. I did the same laps that Cassandra had done examining the front and back of the dress. It was strapless and covered down to the mid-thighs. There was a light blue bow that matched the dress and cinched the waist and the fabric of the dress itself looked like nothing I had ever seen before. It was just a beautiful design, but I couldn't find a price tag anywhere on the dress.

I wouldn't be opposed to having the dress, but if anyone was going to buy it, it would be me. I didn't want to be indebted to someone I hardly even knew.

Before long Cassandra came back with another woman, carrying a protective sleeve that I could only assume held my dress.

"Wouldn't you like to know my size?" I asked.

"Size 2, right?" Cassandra asked with a smile. She took the dress from the woman and handed it to me. "Dressing rooms are this way, follow me!"

Dazed I followed her. It made me wonder just how transparent of a person I was. I always thought I was fairly introverted and that gave me an air of mystery, yet each time Cassandra looked at me and was able to tell me something about myself, it shocked me. Even though it was something as simple as a dress size, and millions of people who are in retail could probably just look at me and tell me my dress size—it unnerved me so much than she could. It made me feel as though every secret, every ounce of privacy I had cultivated over the years, was laid out plainly for her to see.

"You always look so shocked around me!" she said with a laugh as we arrived in front of the changing room stalls. There was another beautiful young woman standing guard around the changing rooms.

"Hey!" she said excitedly as we approached, giving a gentle hug to Cassandra. "I didn't expect to see you until the weekend, Cas!"

Cassandra smiled back. "Jen, this is Serena; Serena, Jen. Jen is a very good friend of mine," she explained as Jen headed towards one of the doors to unlock it for me. She opened the door and I saw not so much a dressing room, as a small living room. Unlike the cubicles of most department stores, it was a small room with a carpet, a large comfy leather chair in the center of the room, and a body-length mirror against the wall opposite the door. Although still a small room, it was incredibly well decorated considering its purpose was to change clothes in.

What surprised me most, though, was that I had been to La Fontaine's before and had seen their dressing rooms. They were the same as any other changing rooms in stores; small and cramped with utterly lifeless walls and a long thin mirror on the back of the door.

"Oh, you're just saying that because I put the best things aside for you," Jen said with a wink to me. "It's a beautiful dress, by the way."

I walked into the room with the dress in hand and turned to close the door, only Cassandra was right behind me and was nearly struck by the closing door. "Whoa!" she laughed, side-stepping it.

I looked back at her with a quizzical look.

She just shook her head as she finished closing the door for me. "You really need to stop being so confused by every little thing!" On the back of the door there was a place to hang up the dress so I did, as Cassandra dropped into the comfy chair in the middle of the room.

I unzipped the bag the dress was in and then stopped and looked at her. She gave me a "go on" gesture and I turned back to the dress, taking it out of the bag. Holding it in my hands it really did look amazing, and the texture of the fabric was somehow very soothing to touch. I hung it back up on the door and looked over at her.

"Can I ... change?" I asked with a nervous laugh. "Alone?"

"We're both girls; it's just like changing in front of your sister!" she told me.

"I don't have a sister," I said.

She stood up from the chair, shrugging her own coat off of her shoulders and came towards me. As she started walking, she began peeling away her scarf from her neck, and, instinctively, I took a step back. I don't know why, but something about her—the look in her eye maybe—scared me. As she came a few steps closer, her scarf dropped to the floor and I took another step backwards, hitting the door. I felt trapped. I could feel my breathing getting a little heavier as I stood there back against the wall. She kept advancing. When she reached me finally, her hands moved gracefully, slowly, to the buttons of my coat. One by one she started to undo them. "I'll show you," she spoke tenderly and softly. "It's nothing. We're both just girls, right?"

My breathing had become a little shallower and a little more ragged as she undid each button, the smell of her perfume once more wreaking havoc on my senses.

I looked to her eyes, and she held my gaze until the last button came undone. And then, gingerly, she slid the tips of her fingers under the opening of my coat, under my neck and above my breasts and pushed until her finger tips slipped over the tops of my shoulders. I lowered and straightened my arms, my coat crumpling into a pile on the floor.

As it came off, I looked away from her, feeling her hands moving down the sides of my arms. They moved slowly, but with purpose. Her fingers didn't tremble as she crossed the threshold between the fabric of my t-shirt and the bare flesh of my arms. Her hands left goose-bumps on my exposed skin as she reached the tips of my own fingers. Tracing a line from my fingers she moved up the outside of my thighs to my waist, delicately sliding her fingers under my t-shirt.

I let out a gasp and clenched my hands together at my sides. Her fingers moved their way from the bottom of my flat stomach, to my ribs. I was breathing heavily, and quickly, my eyes firmly shut. All I could feel was the light pressure of her finger tips on my ribs, pushing the fabric of my shirt up my body, exposing me in that room for only her to see. As she continued to climb, I tilted my head back and my arms, without asking them to do so, began to rise with her hands, helping to push the shirt right off my body.

When, at last, it too fell to the floor, I stood bristling and shaking with excitement and nerves. I opened my eyes, and stared at her. My arms were pressed up against the top of the door, with her hands gently holding me there. I could feel the cotton of her sweater against my exposed body, the warmth of her own skin; of her warm breath, settling just beneath my neck. She held me there, staring at me, and I at her, our gaze unbreakable.

And then surely—as surely I felt the heat of her body against mine—I felt her hands begin to slide down my arms, my shoulders. I felt her palms pass over my breasts, and then down to my waist. She unhooked the button on my pants. As her fingers briefly touched my waistline my hips rose to meet hers, bringing our bodies once more together. My hands, still on the wall above my head, clenched as I felt the pants slacken around my waist and drop to my shins.

I stood, all but naked in front of her trembling.

