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Standard Disclaimer: This total work of fiction (resemblance to persons
living or dead, purely coincidental) is not to be read by those who are
morally or legally obligated to look the other way. This is a glimpse into
the interior landscape of a fantasy world. In this fantasy world there is no
communicable disease, no exploitation, no danger, and everyone ends up
happy. In other words, not like real life at all.

This is a repost of a story I wrote about 18 months ago. Despite the
attention my story “Tricia” received (for which I am indescribably
thankful), I still like this a little better. I will be posting a new story
soon.

All comments and criticisms enthusiastically and gratefully welcomed and
appreciated.
Dvflorence@excite.com



      Cary
            by daVinci


  You have to amuse yourself sometimes after being so serious for so long.
     -- Franz Joseph Haydn

      I can't really mention my name. It would defeat the purpose of what
I've been trying to do. Not that you'd recognize it, or even care that much
if you did. But it has been my ambition recently to become a recluse, and
being a recluse is hard goddamned work. One must be ever vigilant. It's the
little things that get you into trouble.
 My problem was I just got bored. Everything became so routine. I developed
problems distinguishing what city I was in, what orchestra I was playing
with, what piece I was performing. Most audiences never noticed the
difference. Several of the critics did. When they started describing my
performances as "workmanlike" and my technical components "competent" I knew
it was time to stop. I cashed in royalty checks and appearance fees, and
dropped off the face of the earth. I moved here, to this house. A house I
bought for only two reasons: its location and its third floor. The mountains
of Tibet, the jungles of Borneo, the ice tundra of northern Canada...none of
these locales offers the anonymity and isolation of the affluent American
suburb. My new house stood on a non-descript street, in a non-descript
neighborhood, in a non-descript town. There was nothing at all to
distinguish it from dozens of identical affluent suburbs. I was not in the
least concealed, I was right out there in the open...which is why I was so
well hidden.
 I looked at five houses in this vicinity before stumbling on this three
story Tudor. It's third floor a massive expanse of unusable area, an immense
attic masquerading as a living space. Much to the exasperation of the moving
company, I had all of 63 boxes of books, 15 boxes of CD's and LP's, 8 pieces
of furniture, three MIDI equipped electronic keyboards, two computers and
one baby grand Steinway hauled to this cavernous crow's nest. We sometimes
manage to fill even the most enormous of empty spaces.
 For hours each day (and night) I sat in this room reading my Kafka,
listening to my Mahler, and finishing my own first symphony. How fortunate I
am to be a recluse of the 20th century. Had I been writing a symphony in
Berlioz's time I would have actually had to have dealt with people:
conductors, musicians, publishers. Now it can be done by one cynical
composer who happens to own the proper computer software and a Korg
keyboard. This is a great time to be alive...where do I want to go today?
Let's be completely honest here, I am not J.D. Salinger or Elvis. No one was
really looking for me. I was not a fugitive, a hounded celebrity. Let's be
brutally honest, there was no romantic nobility in what I was doing.
Beethoven stopped performing in public because of a comical stage mishap,
Rossini abandoned writing opera after turning 30, and Bartok died in exile.
I was not "making a statement" or protecting my artistic sensibilities. I
was simply bored, perhaps a bit "comfortably numb". I was not interested in
anything, and nothing was interested in me. As I looked out of my third
story's two windows and watched the street traffic, the trees sway, the
house next door; I felt secure in the knowledge that no one was really
challenging my reclusivity, a luxury not necessarily enjoyed by other
hermitic members of my tribe.
 But enough about me...this is not why we are here. This is not why am I
writing. This is not why you are reading. You grow impatient for the "story"
and I don't blame you. You'll be pleased to find out that the "story" is
easy to get to from where we are. Do you remember were we were? Before my
rambling digression on reclusivity and sequencer programs, we were in my
third story "workshop", my Montaigne's tower. That is why it's easy to get
to where we want to go from where we are. All we have to do...is look out
the window. For that is what I did.

