2 comments/ 20267 views/ 0 favorites Allure Ch. 01 By: TheDruid Previously submitted as merely a story (In the Beginning). "Allure" occurred decades ago. Based on letters, poems and journal entries written at the time, this work has been rendered as true to the reality of these moments as possible. The woman of "Allure" has read the whole of and concurs. "That's how I remember it," she said. I had worried time might have embellished its memory. I didn't want the words to color the moment. "They don't," she said. But, reality can harm. Thus, the man and woman cannot have names in this account to keep other lives from hurt. In the Beginning The woman leans the willingness of her form against the dresser—-palms flat on the polished imitation veneer, fingers curling over the hard edge, eyes betraying nothing but her certainty--and lifts her right foot. "Take off my boots." She does not command mastery over this man, though he would willingly grant her that if she asks. No, her words burrow deeper, claiming dominion over this moment and where it will lead. She has no choice. Soft kisses have brought them to this room where intimacy reigns, but yielding must come from her. Too soon and the moment will turn tawdry; too delayed and the moment might never be. She sets the tone; he must set the tenor. He bows to her command, her boot-clad foot on his thigh as he sits on his heels before her, obeying only because he knows that whatever direction they will take must begin with an assertive touch. A reckless hand wraps around her calf, molding itself to the curve of the warm flesh beneath her faded jeans. A confident hand grasps the heel of her boot and tugs; the snug leather slips readily free. The other follows quickly. How this man and this woman arrive in this particular place at this particular time matters little in this telling. The meeting nearly six months earlier, the words spoken since, the touches gentle that granted permission, the decision made without discussion--all have been prelude. Without this moment, the particulars can have no relevance. With this moment, the particulars of before pass into oblivion. By inviting her into this space he shares with another, he takes a step outside his other life. In accepting this invitation, she takes a step outside her other life. Neither feels a need to consider where this steps leads. That will come later, or not. On this day, at this moment existing out of time, they explore the possibility of a beginning, content in the arousal that drives them, testing the measure of their resolve and calculating the passion each brings. She wiggles her toes along the rug's rough pile and fluffs her soft rust hair and spreads her presence into the otherness of this space, accepts his willful opening of it to her as easily as he accepts her willingness to stride unafraid into it. She stands flushed, soft green sweater top curved to her form, faded blue jeans snug to her form, bright gold rings secure to her form. He doesn't mind the reality of her rings or she of his. Her other life exists, as does his. They do not arrive at this moment in this place of intimacy oblivious of truths others ignore in less-deliberate circumstances: the anonymity of a chance meeting in a bar, the detached reality of a weekend conference, the freedom of intense strangers surprising each other in isolation. Because he and she first arrived together in social surroundings, each knows of the other lives--the stable one of hers, the volatile one of his. They could no more hide the otherness of their lives than they could deny the ease in they arrive his bedroom. He will not notice her rings when she clasps her hand around his or when her fingers brush along his skin or when they wrap around his hardness, cool metal tugging at his pubic hair. She will not notice his ring when he clasps her hand or when his fingers brush along her skin or when one slips into her wet softness, hard gold pulling at her pubic hairs. Her rings alone have no power to stop her from towering over him, from placing her form at his disposal, from allowing thoughts to become reality. His rings cannot stop him from savoring this reality, from placing his form at her disposal, from kneeling when she commands he remove her boots. "You are quick to obey." She drops the softness of her words as reward, her voice husky, her tone enticing, her blue eyes focusing on his hazel eyes. "When I want." He prolongs nearness, a hand softly pleading along the back of her knee and sensually inviting along the firm stretch of her calf. "I like your presence here." She lingers accessible over him, hovers against the dresser, soft blue eyes following his as he traces the shape of her presence, finely softened red hair, pale skin, breasts rising gently beneath the comfort of her sweater, belly curving into the seductive fit of her jeans. Under his gaze, she makes herself form to become