Without words she turned around, her body still pressed against mine, our hips still wedged together. I could feel her hair pressed against my body, her pelvis pushing back hard, putting pressure on my body. She raised her arms above her head, slowly crossing them in front of my face and began to pull my arms down to her own body. I looked ahead of me. In the mirror mounted on the opposite wall I could see her front, her eyes closed as she touched my hands to the bottom of her sweater.

Without help I began to raise it on my own, my own hands taking their turn with her body, moving up the sides of her body until her sweater too crumpled to the floor beside us. This time my hands returned hungrily to her body, and I was the one who could not stop watching. She kept her eyes closed as I touched my hands to her pants. I undid them quickly; much quicker than I intended to.

 "See," she whispered turning around to face me. She brought her lips nearer to mine than they'd ever been. "It's not so bad."

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as she hung there in front of me. I was waiting for her to do something; to do anything. Without moving her head, she reached around my back and unfastened my bra. "We're both just girls," she repeated as her fingers hooked under the shoulder straps of my bra, bringing them down the sides of my arms. She took the bra off of me and let it fall beside us and then reached around her own back and did the same, dropping it on the floor beside mine.

She wrapped her arms around my neck, her lips moving once again towards my face, though she made no further move. My skin felt like it was blistering with anticipation, this strange body against mine; the body of another woman. She pressed down on the heel of each of her boots, her arms resting on my shoulders for balance as she did.

"Just girls," she said again, her hands running down my chest all the way to my hips. She held tightly there, her fingers pressed into my skin as she stepped out of her boots, and kicked them away from us. She took a small step back, but kept her fingers pressed against my hips, and bent over. Running her fingers down the sides of my legs until she reached my knees, and then she began to step out of her pants. The touch of her fingers over my knees tickled me, sending an electric shock of pleasure through my body.

Once her pants were off she stepped out of them and moved them away with the tip of her foot. Her fingers found their way back to my hips. Our eyes met again.

Biting her lip, she knelt down in front of me. Dropping to her knees, she helped me out of my own pants, which I stepped out of and she tossed aside. As she knelt there, I reached forward with my own hand to touch her hair. My arm trembled as I did, and my hips thrust towards her as I made contact. My hips were so near her face that I could feel her warm breath through the thin panties I had on.

I gasped, my eyes closed; my head tilting back in anticipation of something more.

But nothing happened. As the seconds crawled by, I felt her fingers return to my hips as she raised herself. I could feel her chest gently rub against the swelling of my mound as she rose her body up. I felt her finger brush away a strand of hair from my face and I once more opened my eyes to her.

"Let's get you into that dress," she said. Cassandra moved away from me, back to the leather chair in the center of the room. I stood there for a moment, stilly. My hips craned out from the wall, searching for something that wasn't there. I was completely exposed, except for the turquoise panties I still wore.

With a deep, cleansing breath, I turned around to the dress and pulled it from its hanger. As I did so, I heard the scraping of the chair as she moved it, turning it to face me at the door. She watched me as I slipped the dress on my body. She touched a finger to her lips as I pulled the dress up, my breasts jiggling in the act. Her legs spread wide as she watched me, and she leaned back in the chair, her other hand resting on the inside of her thigh.

As I slipped the dress fully on to my body, I tucked my long hair to the side and looked at her. Hoarsely I spoke, "How does it look?"

"Amazing," she said.

I could see my own reflection in the mirror across the room and it did look very good on me. It felt as though it fit me better than it had the mannequin on display, something I'd never experienced before. I smoothed the sides of my dress out with my hands and took several long strides towards the mirror. I passed Cassandra on my way, watching her as intently as she watched me. I swallowed hard as I passed her. I wasn't sure what I wanted to happen, but I wanted something to happen as I neared her.

Standing in front of the mirror she approached me from behind. In the mirror I could see her eyes above my shoulder looking back at me. I held my hands together in front of me. "You can't not come," she whispered into my ear. "Look at how ... radiant you are."

I straightened my neck and body as much as I could. I hadn't even thought about the party in so long. I nodded my head. "Okay, I'll do it."

She smiled and turned her head to mine. I did the same, our lips barely an inch away yet again. "I told you that you would," she teased. "Thank you," she said, and pressed her lips ever so softly against mine. The meeting felt like a crushing wave on my body. I felt numb and unable to move. Effortlessly my lips pressed back against hers, matching the soft intensity of her kiss.

And then she broke away and moved to collect her clothes and redress. Even after she broke the kiss, I stayed still, my head turned to where hers had been, my eyes fixed on where she had been.

I'm not gay, and I had no idea what I was doing then, with someone I hardly even knew—and yet, somehow, I felt immutably close to, as though I'd known her my entire life and as though she knew every single dark secret I had, and every dark impulse I had ever entertained on the darkest of nights.

And in that moment, my impulses were ravenous and unfed. All that I desired was her body.

But as I stood there, thinking to myself, she collected her clothes and redressed as though nothing had happened, as though this moment had been nothing to either one of us. I watched her in the mirror, pretending to be looking at myself. She walked, like a dancer, with graceful strides; the muscles of her legs were taut and throbbed with each step.

I refocused on the dress I was wearing, turned and craned my neck to see how the back of my body looked. It did fit me amazingly. It hugged my curves. Not once did I find myself needing to adjust the dress to keep it from falling down.

It was as though it had been made just for me, perfectly synced to my every measurement, as though I was Cinderella herself.




A Story About the Body Ch. 01



"Let's get you out of that dress," Cassandra said and I looked to her. She had dressed all but her boots, scarf and coat, which she had piled neatly onto the chair.

I slipped out of the dress. It felt freeing to be naked in front of her, to let her eyes wander my body as they did. "You get dressed and I'll put the dress away." I stepped out of the dress and handed it to her.