 I had shut down the computers and closed the lid on the Steinway. As I
wandered around the room, my head arbitrarily turned to the right and my
vision was slapped by a flash of white. A woman in a brilliant white bathing
suit walked out of her house and towards the chlorine blue water of her
swimming pool. I was not terribly close, but I swore I could see her breasts
sway slightly as she leaned back on one of the several pool chairs. She
arched her back in recline. Her face, somewhat obscured by the sunglasses
she wore, lifted towards the sun. I studied her breasts, rising and falling
with each breath. I examined the flatness of her stomach and the womanly
flair of her hips as exposed by the high cut of her swimwear. I stood
hypnotized by how incredibly tanned, smooth, and firm her legs looked thrown
out as mere appendages by their owner. I hate to use this word, I have never
used it before to describe a human being, but this woman was stunning.
 It took me several moments to realize I was gazing lewdly upon one of my
next door neighbors, Cary Salasmore. Cary and her husband, Matt, had come
over to introduce themselves the weekend I moved in, and invited me over for
dinner one warm June evening last month. They made an attractive couple.
Matt was athletically handsome and Cary was beautiful, with dark brown
shoulder length hair and a Revlon model face. Her dark complexion worked
cooperatively to amplify the lightness of her eyes, or the flash of her
teeth. I actually found the whole ensemble somewhat distracting while trying
to talk to her. We had dinner that evening on the very patio where Cary now
lay in the sun. Cary and I had shared an afternoon of conversation as I
applied honey pine wood stain to lumber I was using to construct
bookshelves. Last week I had observed her struggling to assemble a new gas
grill, and went over to offer my assistance and power tools. Not that she
couldn't have done it herself, but four hands were better than two, and I
was trying to be neighborly. So you see, I had been around her and I knew
Cary was beautiful in the way a Michelangelo statue is beautiful, full of
finely crafted detail. I had not realized however, until that moment, that
Cary was also beautiful in a Playboy Playmate of the Year, wet dream type of
way.
 As my mind wandered in the direction Cary's body demanded it take, I began
to feel a little voyeuristic. I managed to tear myself from the window, but
never for very long. I kept returning. I must have watched her on and off
for two hours before, much to my disappointment, she got up to go in. The
last thing I saw was her incredible figure in retreat. I watched her from
behind as she slid inside the house, her outrageous legs seemed to glide her
forward, propelling her along some predetermined path. I reluctantly went
back to work.

