October 08, 2014

Good morning...

This one went right onto my Pinterest "Did I really until now to make a t-shirt board?" board. In case you're coming in late, I have been a t-shirt addict for as long as I can remember. In high school, I wore shirts that proclaimed, "Madge: You're soaking in it." And "Life is hard, and then you die." And "Welcome to California. Now go home." In college I wore a shirt that said, "It's not who you are, it's what you wear. Because nobody really cares who you are." 

Yes, my t-shirt drawer sports a 24/7 cynical side.

So this little beauty will fit right in with the rest.

There are about 17 things I'm late on. Mailing. That's one. (That might actually be 1-16. The pile of envelopes on my desk is reaching towering proportions.) But I'm also working on several new projects that I'm seriously excited about. In fact, one is making me so damn gleeful you can probably feel my smile wherever you are.

I am going to be continuing with the E is for Experts on Anal series—I have amazing contributors on this one. I've simply been a little behind (pun so very much intended) the past week. But while you're waiting, this was a new idea I had. I've put together quite a few collections over the years. From Batteries Not Included (for Masquerade Books) all the way up to Happily Ever Anal—I have worked for Black Lace, Harlequin, Plume, Magic Carpet, Go Deeper, and a slew of other presses. And I thought I would try to start putting up a free story each week. Because, content? That is something I have in droves. (Oh, there's one of those words I never use, but I like. Droves.)

But wait. There's more.

My concept (in the middle of the night, pre-coffee) was that I'd post a story and give a little bit of info about where the inspiration came from, about who the characters were (at least, in my head).

This one is called The Key and it's from Blue Sky Sideways, which was my very first collection of short stories. If you've read Dark Secret Love, then you will probably recognize Connor in Julia. This story was written in the early 90s, when I was a neophyte enough to start a piece by quoting a Robert Herrick poem. (I'm blushing over that.) I have been obsessed with locks and keys for decades now. (I like to hold things in my pockets.) But the key in this story is more symbolic than solid.

The Key

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free,
Oh how that glittering taketh me!
                                               —Robert Herrick