"Thanks," I said and then collected my clothes. I don't know why, but I took my time getting dressed—a long time. I think I liked the idea of her watching me. Or maybe I just liked the idea of being able to be so comfortable in front of someone that I could stand naked without feeling as vulnerable, or as exposed as I really was. Cassandra waited patiently for me by the door with the dress. She didn't tap her feet, anxious to leave or show me that she was, in any way, in a rush.

When I finally slipped back into my t-shirt I spoke again. "Could we ..." I couldn't decide what to say next. The word 'kiss' felt so right, but so did the words 'never do that again'.

She nodded, understandingly, and leaned her body in towards mine, tightly hugging me for only a few brief seconds.

Gathering my coat, she opened the door and took the dress back out.

"Have a good night, ladies!" Jen said kindly, passing us on her way lock the changing room back up. I smiled at her meekly, though Cassandra stopped her and gave her a goodbye hug of her own as I headed towards the counter to pay.

Cassandra touched my arm and stopped me. "I've already paid."

Most of me wasn't surprised when she said she had paid. I was actually relieved she had. It made everything else feel more right.

Once we were out of the store we traded cell phone numbers and she gave me the quick run-down about the party. It was Saturday night at her place in the Hills, the rich part of town; guests would start showing up anywhere between six and seven, and then there would be a nice dinner at seven, with the rest of the night to be spent lounging as we pleased.

We said our goodbyes and parted ways for the evening. I initiated an awkward stutter-hug with her and then we both turned our opposite ways and left; she in the direction we'd come, and I in the opposite direction. To be honest, the quickest way home for me would have been the way she had gone, back towards the coffee shop, but I wanted to be alone for a little.

I walked for what was probably hours, until the dull gold sun had started to set and the night sky had started to bleed ink-black through the corners of the horizon. I thought about Cassandra and about what had happened in the change-room. I thought about the entire situation itself and chastised myself for it. Between juggling my laptop case and a new dress, the walk became quite the workout after a while, but despite any physical discomfort I was feeling in my arms the cool night air kept me relaxed and even strangely happy.

A stranger in a coffee shop came up to me, and started playing with my hair, and I decided to, instead of running away, let myself be invited to an incredible formal—and most likely very prestigious—dinner party; and then, to make it worse, I let myself be undressed and kissed by that very same, incredibly bizarre, amazingly beautiful, stranger.

Something was very wrong with me.

By the time I had managed to walk myself home to my basement apartment, a few hours later, I was pretty worked up about what had happened. Even though I was angry, mostly at myself, I realized that I couldn't go to the party.

It would be crazy to go. I don't even know Cassandra.

It would be crazy to go.

I sat for probably half an hour in my living room with my phone in hand, a text message ready to send explaining that I already had plans for Saturday that I forgot about. But instead of hitting the little send button, I only stared at my phone growing more and more enraged about it. And the more I thought about how ridiculous everything was the more frustrated I became.

Eventually and reluctantly, I put the phone down.

I need a shower, I told myself. I started to remove my shirt and, as it passed my face, the waves of her perfume hit me again. That soft yet sharp tang of citrus filled my nostrils and made me breathe deeply. The shirt smelled like her perfume, her body and as I pressed it to my face, I could very briefly imagine once again her lips on mine.

I sat back down on the chair in my living room and again pressed the shirt to my face, inhaling deeply.

"Oh my God," I cursed out loud.

It would be crazy not to go.



A Story About the Body Ch. 02



What I needed was sex.

It had taken until today for me to realize just how long it had been since I had last had sex. My last relationship had ended over eight months ago, and there hadn't been any time for anyone to fill the gaps between now and then. For the most part I was fine with it. My body had needs, but I was mostly able to satisfy myself when the urge came.

But today was different. It wasn't the urge for release that I craved, it was the complete and utter need for sex; loud, rough, tender, emotional, dirty, sweet, quiet, ravenous, intense sex.

As soon as I had smelled Cassandra's perfume on my shirt, when I was alone and safe in my home, I knew exactly what I had needed, and what I had wanted. I realized that all of my frustration and anger I felt for letting someone, another woman—a strange other woman—so handily disarm me of inhibition, wasn't because I was angry; I was horny.

Why hadn't there been more? Why couldn't it have been more than the teasing touch of skin on skin? Why couldn't there have been lips, and tongues and hands; pressure from our bodies touching, lying naked together, her fingers once more stroking my hair—why hadn't there been so much more?

Sitting on a chair in my living room I looked through the contact list of my phone. It was a Thursday evening, so I figured most of the people I knew would probably be home. I scrolled through the list a couple of times to see what was there, and then chose.

Dan, a good male friend of mine that I had met when I was at the local college, seemed like the perfect choice. We didn't hang out very much, and almost never one-on-one, but that was most of my friends. More importantly than not knowing him very well, I knew that he had kind of liked me when we first met and probably would be willing to do just about anything I asked if I seemed crestfallen enough. 

So I called.

Crushingly, he told me he was having a date night with his girlfriend. 

"You have a girlfriend?" I almost yelled it through the phone I was so shocked. I hadn't even realized that he was seeing anyone, and a part of me felt awful for calling him, for trying to use a friend of mine like that. I tried, as smoothly as I could, to explain that I was perfectly okay and his being busy wasn't a problem, even though he repeatedly told me that if I needed something he could be there in a minute.

And it was very tempting to let him come over. But I knew if he came over, despite my best intentions to not jump him, I almost certainly would, and he wouldn't stop me. I would really like to tell you that I didn't invite him over because I consciously chose to take the moral high road; that I would never have violated my friendship with someone else at the expense of another person. But honestly, the real reason I didn't invite him over, knowing that he wouldn't stop me when I came on to him, was because I knew he was too sweet of a guy to not tell his girlfriend, and that would crush me to see happen to him.

After we hung up, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and seriously considered abandoning the crazy ideas I was having for a nice hot shower. A nice long, steamy shower would probably clear everything up that I was feeling. But as I thought about how a shower would feel, I imagined Cassandra there with me, massaging my breasts under the jets of warm water; kissing me under the steam, exploring every inch of my body as I did the same to hers.