 An  hour later I heard the doorbell ring. The object of my affection, my
new hobby, stood outside the door.
 "I hope I'm not interrupting, but Matt's out of town again and I'm a little
bored, how would you like to help me drink this $110 bottle of wine?" Cary
asked, handing me the bottle.
 "I think I can work that into my schedule," I replied and invited her in.
 She was still wearing the white bathing suit, but had put on a pair of
cutoff denim shorts. The frayed edge of the shorts threw threading against
the smooth dark skin of her thighs as she sat on the couch. Another gripping
image I had to tear myself away from as I went to open the wine. I returned
with the Pinot Grigio on ice and two glasses.
 "So how's the life of leisure?" she asked when we had settled down with our
accessories for conversation. I had been intentionally vague in discussing
my background with Matt and Cary , saying only that some financial good
fortune had allowed me to retire early from the "music industry".
Remarkably, neither one of them had pursued the ambiguity and the subject
was always changed.
 "So far, so good, though I think I watch too much CNN," I said.
 "A 24 hour news network...is there that much happening we have to know
about?" she wondered.
 "Don't find a need to keep up with current events?"
 "I'm too busy being a stereotype," she said with obvious irony. "Poor
wealthy woman, married to a busy giant of commerce. Nothing to do all day
but sit by the pool and go to the health club. Occasionally I cook and
clean, but most of that is done for me. I think it's important to
concentrate on one thing, to specialize, to focus one's energies."
 "So you might say you're the 'anti-Renaissance Man', or Woman as the case
my be," I said.
 "Absolutely. No use muddying the waters with excess interests or
abilities."
 This was a different Cary than the one I had dined with, or manipulated
hardware with. I liked this one better. This Cary was more intriguing,
though she could be a bit unsettling. Which was, of course, exactly what she
wanted.
 "I saw you watching me," she said suddenly, looking at me deeply. Talk
about unsettling.
 "I...uh...didn't mean to....uh....intrude, I was just..."
 "It's all right," Cary laughed. "No need to apologize. I was flattered. Men
always look at me, and I'm always flattered. I'm past the point in my life
where I can feel indignant, or insulted. I don't like to admit it, but I
like the attention. It makes me feel like I have something."
 "You're very beautiful," I stammered, raising the glass to my lips. An
empty gesture considering the glass was empty.
 "Yes, I know," she smiled. "Tragically, that's all I am. I don't have a
job, I don't have children, I don't have any amusing, mind-numbing hobbies,
I have no strong convictions. I don't worry about the environment, I'm not
incensed over the death penalty, abortion, or NAFTA. I eat veal. I guess I'm
not 'deep' enough."
 "You have a successful husband," I offered, refilling our wine glasses.
 "Yes, I do have that. Sure he fucks around, but he's my husband...another
thing I don't have the energy to be upset about." She lay her head back,
resting it against the couch. I couldn't help but notice even her throat was
alluring. I had never thought of a throat or a neck as being 'sexy' before.
But that was Cary. The most mundane, common gestures made one think of the
prurient possibilities.
 "I'm either a pathetically passive kept woman, or a Zen master. I don't
know which," she sighed.
 "It sounds like you think about this a lot."
 "Only in my free time," she answered, "but since I only have free time, it
adds up."
 "I think you're lying" I said, "if you were so accepting of your situation
you wouldn't think about it as much as you do. You wouldn't be here talking
about it. It wouldn't occur to you."
 She turned to look at me, a smile approaching a smirk crossed her lips.
 "Well, aren't we the penetrating judge of human character. Am I supposed to
be turned on by that genuineness, that honesty?"
 "Feel free." I smiled.
 "Yet another man who wants to tumble with me. I somehow expected something
different from you Mr. Virtuoso, Mr. Second Coming of Mozart." I must have
looked startled, and she must have picked up on it. "Oh yes, I know who you
are. I know all about you. I bought three of your CD's last week when I was
in the city."
 "Which ones?" I asked casually, trying to downplay the ridiculous hint of
anxiety I felt, face to face with the one woman who has finally realized no
one ever sees Bruce Wayne and Batman at the same time.
 "The Schumann, the Beethoven Piano Concerto, and one other, I can't
remember."
 "I've never been totally pleased with the Schumann, but what did you
think?"
 "It seemed fine to me, but I know nothing about music. The liner notes said
you were a genius."
 "Oh good, I'd hate to think the liner notes said 'he sucks, but we didn't
realize it until after we had pressed the CD'." She laughed, flashing white
teeth and pink tongue.
 "So tell me," she asked, "do classical pianists have groupies"
 "Actually, this may surprise you, but yes. However they're all 65 year old
symphony patrons, or 19 year old students. I stay away from the 60 year old
symphony patrons."
 "How are the 19 year old students?" she asked
 "Eager...but still learning," I answered. She smiled again.
 "You interest me," she remarked.
 "How so?"
 "You're not as obvious as everyone else I know."
 "Why thank you...I guess. You interest me too," I said
 "How so?" she asked, pulling her legs up on the couch and tucking them
beneath her hips somewhat  flirtatiously.
 "In several different ways," I said
 "You're attracted to me, aren't you?" When I didn't say anything in
response she got up off the couch and walked towards me. She stood in front
of me, staring into my eyes.
 "How did you ever end up here?" she asked.
 "I might ask you the same thing." I paused, then placed my hand on the side
of her leg.
 "I want to kiss you," she said.
 "Go ahead. I want you to kiss me."
 She paused before bending forward, bringing her lips to mine. Her ambition
was tempered by her reserve, the kiss was light, feathery, temporary,
non-binding. Her tongue darted out occasionally to swipe at my lips, never
lingering for long.
 "You want to fuck me, don't you?" she whispered, backing away from me.
 "The thought has crossed my mind, but I don't know. You may actually be too
perfect to fuck." She looked at me quizzically before responding.
 "I'm not sure how to take that. Do I blush with awkward embarrassment like
I do when the men say 'No one looks better in a tennis skirt than you Car';
or do I flash you my disapproving glare like when they try to grab my ass
while dancing at the country club?"
 "This happens often, does it?" I asked, sounding more curious than flip,
unfortunately.
 "Quite frequently, yes," she responded. She reached across me to pull a
piece of melting ice from the bucket I had used for the wine. As she spoke
she began to rub the ice over her neck, and along the side of her face. She
bent forward and placed the ice on my earlobe. I recoiled from the
sensation.
 "But you see," she continued, "it's all just fun and games. These men
wouldn't really know what to do if a woman grabbed their ass back. They're
in it for the flirtation and the fantasy. Not my husband of course, he's
quite proficient and prolific at 'following through', so to speak."
 She started passing the ice cube over her breasts through the material of
her white swimsuit. Her nipples hardened, and the water made the fabric
virtually transparent. She threw her head back, eyes closed as the ice moved
over her. I could see the darkness of her erect nipple and the full shape of
her breast. I tried to regain my composure, tried to regain my passive
acceptance of her presence, her desirability. All right...say something now,
I thought to myself. Be careful of the voice. Make sure she doesn't hear
anything she's not supposed to hear.
 "I find it hard to believe," I croaked out, "that you don't inspire lustful
bravado in at least several of the more cowardly, domesticated husbands of
this hamlet; that you don't get serious offers." The ice had evaporated in
her hand, there was now nothing left in the grip of her moist palm. She came
towards me again, for another kiss, for another declaration. She licked
briefly at the ear where she had placed the ice. Then she backed away again.
 "It's irrelevant," she said. "My job is to sacrifice what I want. I have to
be the good wife. I have to be loyal. I guess I do have at least one
mind-numbing hobby. We all have roles, we all have poses." With that she
started walking towards the door. I watched her mouth-watering ass sway as
she left me, and though my cock throbbed at the sight, I was somehow not
surprised it had ended like this.
 "I have a friend for you," she said when she reached the door, "you might
like her...I'll work on it."
 She opened the door to walk out, then turned to me.
 "I'll be thinking of you tonight...if that's any consolation," she said.
 "I'm flattered, women rarely think of me, but when they do I'm always
flattered" I said. She smiled and left.
 I rubbed my own cock later thinking about Cary's body, thinking about Cary,
thinking about Cary thinking about me. As I shot off over my chest and
stomach I moaned her name. I wonder if she heard me. Did I want her to hear
me?