            Julia knocks, as a courtesy, but comes in before I can call out to her. She stands in the doorway for a moment, looking at me, and then she walks to the desk and sits in the padded swivel chair next to mine.
            “What’cha working on?”           
            “Just editing.”
            “I brought you something.”
            Coffee, as always. This time it’s a double-espresso. On Tuesday it was a latte with extra foam. Julia chooses different flavors and styles every time she sees me. She says that my life is too boring, that I play it too close to the lines in my Filofax. She likes to keep me off guard.
            “And something else, too,” she says, doubly surprising me by pulling a small box out of her pocket, the secret pocket on the inside of her faded leather jacket. She places the box on the edge of my desk and then taps it with her short, manicured fingernails.
            “What is it?”
            “You’ll have to see for yourself, won’t you, Love?”
            I smile at her, and turn in my chair to study the fine bones of her face, the smooth brow and golden-brown eyes that change when she looks at me, soften somehow. She puts her hands on the sides of my chair and rotates the whole thing toward her, turning it on the wheels and pulling both me and the chair closer to her. Every movement is graceful, unconscious, feline. She does difficult things without thinking twice. I have a hard time getting my jacket on with the shoulder pads bunching up on me.
            Julia continues to slide the chair forward until our legs are touching. I smile, then stop—I suddenly sense that she has something serious to tell me.
            “Twice a week isn’t enough anymore,” she says quietly, seriously. “I think about you all the time, Sonja.”
            She moves her hands to my legs, just above my knees, resting them there on my gray flannel slacks, setting her hands on me as a precursor, an appetizer, of what is to come. I sigh at her touch, knowing that she’s right . . . this is no longer a fling. I miss her so much when we are apart, the warmth of her, scent of her.
            “It’s not my birthday,” I say, half-teasing, attempting to lighten the mood. We’re so close now that my breath stirs the wayward lock of hair that always falls over her forehead. “It’s not Christmas. Or even Valentine’s day.”
            “Just a present . . .” she flashes me her unique smile, imperfect only because of one slightly chipped front tooth—that flaw makes me love her more “. . . just because I wanted to.”
            Again, she taps the thin, flat box for emphasis, and pushes it along my desk until it rests against my coffee cup. Then she takes my right hand and turns it up so that she can kiss my palm, kiss my lifelines, my love lines, tracing her tongue along those delicate, near-dainty wrinkles worn well into my palm, the map that tells a future I’m not sure I want to know.
            Am I ready for it?
            “Should I open it now . . .  or after?”
            “After,” she grins, dipping and swirling her tongue around each one of my unpolished fingernails. “After.”
            When she leaves, I look at the present again. It’s wrapped in red paper and tied with a tiny satin ribbon. I stroke the shiny paper and glossy black satin. Then I slip the box into the top drawer of my desk, turn off my computer, and get ready to go home.
            As I grab my trenchcoat from the rack, I imagine the mystery gift. Until I open it, I can dream of the contents nestled safely within the box.
            What if it held the key to freedom, I wonder. Wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t that be magic?
            “You’re gonna watch me,” she says, “Watch me eat your pussy, lick the cherry juices off your inner lips, slide my tongue inside your cunt...deep inside you there, where you’re all warm and secret and safe. Baby, I want you to watch.”
            I take a deep breath, a ragged breath, listening to Julia on the other end of the phone line while rubbing myself on the edge of my chair. I wish I could talk back to her, but I’m suddenly shy, blushing like a novice, even though I’m the older one in this relationship. I open my lips to speak, but the words won’t come out of my mouth—I can’t even formulate them in my mind.
            “I’m gonna fuck you,” she says, and I moan, thrilling at the urgency in her voice, the borderline desperation. “Gonna fuck my working girl, my good girl.”
            I sigh again, and realize, as the phone shakes in my hand, that I’m trembling.
            “I’ll bend you over your desk, lift up your skirt—you’ll wear a skirt for me, won’t you, darling? Not one of your power suits.”
            “Uh huh.” There, that’s something, “Yes, Jules, I will.”
            “I’ll lift it up, exposing you, your legs, thighs, ass, your beautiful, creamy white ass.”
             And then? Then? Oh, please tell me, please talk to me. I want to record your voice in my head to play back at night, when I’m in bed next to her, when I’m awake and alive and on the verge of . . .
            “I’m gonna fuck you, baby, hard and fast, just like you want it, just like you need it, fuck your sweet slippery pussy until you scream. I’ll thrust into you and make you come over and over again. You are my princess, Sonja, and I want to take care of you. You are my bad girl, Sonja, and I want to make sure that you understand that. And when I do, you’ll be so loud for me, you will scream and moan and sob . . . and everyone’s gonna know.”
            Everyone. Everyone’s gonna know. What will they say? What can they possibly say?
            “Did you hear about Sonja? She had a lover in her office, just last Tuesday. You must have seen her, younger, butch, rugged. You must have noticed her bringing coffee twice a week, as if she worked at Dante’s Cafe. As if. She closes the door and stays in there with her, for much too long, much longer than it takes to get a buck seventy five out of your purse.”
            “But Sonja? I don’t believe it. She’s a good girl, a good girl. And she seems so, well . . . boring. Not too be cruel, or anything, but she is sort of mousy. You know?”
            “That’s only because of the way she dresses. She shouldn’t wear so much gray, someone should take pity and tell her.”
            Pause and laughter. Two toilets flush.
            “Well, maybe gray is sexy to some women. It sounds as if she’s getting more than you are, Meredith.”
            “You should talk, Joyce. You’re more of a slut than she is.”
            Giggling, then, “Bitch.”
            “Do you think her girlfriend knows? Shouldn’t someone tell her? To save the poor soul some pain.”
            “’Poor soul’? I don’t think that dyke can feel pain. Didn’t you see her at the Christmas party? The way she bossed Sonja around. She’s a bad dream, a nightmare. A Neanderthal.”
            More wild laughter partially drowned out by running water.
            Then: “That’s a great color lipstick on you.”
            “Thanks, it’s new. Russet Moon. Chanel.”
            The bathroom door whooshes open and then closed, and I put my feet back down on the blue tile floor and smile to myself—though, honestly, shouldn’t I be crying?
            Julia knocks, as a courtesy, but comes in before I can call out to her. Still, what would I say? “Enter, lover,” the way she talks. “Come and fuck me against the wall. Tear off my clothes, my good work shoes, my Jones New York blazer, my hundred-and-eighty-nine dollar Ann Taylor dress. Fuck me like a locomotive. Let me feel . . . anything, let me feel anything again. I’m so tired of being boring, gray, mousy, dead. I want to live again, Julia, in your kiss, in your embrace, in your fire.”