Even before I opened my eyes I was looking through my contacts list again.

The next name I chose was Carl. He was, easily, the best looking guy friend I had and the only reason I hadn't called him in the first place was because he was almost always involved with someone, and very rarely was it the same person twice in a month. I let the phone ring until it hit voicemail and then hung up. Part of me really, really wanted to leave a message just in case he picked up later, but the small rational part of me that was still functioning said "leave no evidence".

I was starting to feel desperate. I don't have a lot of guy friends who fit the criteria for what I was looking for. I needed someone I was close enough to that I felt comfortable, but not so close to that I actually valued their friendship and would be devastated if one night ruined everything. I know that I am attractive in a comely way, and most of my guy friends, if I asked, would probably give me a night of passion if I asked (though to be fair, I think most women have that power)—but I wanted a specific type of guy for tonight.

I scrolled nervously through my contacts one last time and saw Bobby. He wasn't really a close friend, but, more than a year ago, we had fooled around a couple of times. I thought about it carefully, analyzing the pros and cons of our previous encounters. It was a long time ago, but I couldn't remember much about it, good or bad.

I shrugged. He would have to do. I dialed and it started ringing.

"Hello?" it was a woman's voice.

Immediately I began to panic. Oh my God, if I hang up now she'll think he's cheating on her.

"Hello," I said nervously. "Is, um, Bobby there?"

"I think you have the wrong number," she told me. "Who is this?"

"Oh, thank God," I sighed with relief. "I felt awful! I thought I was calling him, and then you answered, and I didn't want you to think I was some kind of home wrecker, or something!"

She laughed and we talked for a moment or two. She told me she'd had this number for a couple of months and that she still got some messages and calls from other girls who were looking for someone named 'Bobby'.

Eventually I hung up, and sat alone. The black screen of my phone stared back at me, unblinking. I was locked in a staring contest with it, and it was there, looking at me, wrapped in its stupid purple case. 

It was just daring me.

"Alright," I said out loud. "Fuck it!" I closed my eyes and scrolled wildly up and down through my phone, waited a few seconds and then pressed my thumb down on a random part of the phone, swiped and hoped I had called someone who wasn't my mother. I kept my eyes closed until the phone was pressed against my ear, careful not to reveal the identity of the person I had just called.

If it works, it's meant to be, I told myself as the phone rang.

"Hello?" said a voice. It was hard to pin-point who exactly it was, so I just listened, trying to determine whose voice it was. It was definitely a guy, so that was a good start. "Hello? Serena?" he said.

"Hi," I said meekly. "Do you want to come over?"

There was a pause.

"Right now? You okay?" he asked. He sounded concerned. His voice was deep, but softly spoken. It sounded familiar, but not distinct.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said. "Just looking for a little company tonight."

"Give me an hour?" he asked. I was still trying to figure out whose voice it was. It sounded so very familiar, but I couldn't be sure. Most guys sound the same to me over the phone.

"Yeah, great."

"Alright, see ya' soon," he said.

I moved the phone away from my head and looked at the caller ID. All it said was "DO NOT CALL". Immediately then I knew that it was Jeremy, my ex-boyfriend and the last person I had slept with, nearly eight months ago.

"Of course," I sighed. I gently tapped the phone against my head as I considered texting him back telling him that things had changed; that I had actually, as soon as I hung up the phone, just remembered that I had plans to wash my hair tonight, and that if I didn't it would all fall out, and I would go grey, and I'd have to buy cats, and live alone—like I already did—and—

I took a really deep breath.

"It's just one night," I told myself. "It doesn't mean anything to anyone, he's just a guy; not the last guy, or anyone of significance—just any guy I could have picked up in a bar, or at the store—doesn't even matter what kind of store; he's just a guy."

It was time for that shower.

The relaxation swept over me when I first stepped into the hot jets of water. Feeling it pound into my skin was probably the second best thing the sex right then, and I was very glad I'd spent a lot of money on a super-powered massaging showerhead. Now that I had gotten in to the shower I realized I didn't want to get out. My hands slyly moved down my body, feeling for the curve of my pelvis. I pressed one hand against the wall of my shower to steady myself while I parted the lips of my pussy and gently let my middle finger tease the tip of my clit.

I shifted my feet to spread my legs. The jets of water thudded into my shoulders. My fingers worked in a gentle motion on the top of my clit and I let my mind wander ... back to the dressing room, back to Cassandra, to Jeremy.

The idea of Cassandra with me in the shower returned, our bodies pressed together. I wanted her to be there with me, just as aroused as I was, craving her touch as much as she was mine, letting the fear and the excitement of the moment wash over us with the water. We would both be so afraid to touch each other, but so eager; so confused why, but so sure that it was right.

I could already feel my fingers working their magic spell on my body. With great difficulty I pulled my hand away from my body. My breathing was heavy. My chest rose and fell quickly as I stood there under the water. 

I wanted to cum ... my fingers started to sneak back down my body to my pussy. 

But I needed to wait. I wanted more than just the physical release of my body. I wanted to feel his body and mine, together; that wholeness and tenderness I had felt when we were together and he would make love to me. I wanted to feel my stomach swelling with butterflies when he first kissed me and the giddy anticipation of his body teasing me, readying me ... and then the tsunami of pleasure wash over me as he first entered me.

My fingers were back on my clit. I knew I needed to wait, but the touch felt too good to deny.

I thought about Jeremy and myself naked between the bed sheets last Christmas. He had taken me skiing to a small mountain-town resort. It was a beautiful village though we hardly explored it. We had a beautiful chalet to ourselves that overlooked the entire mountain, complete with our own personal hot tub and fireplace, and all we did that whole week amid the tangled bed sheets.