 Cary was back at poolside several days later. I had heard the laughing and
moved quickly to the window, perhaps a bit too quickly. Cary had company.
They lay side by side together there on the patio, drinking, sunning and
laughing. One could tell, even in their reclined position, that the other
woman was much shorter than Cary. She looked younger as well, from what I
could gather. Despite the distance, I could see that she was impressively
built. She wore a yellow two piece bathing suit that did more to augment
than conceal what we mean by "voluptuous". I watched them talking and
laughing for several minutes, trying to keep myself concealed, lest Cary
detect my presence again. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the
other woman kept shaking her head and laughing. Cary was trying to talk her
into something, something she was hesitant to do. I was stunned to see Cary
pull at the shoulder straps of her bathing suit, lowering it to her waist,
exposing her breasts, which of course looked fantastic. Cary then proceeded
to rub suntan oil onto her chest as her friend looked on with schoolgirl
embarrassment and shock. But soon, she too, became subservient to Cary's
considerable influence and, after a furtive look around, reached behind her
to untie the top of her own suit. The endeavor revealed an awe inspiring
sight. Her breasts bobbed slightly on her chest as she lay back. Cary
playfully poured a little too much oil over her friends chest, eliciting a
short scream of surprise and delight.
 Where had I ended up? I once shook the King of Denmark's hand, I sat at a
banquet table with Leonard Bernstein and President George Bush. Now I was a
verified peeping tom, watching two oiled women sunbathe topless. From the
Atlantic Monthly to Penthouse Forum; "I never believed the letters I read
here were true until this happened to me..." I should respect their privacy,
I should walk away from the window and go downstairs, I should leave them
alone...yeah, whatever.

 "Please come for dinner tomorrow night," Cary said, "we're giving a dinner
party, and I'd like to have you there. I'm asking Kristen to come too." she
smiled mischievously. We were standing in our respective driveways.
 "Who's that?" I asked.
 "She's the vacuous, long haired young travel agent with the big tits you
watched me with yesterday," she replied, the smile still on her lips. I
could do nothing but smile back. How could she be certain I had been
watching?
 "The display yesterday was supposed to tempt me?"
 "Yes. Were you tempted?"
 "Yes...but not by your friend."
 "Oh...so sweet, another compliment. C'mon, what do you say?" she asked.
 "Why the set up Cary?"
 "I have a myriad of reasons," she said with mock mysteriousness
 "Aren't we the enigma."
 "Yes...we are...will you be there?"
 "Will you be there?" I asked
 "Of course," she replied.
 "Then how can I refuse." I said.
 "Great, see you at 7:00."