function. Because of her presence, he makes himself function to become pleasure. The direction certain: friends must become lovers. "Do you enjoy what you see?" She slips her leg from his caress, pushes herself away from the dresser and crawls kneeling to the center of the bed. "Very much." He crawls kneeling in front of her and runs longing fingers up her arms. "My presence feels very much at ease here." She relaxes the flat of her hands against the thin firmness of his chest. "My presence feels very much wanted here." "It is." These words so softly spoken swirl about them seductive, bridge the gap between friends dabbling with danger and lovers embracing it with a first kiss--first only because the previous few have merely been expressions of possibility--the kiss several days earlier merely a step forward, others just moments ago in his study merely permission to continue the flow into lovers in more comfortable surroundings. Knowledge releases and relaxes, lets them taste this danger they gather about themselves, turning the kiss explosively tender, barely touching, more a brushing of auras than a merging of flesh. Yet, his fingers wrap firmly expectant around her arms; hers burrow catlike into his chest. "I nearly didn't come." She admits the hesitation without apology. "I know." He accepts her doubt without reproach. The second kiss comes tenderly explosive, prying open the auras of their otherness and wrapping them layered into a transparent shield that can neither hide nor protect them. Their willingness to set aside convention and to explore this fierceness between them requires this shield; it concentrates the lust each easily bares. Flesh seeks flesh. Breath seeks breath. Being seeks being. Her fingers slip yielding to the back of his neck as his slip softly into the tangle of her hair. She seduces his teeth with her tongue; he traces the flush on her cheeks with his thumbs. "Take off your shirt." Command without fear. "Take off your sweater." Assertion without demand. The third kiss comes seductively urgent. Bared nipples rising on her pale freckled breasts caress his chest hair, tingling subtle, a touch at once soft and deliberate. He spreads the soft flesh of her back beneath his fingers, wanders along its fluid curve, strokes it wanton. "Do you realize how dangerous we are?" She licks his lips. "Does it matter?" In seeking to catch her tongue with his lips, he throws them off balance. They tumble tangled to the mattress. She sorts them out quickly, playful laughter punctuating their movements, skin against skin. Gentle morning light seeping through the curtained window adds richness to the texture of the form and function and pleasure they open to each other. He stretches long and lean on his back, one arm gathering her nestled, the other resting inert at his side. The hardness risen from this woman's presence stretches confidently bold beneath his jeans. She curls into him on her side, one hand to prop her head, the other delicate fingers tracing invisible patterns through the dark hair spreading across his chest. A breast lingers teasingly close, pale thin hairs ringing the nipple that rests so gently aroused against him. "Maybe we're too dangerous." She studies the shape of her hand and the feel of her fingers on his skin. "Does that bother you?" He relaxes in their presence together, the warmth of her skin against his, the scent of her hair close, the responsiveness of her spirit, the reason she lies here and not elsewhere this morning. "No." She kisses his chest softly, reveling in the stretch of him along her, his male aroma hers to inhale, the eagerness of his response, the reason he lies with her this morning and not another. "I feel freer here. There are too many demands elsewhere. Sometimes I can't breath." "The problem is people." His fingers dabble along the back edge of her jeans, eager to move forward, content to let this moment drift where it will. "People become too possessive." "I can't understand possessiveness--no matter what it is--of things, of the body." She looks just beyond him, focusing on the wall, or the nightstand, or the shape of the lamp. "No one person can satisfy all our needs." She turns her eyes to his, studies the greenness emerging from his hazel eye so fearlessly returned, allows him the blueness of hers brazenly unhindered. He runs his hand along the soft hairs of her arm. "I read a novel long ago about an island in the Pacific. If one person wanted another, he or she gave her or him a conch shell. The meaning was clear. Sexual pleasure. They trotted off, explored each other without fear and satisfied whatever curiosity drew them together. After, they could return to their other lives. Since all accepted the practice, married or not, there was no jealously." "Fantasy appeals." She licks his shoulder. "But we are not fiction. Reality must prevail." He turns into her form, defining their presence