I bit my lip as I remembered the place. I remembered the way he took me when we first entered our room; our bags strewn clumsily in the hallway as he pushed me up against the wall and kissed me. His tongue went deep into my mouth and his hands moved roughly up my body, my arms pinned above my head as he undressed me, as he kissed me.

My fingers started to press harder against my clit, and faster. I thought about how he had lifted me into his arms in the hallway, and I had ripped his shirt off, and he took me, holding me in his arms against the wall, my nails digging into his skin as he entered me.

My body started to tremble under the jets of water and I let the faintest moan escape my lips. I remembered his naked body, glistening in sweat as he had made love to me later, after we found our way to the bedroom. His body pressed closely to mine and my arms wrapped around his back holding him closely to me, every muscle in my body was tender. Every motion made me moan.

I thought about him, filling me with his cock and telling me he loved me, our bodies melted together in that bed as we came together in a chorus of ecstatic moans.

I could cum right now, I thought to myself, speeding up. Just a little—quickly, realizing what I was about to do I pulled my hand away from my throbbing clit. I squeezed my breasts, rubbing and turning my nipples with my fingertips. My body shuddered in frustration as I stopped. 

I threw my head back and pressed my lips together hard. I remembered the next night, sitting naked with him on the thick fur rug in front of the fireplace, his hands, massaging my shoulders while we watched the flames licking the steel grate. I thought about how we fucked that night in front of the fireplace on that soft rug, not made love, but fucked, rough and hard. His hands ran all over my body, squeezing, pulling, grabbing; we bit each other, and kissed each other. I thought about how he had bent me over onto my hands and knees and fucked me hard from behind, spanking me, pulling my hair while I begged for more. And I thought about me, pushing him onto his back, riding him; controlling him, making him beg me to cum. We fucked on and on, until the fire had burnt down to embers and finally, bruised and satisfied, we collapsed into each other and lay until we had become too cold. He carried me back to bed, in his arms.

I didn't like to admit it, but that night and that whole week really, was the best, most erotic sexual experience of my life, and I knew it had been for him too.

I took a deep breath and turned the shower off. I hadn't accomplished anything I wanted, I felt neither cleaner, nor more relaxed but I knew I couldn't be trusted with my own body.

I don't know exactly how long it took him to arrive, but it was definitely less than the hour he had promised. I had been out of the shower for barely five minutes when I heard the knock on the door. Half-naked in the bathroom, trying to dry my hair still I shouted up at him, "Door's open."

As I gave up trying to dry my hair, I heard the door to the apartment open and his voice call out my name.

"Just a minute," I called back. I looked at myself in the mirror. I had put on my wonderbra, and the laciest white thong that I had. I quickly inspected my face and body for any visible flaws and then adjusted my cleavage in my bra as best as I could. The bathroom in my apartment was near the door so I knew he'd have to pass by it to get into the apartment's living area. 

"Where are you?" he called. I listened carefully and when I thought his footsteps had passed me, I flung the door open and leaned against the doorjamb, my body on display.

"Here," I said as he turned around. He had a bottle of wine in his hand that he nearly dropped. I felt exposed and vulnerable as his eyes watched me.

"Miss me much?" he said cockily. He started to move towards me, the bottle still in hand.

"No, no," I said, as I slipped by him in the hallway towards the living area. His fingertips grazed my body as I passed, and I shivered. "Put the bottle down, and sit on the couch."

He complied quickly and without question, putting the bottle of wine on the coffee table and sitting down on the couch. I followed his trajectory to the couch and sat down on top of him, facing him. I put my hands on the back of the couch and gyrated my hips over his crotch. I felt his hands roughly grab my sides as he went to kiss me. I looked away from him as his lips came towards mine, so all he was able to do was kiss my neck. I moved my hands down to his, still twisting my hips on top of him, and pushed his hands away.

"Before we continue, Jeremy," I told him as his hands dropped to his sides. "There are a few rules. First, this is only going to happen once." I ground my hips a little bit harder into his body. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.

"Secondly, this is not about you. We're going to do what I want," I told him, turning his head to the side and kissing the lobe of his ear. I ran my hands down his body to his waist and began to undo his belt. I yanked it roughly out of the straps of his jeans and held it front of his face.

"Thirdly, if you don't do exactly what I want, I'm going to have to"—I snapped the belt in front of his face—"punish you." 

I slid myself off of his body so that I was on my knees on the floor and started to pull his pants down. He looked down at me with large eyes and an open mouth. I could already see the bulge in his pants forming. He was fairly well-hung, probably one of the better guys I had ever been with in terms of size, which made him bearable. Even though he wasn't overly skilled or knowledgeable of how to please a woman, the size made him passable.

"And lastly, just because you can't go anymore"—I told him, my hands on his thighs, my mouth hovering just above his hardening member—"Doesn't mean that I'm done with you. Okay?"

He nodded his head in agreement. I pulled on his boxers until they were done his legs and saw his full, thick cock staring back at me. I put one hand on it and looked at it. It was already thick, and rigid with veins. I pushed my hair to one side and opened my mouth. My hand started to move up and down slowly, and with barely any pressure on his body. I could see him writhing, trying to use his hips to pleasure himself with my hand.

"Sorry?" I asked. "I didn't hear your answer."

He gasped. "Okay, okay," he said. "Whatever you want ... just, Serena ... Please."

I stood up in front of him, and took my hand off his shaft. His hand moved quickly to where mine had been and he began to stroke himself with long, hard strokes up and down his shaft. I stripped my panties off in front of him and stepped out of them. "Show me," I commanded. I climbed up onto the sofa so that I was standing and put my feet on either side of his legs, my delicious, soaking mound right in front of his face. I reached down with my hand and played with his hair, encouraging him. With wide eyes he looked up at me and slowly tilted his head back until I could feel his breath on the lips of my pussy.