 Cary greeted me at the door. She wore a red cotton knit dress with a
scooped neck and a slit that ran up the side of one dangerous leg. It was
the left leg. The other dangerous leg was put away for the evening, I
supposed. In my former line of work, one saw a lot of women dressed in
glamorous formal wear. But I have to admit that seeing Cary in this simple
outfit made my teeth hurt.  There must have been about fifteen people there.
No one asked me what it was like to play with the London Philharmonic, or
whether I knew any of the Three Tenors, or asked my opinion of the movie
"Shine". Which I took to mean the Cary had not told anyone anything. I began
to relax, Bruce Wayne gets to be another run of the mill millionaire for
another anonymous day.
 Cary threw Kristen and me together immediately, seating us together at
dinner, playing the matchmaker all evening, ensuring we were never far from
one another. Kristen wore a black and purple flower print blouse with a
black skirt, not exceedingly short, but short enough. The ensemble was
fittingly enhanced by a string of pearls and both fingernails and toenails
lacquered in lavender. She was, what Cary would probably refer to
sardonically as, "bubbly". She and I were virtually attached at the hip all
evening. It was Matt who took me away from her first. He had just bought all
this new audio equipment, and was anxious for me to see it. I acted
appropriately impressed as he gave me the specs and discussed the features.
He excused himself and left to mingle and play the host, leaving me alone
for the first time all evening. My seclusion didn't last long. As I stood
next to the kitchen door, Cary sidled up to me with a drink in her hand and
a smile on her face.
 "So what do you think of Kristen?" she asked.
 "She seems a lovely young woman, and quite popular." I added.
 "Quite certainly. All the men are trying to catch glimpses down her blouse.
Including my husband, though there's no mystery there. They sleep together
rather regularly." I almost dropped my glass. She was amused at my surprise,
laughing briefly.
 "Yes...neither one of them knows I know. I know about his other nine
mistresses as well."
 "And you maintain friendly relations with this woman?" I all but stammered.
 "Of course. I maintain friendly relations with my husband too. He's been a
nervous wreck all evening. Nervous because she's here at all, and nervous
because she seems so taken with you."
 Cary paused momentarily looking in Kristen's direction. Kristen stood in
conversation with three men who surrounded her as in some football huddle
where she had just brought the next play in from the bench. Cary turned back
to face me and I saw mischievous intent in her eyes.
 "You are my friend, aren't you?" she asked.
 "In a way, yes"
 "I need you to do me a huge favor," she said
 "What is it?"
 "Well Kristen's got a thing for you and..."
 "How do you know that?" I interrupted.
 "She told me. I could tell anyway."
 "How well do you know this woman?" I asked.
 "Oh very well."
 "So what's the favor?"
 Cary hesitated a little before she asked her favor. "I need you to take
Kristen home with you tonight and fuck her senseless." She paused waiting
for my reaction. "Can you do that for a friend Maestro?"
 By this point I understood that Cary loved to play games, some amusement ,
distraction for what seemed to her a relatively boring existence. But for
some inexplicable reason I also trusted her. Trusted that her amusement
would not come at my expense. As I say, I don't understand why I felt this
trust, why I felt more like her sidekick than her potential victim. I had
somehow been demoted from Batman to Robin.
 It's been my experience, " I offered, "that seductions don't usually occur
as effortlessly as television screenplays and erotic fiction might have you
believe."
 "Oh...this one will be. Kristen's hot for you, and she loves the idea of
bedding a celebrity. I'm sorry, I told her who you were...but despite her
flaws, she can keep a secret. She's probably pretty good in bed, after all,
my husband keeps going back, and she's a screamer...if you like that type of
thing."
 "How do you know all this?" I asked.
 "Oh...girl talk, you know, while we're sitting around the pool rubbing oil
on ourselves."
 Cary leaned towards me, whispering, "do you like that...do you like vocal
women, women who gasp and pant and scream?" she asked.
 "Music to my ears," I said with a smile. "So I get to release some sexual
tension with a woman who's not you, and you get to mess with Matt's head.
You get back at your infidel husband without transgressing your code of
loyalty."
 "Among other things," she answered.
 "What other things?" I asked.
 "No...I'm not going to let you sap all the mystery out of me. Why are you
fighting this? It's inevitable anyway. Kristen will overcome you, she'll
unbutton another button on her blouse and spill some cleavage, she'll cross
her legs in your direction and allow her skirt to ride up, she'll laugh at
all your jokes and touch your arm. You'll cave eventually anyway."
 "Will she use ice?" I asked. That brought no response. "Because you ask me,
I have to go through the laborious process of undressing and ravaging a 25
year old with stupendous architecture and a penchant for vocalization, just
so you can get back at your husband in some "Dangerous Liaisons" caper?
You're a demanding woman."
 "I know it's a lot to ask," she said, employing that devastating smile.
 "Well all right, just this once for friendship. But I'm not fucking any of
Matt's other mistresses, and I'm certainly not fucking Matt...at least not
directly."
 "I knew I could count on you," Cary said, "now, you've been away from your
date for too long. Get to work, turn on that sophisticated, symphonic charm
of yours."
 "I'm on the case Caped Crusader," I started to walk away then stopped. I
made my way slowly back to Cary and leaned to whisper in her ear. "Do you
want me to leave my windows open tonight?" I asked.
 Cary looked at me with an odd expression. I thought I might have seen
admiration in that look. The expression of one who has met an equal? It
couldn't be.
 "That would be an extraordinary touch," she said flatly.
 I made my way towards Kristen.