on this bed. His fingers test for the first time the pliancy of her breasts, reading the craggy Braille of her nipple with his thumb. She keeps a breast free for his touch, bares her throat to his lips, hides her fingers in the comfort of his hair. Neither offers resistance; the moment dictates the touch. But they surrender in their own way and at their own pace. The man yields control of his breathing to her greedy lips, her open mouth, her silken tongue. The woman allows him to decide when to pull the press of her jeans-covered softness to the length of his denim-sheathed hardness. This man and this woman let all the reasons they should not be together half-naked on this bed melt away with kisses and touches and arousals. Yet, the sensual feel of her breasts bare on his chest, his erection bold against her belly, their lips wet with each other's kisses do not come hurried. Sex alone does not drive them, or she already would be nude beneath him, legs splayed, and he would be nude over her, thrusting deep inside her wetness. No, the layers they unveil for each other to explore reveal more than the intricate sexual moments they will share. But pleasure builds in a way that eludes control and demands satisfying. "I don't have a conch shell." He kisses her nose, inhaling her heady fragrance--part intoxicating perfume, but mostly the scent of her--as if she must always be the air he breathes. "Wouldn't this be easier if we undress?" "I'm not getting undressed." Her words come casual, but definitive. "I don't like being rushed." "I see." Disappointment? Yes. He can hardly let any other feeling intrude and he does not have the power to mask it. Instead, he clings to one shred of hope, for her words did not come between them as refusal. She kisses his chin, holding the fragileness he cannot conceal tightly to her so it does not swirl destructive. Having come this far, having admitted with the press of her body against his that she wants this man as much as he wants her, she cannot let the moment escape. In not retreating from her, he confirms that he wants her presence here, not just the pleasure of her sex. She wants this moment with him as much as she wants the many moments that will come. "What's the matter? Can't you wait?" "Of course." But not really. Only they exist in this selfish moment. He cannot ignore the arousal this woman who stretches half nude against him creates. He assumes she cannot ignore the stretch of him half nude against her, tautly erect. She can feel the measure of his want. Her hips press against his. The softness of her belly traps his hardness plain between them. He has not yet felt the depth of her want, but he feels the warmth of it seeping through her jeans against his thigh. "It's much better not to be rushed." She caresses his shoulder, aware that the press of their bodies tells more truth than the soft words they brush across each other's skin. Because she does not shy away from their touch and he does not interrupt it, nothing will interfere with the journey so newly begun. On this day, only the barrier of jeans keeps them apart. The caution in her words merely reflects a wish to savor the anticipation she builds inside and he will come to appreciate. His fingers skim the surface of her skin. "I know." He sees the falseness of his words in her eyes. He feels the deception of his thoughts nestling urgently hard against her. He hears the hollowness of his promise in the soft touch of their lips. She does not mind the small lie because everything about this man gives rise to her own small lie. The tentacles of his lust reach as deeply inside her as hers burrow into him. And though she will not retract her words and allow him to stretch unbridled inside her, she does not have to allow their lust to whither. "I don't think you do." She pushes herself up from the lean stretch of him and kneels at his hips. Her soft red hair tousles pagan across her shoulders. Pale freckled skin bare to her waist beckons his eyes and his touch. He does not interfere with her ease of movement as she unbuckles his belt, tugs his zipper down and frees his cock. He gives himself over to her confidence of self as she wraps fingers so recently soft on his chest skillfully around his hardness, crushing dark public hair thickly grown. He surrenders to her enjoyment of purpose as she tugs the willing length of him rising into the adultery of her mouth. The soft scrub of her breath wanders sultry along his sensitive skin. Her mouth closes around his hard flesh as greeting, exploring its shape and texture with the same eager curiosity her lips had explored the sensuality of his lips. Her fingers, so delicate in tracing intricate patterns through his chest hair, masturbate him firmly when her lips pull nearly free of him, grip him deliberately still as she gorges herself. This open ease of her mouth captivates him, not merely from the intimate sexuality