I closed my eyes feeling the warmth of his breath. It sent chills through my body, and immediately I thought back to the dressing room earlier that day. Cassandra had been so close to my pussy too, had she only removed my panties and taken the time to stretch out her perfect pink tongue ...

Like a shock, I felt his tongue against the outer lips of my pussy. I grabbed at his hair as I felt his tongue. I imagined his tongue was Cassandra's, and I was still in that change room. He worked his way into the dewy center of my lips, though it took so long. My legs started shaking as he finally licked at the tip of my clit.

I moaned, and I could tell he enjoyed hearing me moan almost as much as I enjoyed feeling his tongue on my body. He flicked his tongue harder and faster at the swelling bulb of my pussy and I pulled harder on the back of his head, inviting him deeper into my body. I reached around my back with my free hands, undid my bra and tossed it away. Balancing myself with my hand on the back of his head, I let my free hand wander my body to my nipples and I began to tease them and play with them. My eyes, still closed, saw Cassandra's hands where mine were; felt her tongue where his was.

I moaned louder as he continued praising my clit with his tongue. I felt his hands starting to reach to my hips and I moaned even louder. I started to feel the muscles in my legs contract and shake. It felt so amazing.

"Yes," I breathed to him, tugging harder on his head. "Yes." I said again, panting.

The rhythm of his tongue was exotic and unpredictable. He moved in circles, tracing the outline of my clit with it, and then would flick at it, moving up and down, or side to side. I started to brace myself. My tension in my legs increased as I felt the crashing wave of my first orgasm coming over me.

And then, he pulled me down roughly onto his lap. "Oh my God, no," I was breathless, still panting. I tried to stand back up, but his hands roughly held me down on top of him. "No, I'm so close." My own hand moved down to my pussy. It throbbed to be touched again, as I started to roll it around underneath the tip of my finger. I bit down on my lip as I rubbed furiously, but as I did, he lifted my hips off of him just enough so that his hard cock was fully erected underneath my body and then he started to gently lower me down on top of him.

Feverishly I massaged myself, though already I could feel the orgasm ebbing. Angrily I tried to push myself off of him, but he held me too tightly.




A Story About the Body Ch. 02



"Ugh, this—ugh" I grunted. I could feel the tip of his cock entering into my body while I tried to argue with him, tried to remind him that I was the one in control of the situation, but instead of an argument all I got from him was the tip of his hard, thick cock.

I pushed my hands against his chest, trying to break his hold of me, but he was too strong and my body was starting to give up. Inch by inch he slipped into me, deeper and deeper. His shaft slid in an inch and then out, and then returned a little deeper, and out again. 

I could feel his dick stretching my body. But as good as it felt, and as necessary, it wasn't what I needed.

"No, that's not—mm—what I—oh—want," I grunted, as he lowered me deeper and deeper onto his cock.

"Oh, really?" he asked. He thrust his hips up as he lowered me down. I felt the entirety of his cock enter into my body. My mouth opened wide in a big O, though I didn't moan. "Is that better?" he asked.

He raised me up off of his cock, so it was barely inside of me anymore. "Oh fuck," I swore out loud. He thrust his hips up again, and dropped my body. I grabbed tightly onto the back of the couch behind him. My closed my eyes hard and I bit down on my bottom lip.

"Now," she said, with another deep thrust into my body. I whimpered with pleasure. "You're going to pay me back for being a total bitch." He pressed on my hips and kept me pinned as low as I could go. Another deep thrust into my body.

I whimpered again. It felt very good, feeling him inside of me again. It had been so very long since anyone had filled me, and he fit so perfectly inside of me. His body felt amazing. But I really wanted, was his tongue. He started a rhythm, not going as deep as he could, but rough and deep enough that it made my body swell.

"Aw, shit," he grunted. He was going faster now, though I still wasn't doing anything. I had given up trying to fight him. I could feel the pressure in my body returning, the tension in my legs building. I felt the heat radiating out of my chest. The tips of his fingers dug deeply into my hips as he held me there on top of him. "You always had the tightest fucking body, Serena."

He went harder.

"I fucking missed this," he grunted. I was moaning uncontrollably now; moaning at his body; his words; the way he held me on top of him. "Fucking perfect." He grunted, pounding me, filling me, breaking me.

Without warning he flipped me to the side on the couch, and climbed on top of me. I cried out in surprise as he did it, landing roughly on the couch. For a few brief seconds his cock left me and it left me aching to feel it again. I could feel the wave of an orgasm building inside of me. It was just dying to be released and wash over me.

"So wet," he told me, reaching down between my legs, briefly teasing my clit with his fingers. My back arched at his touch. My hips thrust out towards his fingers.

"Yes," I murmured. "Right there ... just keep touching ... " I pleaded with him as his fingers moved away from me. His touch felt so good to me. But instead he once again brought his cock towards my slit and pushed it in to my body.

"No ... " I whined. "This isn't—ugh—what I—ugh—need." I reached down to stroke my clit when he stopped in mid-thrust and grabbed my hand. Pushing it down to the couch he then grabbed my other hand, restraining me on the couch, my legs spread wide by his body.

He continued now, his rhythm unabated; my hands, trapped under his. As he continued I felt the orgasm welling up inside of me. The release that I needed was so close. I clenched my fists and grabbed at the fabric of the couch, as he thrust into me over and over again. I moaned and swore, and panted under the weight of his body.

"Oh yeah," he told me. "Fuck that dick. I love it when you moan, babe." I was practically yelling now, each thrust felt so amazing, like he was hitting all the right places.

"Oh, don't stop," I begged.

I could feel the wave just starting to break.

"Please," I begged. "Just ... a little—"

He grunted and groaned. His body tensed.

"No, not—" I tried to beg. He pulled his cock outside of me and exploded; his cum splashing across my stomach, even hitting my bare breasts.