 As the evening began to dwindle I asked Kristen back to my place for a
nightcap. A suggestion she enthusiastically supported. If only all men could
have the intelligence briefing I had received. I stalled our departure until
the last of the guests was leaving, and then intimated to Kristen that we
should also go, not taxing our hosts any longer. We expressed garrulous
gratitude to Matt and Cary as we were leaving. Cary was right, Kristen could
keep a secret. She thanked them with her arm around my waist, and one could
never have known of Kristen and Matt's amorous history. Matt was slightly
less clandestine. Maybe it was just that I knew. Did I see Matt put his arm
around Cary? Did I detect a tightness in his jaw, a coiled spring aspect in
his chest, a flinty, terse tone in his voice? I tried to play it up a little
for Cary, rubbing Kristen's shoulder, toying with her hair. Cary seemed
subdued. Probably my imagination. I couldn't help thinking that Matt was
jealous that I was leaving with Kristen, and Cary was jealous because Matt
was jealous that I was leaving with Kristen.

 Kristen and I sat drinking cognac, killing time before the inevitable. She
finally brought up the fact that she knew who I was. She didn't, of course.
She asked me what it was like to have to perform, what it was like to play
in front of thousands of people. I told her it took a lot of practice and
energy. She told me she liked music, but not classical music. I told her I
understood; that I didn't always like classical music either. She laughed
and said she loved listening to the radio, and liked to go out dancing at
the clubs. She said she loved aerobics at the health club because they
turned the music up loud. I suggested that she enjoyed that because she was
transposing the abstract sensations of the music into something physical,
the exercise, the exertion of her aerobic workout. She didn't completely
understand what I meant.
 "I guess I feel that most things are about expression...music's just
another one of those things," I said.
 "What makes you say most things are about expression?" she asked.
 "I can't guarantee this but, ultimately, people don't like being alone, so
most human endeavors involve some form of communication. It's a way of
making contact with other people, other things, sometimes other ideas or
feelings."
 "And music is like that?"
 "Yeah, absolutely. You hear some song on the radio, it elicits a response
in you, some sort of nostalgia maybe, melancholia perhaps, but whatever it
does, it speaks to something in you, and you speak back. The emotional
reaction is a way of speaking back, or the physical rush of the aerobic
workout.. For all its complexities, all the rigorous analytical structures
we spend so much time discussing, music is a device. A device that allows us
expression to those things we can't express in other ways." Was I speaking
to her, or just thinking out loud?
 "So what else is like that," she asked.
 "Any artistic or creative pursuit, I would imagine, has some component of
communication."
 "I think sex is like that," she said. I knew exactly what she meant.
 "What do you mean?" I asked.
 "There's all this stuff going on inside of you, you have these feelings for
the other person. It may be lust, it may be love, it may be admiration or
affection. You can't say that stuff all the time. So you jump on them and
tell them that way. Isn't that what you were talking about? It's a way of
demonstrating what you feel, right?"
 "Right."
 Kristen leaned forward and kissed me.
 "So? Is there any stuff going on with you right now?" she asked.
 As a response, I bent down to kiss her, our tongues tangling, excusing
themselves from vocal communication.
 "Do you have a bedroom in this place?" she asked when we broke.
 "I just had one put in," I responded. She giggled, and stood up, offering
her hand, a gesture of invitation. I placed my hand in hers, an RSVP, a
gesture of assent and agreement.