she grants him, but from the flow of her whole being. He notes the details, turning them into images he will carry with him--the seductive curve of her bare back disappearing into the modesty of her jeans, the tantalizing bobble of her bare breasts in rhythm with the bobbing of her head, the silky rust-colored hair trailing teasingly along his bare skin. All these individual images come together with the reckless stretch of him in her mouth, enhancing not merely the arousal of his body, but imploding his senses. The press of her fingers, the pull of her lips, the sanctuary of her mouth sink the tendrils of her essence deeply into his, coursing through him unstoppable, and burrow into the deepest neurons of his brain. This woman who only a moment before demanded patience sucks his cock in abandon. This woman who only a moment before hesitated at getting fully undressed runs a sleek tongue around the saliva wet rubbery tip of his cock. This woman who only moments before existed as wife and mother in her other life willingly pumps his cock, not merely to bring the selfishness of his climax closer, but to bring the whole of his being into her. The wish of his climax comes first, wanting it to be masculine bold and thickly white and potently strong. Then the feel of it emerges, somewhere deep, building in uncertainty. Will it come quickly, fiercely explosive? Or will it layer itself, momentarily paralyzing before spurting uncontrollable? What of this woman, granting him such an intensely intimate gesture and revealing to him the passion boiling inside her and the willful abandon with which she satisfies it? Where does she want the cum that her hand and mouth and tongue and presence bring so near to bursting? Will she look at him for a second as she pulls her mouth from his flesh, sitting back on her heels as her fingers tug his climax explosive? Will she enjoy the moment when his cum arcs and dribbles down her hand, providing slickness that will help her pump him dry? He would gladly watch, noting the texture of his cum on her delicate fingers and the expression his climax brings to this deliberate moment they share. But in sitting so near, her breasts would compete for his attention. His fingers reach for the pliancy of her breasts, ignored in his selfish enjoyment of her mouth. He pinches her nipples gently, tugs them taut, scrapes them lightly with his fingernails. Does she want the slickness of cum on this flesh, rubbed smooth so that after, when she drives back to her other life, she can inhale the scent of him--and perhaps herself--rising from beneath her clothes? He would gladly kneel astride her, masturbating himself so she can watch that first spasm of his climax spurt with uncontrolled force and feel his cum warmly thick on her breasts and nipples. Would she reach up to feel the pulsing and to let the last dribbling of his cum coat her hand as well as his? He inhales deeply, tightening some muscle deep beneath his cock, wanting to delay as long as possible his climax because he finds the feel of this woman's mouth not merely pleasurable, but an entry way to the intricate layers inside her she peels back with each movement, each gesture, each touch. He wants to prolong this moment because he has found the woman behind the lust and he does not want to lose the preciousness of this moment. Her teeth rake his flesh. The forceful hand wrapping around his hardness pumps him boldly expectant. Her mouth sucking his cock commands his satisfaction. He must climax; she wills his orgasm. Urgency demands the decision of where the spurting lands be hers to make. He touches her cheek. "I'm very near." She trails a fragile web of saliva as she slips him from the comfort of her mouth, looking at him with blue eyes glassy with lust, face flushed, lips so moist they glisten. "Don't let me stop you." Barely enough time taken to speak the words before she returns to him, skimming warm breath across his wet skin. She kisses the length of his cock, sucks a testicle into her mouth and licks her way back to the rubbery head, engulfing him. Inside her mouth again, he surrenders whatever little control he has left. She sucks with more certainty now, preparing herself for his taste. Each understands the intoxicating intimacy about to be shared. Each wills it. Neither can stop it. The first gushing spurt comes greedily satisfying, and each spurt after adds pleasure after pleasure. He arches the fullness of himself to her so she can hold him thick in her mouth, taking and tasting as much of his pleasure as she wishes. She takes it all, as if in this moment of ejaculation shared, of pleasure drained, of wantonness opened, all the obstacles that have bottled up his life dissipate into the intricate abyss of her mouth. This woman holds him ebbing, pulling her lips slowly from his cock only after the last waning twinge of his climax, running a greedy tongue catlike smooth