I let out a primal grunt. I was so angry with him.

Jeremy's body was still poised overtop of mine, temporarily paralyzed as he coaxed the last few ounces of fluid from his body. When, finally, he was done he bent in to kiss me. I turned my head away with a clenched jaw.

He chuckled to himself. "Thanks for the fuck, babe," he said standing up and reaching down, pulling his pants up. 

"Anytime you 'want some company'," he told me smirking as he re-zipped his fly. "Just call."

I sat up after him and threw a pillow from the couch at him. "You're a fucking asshole!" I yelled.

He let out a howling laugh and absorbed the pillow throw. "Whatever, whore," he laughed. 

"Ugh!" I screamed in frustration standing up. I started to hit him. "Get out! Get the fuck out!"

He started backing up as I kept swinging. Hitting him felt better than the sex. Finally he grabbed my hands and stopped me. I pressed myself into him and started to cry.

"Ah, you bitch!" He yelled pushing me away and moving again towards the wall. He looked down at his shirt. Half of the fluid he had just sprayed over my body was on his shirt and pants now. "How am I going to explain that to Stacy?"

I stopped where I was. "Who!?"

He looked at me as though he had just realized some great universal truth. And it was hilarious. "Oh my God, you don't know ... Aw poor baby" he mocked me. "Stacy was the first one on this after we broke up. I don't even think it was a day later and she was sucking my dick."

I crossed my arms, mouth wide open with disgust. Stacey had been a very good friend to me in college and had even helped me through the breakup I had with Jeremy. She had been the one, when all of my other friends were telling me to try to fix things with him, that I shouldn't go back to him; that I was right to break up in the first place and I should stick by it.

It didn't occur to me until that very minute why she had been so insistent and why I hadn't seen her very much in the last six months.

"Oh yeah," he went on. "And it wasn't even the first time. A month before that, at your birthday party, she took me in the bathroom and gave me the absolute best fuck of my life."

My face was contorted in absolute rage. The nearest thing I could feel was the bottle of wine he'd brought, so I picked it up in my one hand. It was unopened, and I advanced on him with it. He took small steps backwards into the hallway that lead towards the door. His hands were outstretched, a sick smile on his face as he watched me coming at him, like a lion tamer daring the beast to attack.

"She's the best sex I've ever had. Tightest—" He wouldn't stop.

I shrieked wildly and came towards him swinging the wine bottle. He turned and ran towards the door, me swearing unintelligible invectives behind him as he opened it and slammed it on me. I pulled on the door knob, wailing like a banshee, but through my blood curdling rage I could manage to turn the knob. When I finally did, he was gone.

Turning inside I slammed my own apartment door and screamed as loud as I possibly could. I leaned against the door and slid down it until I was sitting, naked, on the cold tile of the floor and I started to cry.

I don't know how long I was there on the floor, crying, but it felt like a long time. It always feels like a long time when you cry, but this felt longer. Maybe it was because I was naked on the cold floor, or because I had a billion thoughts all screaming in my head, and still nothing to show for anything.

Even though I was lucky enough to live in a basement that had sound proofing between me and my upstairs neighbour, it wasn't long before I heard the patter of feet on the stairs and then a knock on my door. 

"Serena?" spoke the gentle voice of my upstairs neighbour. Her name was Martha. She was a widow in her late sixties who lived mostly on the income of the basement apartment and her pension. "Is everything okay, sweetheart?"

From the floor I wiped my cheeks as best as I could, as though it would make my voice seem like I wasn't crying. "Everything's ... fine," I tried my best to speak through sobs.

"Do you need me to call the police?" she asked.

I tilted my head back and stupidly banged it on the door. For some reason the idea of the police at this point made me laugh. "No," I told her, half-crying, half-laughing.

"Alright, dear; I'm going to make you some tea though. Back in a wink," and before I could refuse I heard the patter of her feet on the stairs again.

When I was convinced she was gone, I let myself start crying again and for a few minutes that's all there was to do.

I cleaned myself, put on a bathrobe and waited for Martha to come back. I could hear her clinking her way down the stairs before she even got to my door. I had it open and ready for her by the time she made it down the stairs. Flashing a big toothy smile at me she clinked her way into my apartment. She was carrying a big silver tray with two porcelain cups and spoons, a sugar pot and a creamer all of which was organized around a steaming ceramic teapot. I let her in and she went into the kitchen setting it down at the table. We sat at the table and she poured us both a cup.

Martha was a big woman, with the most incredible way of looking at the world and curliest grey hair I had ever seen. It always sat on top of her head like a big grey afro. The very first time I met her I hadn't even been sure if it was real.

Martha brought a hand to my chin and raised my face. "Oh, my dear," she said, masking a tsk-tsk sound with her tongue. "What happened, love?"

I told her everything about tonight in as little detail as I could. I didn't mention why I had called him, or that I had even met a new friend today. She listened intently to the story as I told her, not interrupting me, patiently, and quietly, she drank her tea across the table from me while I spoke.

"I'm sorry, Martha," I wiped my face again when I had finished telling her everything I felt she needed to know. "I don't know why it even bothers me. We broke up months ago."

She reached across the table and patted my hand. "Don't you fret it, sweetheart. There's nothing worse than letting a man in and getting hurt by it, no matter how old the newspaper is that he comes with."

I laughed and traced the rim of my cup with my nail. I felt silly sitting there in my bathrobe in front of her, but I felt too spent to dress. Martha didn't seem to mind anyways, she was enjoying the tea too much to notice much. Steam was still rising up from the cup and it was still too hot for me to drink, but Martha drank it down like it was water. "What's your experience with cheating?" I asked.

She put her tea down and looked down hard at the table. "There's always one," she said.

"Yeah," I breathed. "I don't know anyone who hasn't been cheating on by a guy at some point." Martha picked her tea back up and took another quick sip of it.