            “Sonja, my lovely lady, you look delicious.” She seems to drink me in with her eyes, lifting up her black wayfarer sunglasses to get a better look. She brushes the mahogany curls away from my forehead and kisses me there first, chastely, sweetly, and then she undoes the top button of my red silk shirt and presses two fingers in the indent there, to feel my pulse, my lifeline, love line.
            “This color suits you, darling. It makes you look like a firecracker.”
            “Really? You think so?”
            “Mm hmm.” She undoes the rest of my buttons, “It looks wonderful on you, but, truly, I think it will look much better on the floor.”
            I laugh—can’t help it—and she unfastens the clasp of my black lace bra.
            “And this,” she says, helping me slip it off, “This is incredibly sexy.”
            “I know. Much better than the old-maid things I usually wear.”
            She gets down on her knees in front of me, and slowly begins stroking my body, along my shoulders, across my naked breasts, and down my belly.
            “Did you buy it for me?”
            “No, not really.”
            She pauses and looks up at my face, misunderstanding, thinking that I’m seeing someone else. Her eyes cloud with worry, with jealousy, but when I smile, reassuring her—“I bought it for myself”—she immediately continues where she left off, kneeling on the floor between my legs and cupping my breasts tenderly.
            “I don’t know why I wore those others for so long. I’ve always wanted to dress like this.”
            “You were scared of what you might unleash,” she murmurs against my warm flesh. “You were afraid you’d like it.”
            Then there’s silence again as she kisses the valley between my breasts and down the flat curve of my stomach to the waistband of my skirt. Silence that hangs in the air around us—beautiful like a tapestry, it’s filled with thoughts and dreams and fantasies... all of which are about to come true.
            “You wore this for me, though, didn’t you?”
            “Yes,” I sigh, and she motions for me to stand and then bends me over my desk, slowly lifting up the back panel of my floral skirt and exposing me from behind. She strokes me through my sheer nylons and then carefully peels them down my legs, helping me step first out of my shoes and then out of the stockings.
            “You are exquisite,” she whispers, “Such a vision. I can’t wait to be taste you.”
            They were wrong, those catty women in the bathroom. Julia has long been my admirer, my sweetheart, my obscene caller. She has kissed me and touched me, and we have indulged in “petting,” but never, not until this moment, have we actually made love.
            She slips one hand under the elastic of my naughty lace panties, black ones to match the bra, and then pulls them down to my ankles and leaves them there, capturing me. I feel her hot breath on the inside of my thighs before her tongue begins the journey upward, parting my nether lips and diving inside me where I am so ready for her, so willing. My thighs are damp with my honey, and Julia flicks and licks her tongue in circles, catching each drop, making sweet hungry noises as she devours me.
            I grip the edge of my desk with both hands, digging my nails into the carved wood border. I bite my bottom lip to keep from crying out, and I wonder, belatedly, if she locked the door. But does it matter?
            “Gonna make you scream, Sonja,” she says, soft and low, without moving her mouth from me. Her voice resonates within my pussy, vibrating amazingly inside me.
            “Gonna make you cry . . . and everyone will know, darling. Everyone.”
            God, it feels so good, her tongue and now her fingers, probing, opening me, teasing my clit with just the tip of her tongue and then moving away, pinching it between two fingers, the sensations building, the need rising. I want her cock there—I know she’s packing—I want her filling me, fixing me, making me whole. Yet, somehow, though she doesn’t say it, I know that she wants me to come first, that she won’t stop until I come, won’t fuck me until I come.
            “No more secrets, darling, no more pretending.”
            She presses two fingers into my pussy and then uses her thumb to part the cheeks of my ass and tickle me there, exposing, exploring. I feel weak, find myself suddenly grateful for the support of my desk—“Gonna make you scream, Sonja,”—I hear my moans as if they belonged to someone else, some other woman’s voice, some other woman’s body being played so well, so masterfully, being stroked and suckled and teased and (deep breath) . . . fucked, oh, thank you, God, fucked as she stands and thrusts her cock inside me, impaling me, making the head of it dance within the tight walls of my cunt.
            “Squeeze me,” she orders, and I do, helplessly contracting on her, coming from the very first dull thrust inside me. Her cock throbs inside me, rocks back and forth as she pulls out to the tip and then slams right back in.
            “Squeeze . . .” she says again, wrapping one hand in my long brown hair and pulling my head back so that she can kiss my lips, kiss me softly while she fucks me fast, forcefully—just how she said, just how I need it.
            “That’s right, baby, keep it steady now,”as if she’s talking to a pony, steady pace, keep the rhythm. I buck against her, loving the feel of her open jeans on my naked thighs, her cool leather vest on my hot skin.
            I moan louder, knowing that I’ll be heard, but not caring, not giving any thought to the repercussions, calling her name out, “Oh, my god, Oh, Julia! Yes, please, Yes!” as I come on her, move with her, hit the stride and keep it, sliding up and down on her powerful cock, riding it, then moving away at her signal and getting down on my knees in front of her and licking my own cum down my throat, lapping at the sweet drops that coat my lips, ignoring the pounding at my door.
            Afterwards, we’re warm and sticky, naked and sweaty, collapsed on the floor of my office with our clothes piled behind us for pillows. I lean up on one side to kiss her, to kiss her open mouth and taste myself there, to let her taste herself on my lips. I know that I can talk to her now, that something has changed inside me. Know that next time I will say, “Julia, I need your cock. Please, baby, please let me suck it, let me drink from your cunt, devour you. I am so hungry . . .” say anything I want, anything at all.
            “Did you open your gift yet?” she asks softly, stroking my hair away from my face, staring directly into my eyes.
            “No. I was . . . saving it.” Imagining something like this, not as good as this, but the same freedom of it, the key that would unlock this door and let loose my soul.
            But now, I realize the truth, that I don’t need a key. Or, really, that I had the key the whole time and only lacked the courage to turn it.

Themes for this piece: infidelity, longing, unexplored desires. Giving up. Giving in. Out of curiosity, I looked up what keys mean and found: "the key is an object symbolic of opening and closing powers" (No! Get out!) and "It represents knowledge, mystery, initiation and curiosity."

I fixed a few typos, but otherwise, this is pretty much the exact same story I wrote twenty-muble years ago.

Let me know what you think of this new feature. What should I call it? Back in the day? A long way from home? A thousand stories, one at a time.


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