to capture the last morsel of cum her fingers press oozing. The kiss she returns to his lips tastes metallic, slick from her saliva, sticky from his cum. He gobbles her lips, showing her plain he has no fear of savoring his taste on her, but pleasure given so willingly deserves pleasure shared. Allure Ch. 01 His hand slips inside her jeans, inside her panties, seeking the openness and the wetness of her cunt, tropical jungle muggy, morning tide pungent, whirlwind urgent. A finger slides through the swollen flesh, seeking out the delicate folds to be explored as closely as she has him. The finger, held firmly by her jeans, presses against the length of cunt, feels the brazen nub of her clit, coats itself with her juices before pulling out so he can wrap his arms around her. She attacks his ear. She straddles him. She takes him on top. She rubs the moist coarseness of her denim-covered cunt against the hardness her lips and fingers and tongue have claimed, knowing she must soon feel the stretch of this still hard flesh, as well he, inside her, wanting not just the length of his cock or the feel of him or the climax she has tasted bursting deeply welcome, but wanting the whole of this man, hers to have and to explore. The woman rides the wantonness. The woman accepts her greediness. The woman confesses. "I didn't expect you." Next: A Journey Properly Begun Allure Ch. 02 "Allure" chronicles a true story. No names are used to avoid any possibility of identifying the participants and causing hurt where no hurt has been intended. The story unfolds simply, but the complexity builds beyond the moments enjoyed. What the future brings come as uncertain as each moment the man and the woman enjoyed. A slice of life cannot be altered, cannot be reduced to body parts, for the parts become merely a means to an end--if an end can ever occur. A Journey Properly Begun He carves space for them in the swirling dissonance of his other life. The things that quantify this house--the decor a fragile personality has arranged, the kitchen his other life claims for herself, the bedroom a wife defends with spiteful threats of death--exist mostly as background noise for the red-haired woman who arrives with certainty. It must be here she comes, for few other possibilities exist for them. His car would be too awkward. Her van would be too noticeable. Renting a motel to use for only ninety minutes would seem too seedy. And they certainly cannot be whole within the structure of her other life--too many people, too many responsibilities, too many ways to be discovered. In his house, they have little to fear. The raging tempest of his life has withdrawn. Unable to cope with the intensity of her own accusations, unable to detect any clues to confirm her suspicions, unable to shake the thoughts of his betrayal, the wife retreats into self-absorbing anxiety. In the solitude of her absence, he creates the reality of her self-fulfilling prophecy. To invite this new woman risks little. For her to accept risks little. He does not know his neighbors; she knows no one living nearby. Night has fallen deeply dark over them. Still, when she arrives, she parks her van around the corner and walks wary until inside the safety of his solitude. Only after he locks and bolts and chains the door do they acknowledge the sense of each other with a warm kiss of greeting and a passionate embrace of auras and the building of the arousal over what they know will occur without hesitancy. She drops her purse on the nearby chair. The jeans she wears mold tight around her and the boots she prefers give her height so they can see blue eyes to hazel eyes as they kiss. She wanders tranquil into his space. She claims it as she had the bedroom that first morning between them. Nothing from her other life can intrude in this place. Nothing from his life can intrude either, but he keeps the windows sharply covered and, to avoid telltale shadows wavering lustful on the drapes, he turns off the lights until only the bold blue glow of the stereo clock cloaks them softly. Some might say this man and this woman retreat from fear they will be caught; others might believe they merely lock the world out so they might enjoy each other in solitude. Some truth exists in both thoughts or maybe no truth exists. If anything must be explained about their choice of place, let it be that this man and this woman see this darkened setting as sanctuary, as something only they create, as a realm in which the passion growing between them can flow without fear, as the arena in which their auras mingle as they sit close on the sofa, words tumbling forth in this dimness, words warmed with wine and cognac and nearness. The words do not matter, only the outcome they portend. Bonds form even if they do not understand. Tentacles entwine in intricate patterns they do not yet see. Lust reigns--it must--but it becomes a pathway along which they