"It hurts everyone, dear." She told me, filling her cup with more tea.

"What happened to you?" I asked finally taking a sip of my tea. It was the strongest tea I had ever had. I could feel the flavour tingling in my teeth as I took a deep breath of air. Martha took another gulp of tea.

"Oh, my dear," she shook her head. "It was so long ago. I'm sure you don't need to hear all about the woes of yesteryear."

"I'd like to know," I said sitting up in my chair. "Please, Martha." I reached across the table and touched her hand.

"Oh very well ... honey?" 

I waited patiently for her to start. She held a dead gaze at me and made no motion.

"Well?" I asked.

"Well, do you have honey, dear?" she asked again. "Tea's a bit nippy. A dozen bags may have been too many tonight."

"Oh—oh, honey! No I'm sorry Martha, I don't," I made an uneven face and tried my best to seem sympathetic. I had hardly touched my tea, though hearing the recipe I now realized why it seemed quite a bit stronger than I had remembered tea being.

"Two shakes of a lamb's tail!" she said getting out of her seat. I stood up too, confused. "Be right back, dear—just going upstairs to get the honey and then I'll tell you all about my trials and tribulations."

I sat back down. For an older, bigger woman, I noticed she was fairly spry as I watched her literally dash out of the kitchen to search for the honey and she was back far sooner than I ever would have expected, honey in hand. 

"Now, my dear, a story—like I promised." She drained a huge drooping line of honey into the tea cup in front of her stirred it around with one of the spoons she'd brought down and started to speak. "When I was young, probably your age, as the stories always go, I was in love with a man; he was a strong, handsome man who lived down the street from my parents who, actually lived just down the street from where we are now. He was a steel mill worker, back when there was a steel mill outside the town and I was a college student home on summer break. Every morning for a month I watched him walk by my house to work. At first I stood inside, hidden behind the blinds and then I waited with the blinds open, and then at the door, and finally, on the porch; and, after a whole month I said my first words to him."

"What were they?" I asked intrigued.

"'What's in your lunchbox?'"

I laughed and tried to quickly cover my mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said recovering. "I didn't mean to laugh."

She just shook her head. "He laughed too. Thought it was quite the hoot, pretty young girl asking him what's in his lunchbox."

She finished the cup of tea she had and cleared her throat. "We hit it off and were quite the pair to see. I left college and stayed here. He left the steel mill and moved more into the city—at the time, my dear, our neighbourhood was on the outside of the city—found work in construction and an apartment. I visited him regularly and ... well; it was something, those days of yesteryear."

"So what happened?" I asked.

"Susan Sullivan," Martha said with a deep breath adding more tea to her empty cup. "Susan Sullivan was a friend of ours—a friend of mine, from college—who moved to the city the next year. We often saw each other, socially; parties and the ilk. Until, one day, I called on Edward unexpectedly, to surprise him, and found the two of them tied together in a lover's knot."

Martha took another sip of her tea. She seemed to have slowed down now. "It broke my heart, to find them."

"Guys are sick," I tried to sound understanding.

"Oh, no, my dear—no, no," she reached out with her hand and squeezed my hand tightly. "You will love and be loved many times in your life. Don't you let them tell you it wasn't real; it always matters, my dear, the first as much as the last, and everyone in between. As much as it hurt to see, and as much as it hurt to feel, they loved each very much."

I looked at Martha surprised. I didn't understand how she could be so forgiving even so many years later. She tried to explain. "You're not meant to be with one person, my dear; sometimes it just happens that way."

I thought about it. "What happened to them?"

Martha smiled and finished her tea. "I married him."

I didn't even know how to hide my shock.

"For thirty-seven years," she continued. "It was the happiest time of my life, and he was never unfaithful again."

"What happened to her?" I asked.

"She moved somewhere else, I suppose. I never heard from her again, which hurt me too. I loved her dearly as a friend, but I think that she was too embarrassed and I, in ill-tempered youth, too angry to mend our fences."

I sipped my tea. It was lukewarm and still too bitter.

"So, you're saying I should forgive Jeremy and try to make things work?" 

Martha squeezed my hand again. "I'm saying, chin up, my dear. Love has many faces, and I do suspect a pretty thing like you can't be too far from the next one."

I blushed.

Just then my front door opened. "Nana?" It was the Martha's niece Danielle. "Are you down here?"

"Oh yes, hello love!" Martha replied standing up and speaking again to me. "I'll get out of your hair, dear. Hope you feel better and if you want any more tea, don't hesitate to ask." She flashed me another wide grin and gently touched my shoulder.

I sat at the table while Martha gathered up her tea cup onto the tray and headed towards the door leaving me with the still mostly full tea-cup I had been, for lack of a better word, using. And before I knew it, they were both gone and my front door once again closed.

It's hard to say how long I sat at that table for examining the tea in my cup, but by the time I decided to take another sip it had gone cold. Not wanting to worsen my day any further with cold tea I dumped it down the sink, which left me feeling bad for Martha's best intentions. I couldn't help but feel as though Martha's best intentions were more than just tea and sympathy.

I knew I wasn't in love with Jeremy and I hadn't been for a long time. I felt ashamed that I had brought him back into my life as I had, trying to rekindle something that had died a long time ago. It had been a mistake.

But what I needed now was to stop thinking and sleep. I went back into the bathroom to grab my phone where I had left it from before Jeremy had even arrived. It seemed like so long ago now that, even though I was still frustrated, the anger I had towards him had subsided. My frustration and guilt and anger had been replaced by the numbness of unfeeling.

To my delight though, there were two new text messages on my phone from Cassandra. The first asked for me to come shopping for groceries with her tomorrow afternoon and the second, sent less than two minutes after the first, told me that I was definitely going to go shopping for groceries with her tomorrow. I quickly sent her a message to say that yes, I would help and gave her my address.

I smiled to myself. I had already found the next face.