rush without looking, the pathway friends and lovers alike take, and, occasionally, a path those destined to love might take. Friends exist mostly in sober dawn. The brightness of day brings light too revealing. Touches then must come casually, embraces merely greeting, fingers brushing in accident, postures wishing to entwine held painfully erect. The way of the world dictates how friends interact. As lovers, friends walk strangely dreamlike landscapes, touches soft as silk, colors bold as brass, smells pungent as ripened earth. Visions blur. Senses sharpen. Feelings mingle. Lovers blend the friendship into physical contact because it comes so naturally and night provides a sense of the hidden and the forbidden, even if they feel neither describes them. Yet, he would gladly bring what they enjoy in solitude into daylight and would not mind if others understand the implications of their touches, the closeness of their auras, the headiness of their words. They might yet careen more fully down that path, but to do so would be as a couple and, from that, love would grow. Two people integrating the feel of pleasure into their friendship do not look beyond the intensity of the moment, do not wonder what exists tomorrow, or next week, or next year. The lust emanating from each blinds them to all but the present. They revel in the presence of each other and in the moment to be shared and the orgasms that will surely follow. Lovers they become, but they do not arrive together this night as lovers in the sense of loving. Blame the language for the failure to have a word to describe that stage when two people step beyond friendship but do not become lovers in the sense of loving. But, with no other descriptive phrase--aside from "adulterers," which doesn't quite fit except as a moral judgment neither makes--they can only be called "lovers." Tonight, the man sits relaxed on the couch with a cognac in hand. His long legs stretch onto the coffee table. The woman sits leaning her flowing form into the crook of his arm, her cognac on the coffee table near his knees. "I'm tired of rules." He states it plain. "I only have one." She states it certain. "Nothing anal." "A rule or a request?" He kisses her cheek. "I don't like rules either." She traces his hard square chin. "Let's call it a request." He stretches eager and she flows wet beneath their clothes of social convention. They shed them easily, each trying to undress the other, but urgency demand they finish undressing themselves until they have nothing left between them except the open indulgences of each other. They fall expectant to the floor, she on her back, he kneeling astride her legs. He relishes the form of this woman he will soon enter, letting her see the full form of the man about to enter her. He does not mind she can see him risen strong, hard flesh for her to enjoy, and she does not mind that he can look between her legs to see her glossy in the night, soft flesh for him to enjoy. He marvels at the pliancy of her lips when he leans to kiss her, how easily open they come to his, how greedily they nibble his. His fingers graze across the gentleness of her breasts and his tongue savors nipples rising bold. He lets his hardness trail along her thigh as his exploration of senses flows along her skin to her belly to between her legs. In the cool blue light, his thumb finds her clit and circles it slowly. Above, her thickly pale pubic hair looks barely there, merely random lines that might be wispy shadows or surface veins intricately arranged or ripples of excitement beneath her skin. The newness of this in his life--these rust-colored shadings curling languidly between her legs--should be appreciated. He should study the hues cast along her skin and how the shape forms an inviting pathway to her cunt and note the similarity of tint to the shading of the artful folds into which his cock will slip. But this comes as an evening of urgency. He barely samples her taste and the sensitive nub of her clit before he knows the moment of first joining must begin to allow some lingering after. He leaves his admiration of the subtleness between her legs for another day. Tonight, he basks in the slick feel of his fingers inside her damp fleshy folds before they give way to his hardness, and she compares how the feel of his cock stretching long inside her differs from the feel of it stretched long in her mouth. Her hands slip softly along his hairy chest as the music plays them close together and sets the motion of their rhythm. The rug presses her deeply up to him. He moves slowly inside her, letting the wetness of her folds caress his hardness, letting his hardness test the wetness of her folds until the rhythm catches them up and they glide against and inside of and around each other as if they have been doing this for centuries. Perhaps they have. Perhaps inside each reside the genes of previous lovers through the ages passed down in hopes of finding two new lovers who would bring the moment of sharing intimacy into the art of sharing love. Did he first plunge into her on the Hill of Tara, soft breezes brushing over them as they looked into each other's eyes? Did she pull him inside her in the Temple of Astarte, hot desert wind caressing them on the cool stone floor? Did they flow into each other not once, but thousands of times in thousands of places in thousands of configurations only to be separated by time and distance and circumstance? Have they been caught by jealous others before in passionate embrace? Punished for their sins? Banished from each other? If so, they return to each other again in blissful ignorance. They feel only this night and only each other. It is the suppleness of wetness and the thrust of tautness that intoxicates, not the cognac they have drunk. She accepts the urgency of his hands and lips and cock exploring. Each darts from lips to breast to cunt opening flowering beneath him. He accepts the tenderness of her hands and lips and cunt. Each flows from lips to chest to cock stretched taut. He glides easily around her, inside her, baring himself and his self. She slides up to feel him full, legs around his to feel him deeper, baring herself and her self. They are together giving and taking at once because there has not yet been enough time for first giving and then taking--time to explore the one while the other lies placid, receiving pleasure unrestrained, acceptance uninhibited, tasting the one on the lips of the other before the one gives way to the other. She moves slowly across the rug that burrows into her back as he slides deeply with each fluid thrust. They are too intense to get up and move to more comfort. They surrender themselves, steely shadows from the clock's blue light drifting across their skin. The stretch of him inside her, the closing of her around him, the moist softness welcoming him plain, the blunt hardness--all these finding not merely a place in which to nestle, but a home to claim. He coats his thumb in her and licks it clean, sucks like a baby her breasts beneath him, nipples up in wantonness, plunges deeply into her, softly strokes her cunt with his cock, feels her fingers caress his back and breeze along his sides and hold him tightly as the force of his climax flows deeply inside her. There has been no measure of time entered or withdrawn except that it has not been enough and only the once when it should be two or three with softness breaks between. But those moments must be reserved for couples without other lives to contend with, or for lovers who can easily escape for a weekend. Perhaps they might. The thought comes eagerly to him, but it would take much planning and subterfuge. Only barely begun, they sit huddled after in closeness, dressed again in their clothes of social convention because now comes the time other lives must intrude. She sits oozing him into her panties. He rests comfortably with her juices and scent lingering across his softness. Their words whisper softly around kisses tender, reminders of this first time he has entered her and she has taken him inside. This subtle shift from being two who have been friends, who have shared a moment of erotic pleasure, to two who have felt the depths of each other, who have joined not just the length and depth of each other but the breadth that surrounds them makes them linger. Time to go. Not just yet. But no matter how long they delay the moment with soft kisses and whispered words and gentle caresses, leaving always seems so abrupt, no matter how necessary. They must allow themselves the separation of beds and of selves. If they did not, they would set off firestorms and angers and, not merely hurt, but intensely crushing pain. They must wait for more appropriate moments that bring them a day in a day only theirs to share. At this moment, they are an infinite wandering just beginning, savoring the pleasures of body and mind they bring to each other, not even concerned about the depth their presences together might create. But the transformation must begin. She walks slowly down the front walk, pensive. Does she feel the eyes follow her, wondering if they caress her still, lightly on the shoulder, demanding along her legs, triumphant over the wetness still oozing? Does this parting sadden him? He watches, wondering if, in the slowness of her walk, she recalls the moment she leaves behind, the feel of him and her together, or does she begin to prepare for the return to her other life. Does she nudge the feel of him aside to bring forth the memory of the other, so that the closer she comes to her home, the more wifely she becomes? What of that moment when she is halfway between, when the strength of the two men in her life tugs at her equally: Is her expression then one of comfort returning or joy departing? Next: Claiming the Night