 In Matt's defense, I have to admit, Kristen's breasts were even more
spectacular than I could have gathered from seeing them from afar. Large and
firm, they felt heavy in my hand as I ran my palm over their surface,
excited by their weight as I held one through the thin fabric of her blouse
and the stiffer fabric of her bra. I couldn't wait long before getting to
work on the blouse's buttons. I pulled Kristen's blouse from her skirt and
unwrapped her. The look of admiration on my face was most likely something
Kristen was used to, and she giggled again as she reached behind to remove
her bra, letting it fall casually to the floor, uninterested in any flair
for presentation. She let the work speak for itself, standing back slightly,
enhancing the moment. Gleefully pleased in what must have been my obvious
delight, she threw her herself towards me, wrapping one arm around my neck
and running her other hand over the prominent bulge below my belt. Her hands
seemed small to me and I wanted them around my cock. I quickly unbuckled,
unbelted and unzipped, offering an invitation of my own. Without breaking
our kiss, she thrust her hand into my shorts and grazed her lavender
fingernails over my swollen cock with en excruciating lightness of touch.
 "Mmmmmmm, that feels promising" she said breaking away from me.
 Without answering her, I bent down to lick the nipple of her left breast
while I reached behind her to lower the zipper of her skirt. It fell away as
effortlessly as her bra had. Because of our height differences she had to
stand on her toes to lick at the side of my neck. I kissed the top of her
head and smelled raspberry in her hair as she bit at my shoulder and rubbed
her stomach against my erect prick. She pushed away from me gently and lay
back on the bed. I drank in the picture perfect pose she struck as she
watched me undress. Clad only in black panties and pearls, her long hair
fanned out against the pillow. She smiled up at me as my eyes traveled from
her breathtaking upper body to her slim waist and then to her full hips and
fleshy thighs. Her body was almost a Wagnerian opera.
 "C'mon, hurry up," she teased and took a breast in her hand, rubbing its
nipple with fingertips that pinched occasionally, and fluttered over the
expanse of flesh. I moved a little faster in undressing. I went to the bed
and kneeled above her, my cock hovered obscenely over her stomach and she
reached for it, sliding a fist along it's length.
 "You're so goddamned hard," she sighed, closing her eyes and licking her
lips as her hand continued its ministrations. I bent my neck to take a hard
nipple in my mouth and then licked all around it, wanting to taste every
inch of her tits, a task that might have taken some time. I looked into her
face. It was a pretty face, not a stunning face like Cary's, but sweet,
deceptively innocent, a high school cheerleader face. Her eyes were still
closed, a smile on her face, but the absence of my oral attention to her
breasts caused her to open her eyes. She saw me looking down at her, and
tilted her head slightly in question. She grabbed her tits and pushed them
together, creating a crease in the universe that would drive any man with a
breast fetish to clinical insanity.
 "Do you want to fuck my tits? C'mon, slide yourself in here..." she said,
demonstrating with an index finger the path she suggested.
 I didn't move, just looked down at her, "No," I said, "I want to taste
you."
 I flattened myself out on top of her, felt the surface of her breasts
against my chest and started my descent of her body. I ran my tongue along
the underside of each breast before moving lower stabbing my tongue into her
navel, and then swiping it against the inside of her thigh. My face brushed
against the silk of her panties and it felt smooth against my face. I traced
the edges of her panties with my mouth, licking and biting softly along the
way. I heard her moan as I maneuvered my tongue beneath the elastic
waistband, sliding it along the edge. She had almost imperceptibly started
to thrust her hips off the mattress, searching for greater contact.
 "Take them off," she panted, "lick me, I want to feel your tongue, I want
to feel your whole mouth on me." she groaned, finally impatient with my
maddeningly slow pace. She started to remove her panties before I could, but
I completed the process for her. As I lowered my face to begin working her
over in earnest, she spread he legs wide for me, running her hands along the
inside of her thighs, all the while watching me intently. A little impatient
now myself I tried my best to devour that which was presented to me in such
an erotic fashion. Kristen grunted appreciatively as I ran my tongue the
length of her pussy, before attending to the swollen clitoris I found at
journey's end. I moved quickly and firmly against it, and Kristen started
throwing her hips up, forcing collision in our connection.
 "God, yeah...just like that...just keep doing that," Kristen moaned when I
moved my tongue from side to side, holding her ass in my hands to steady her
against my mouth. I felt her pussy contract and throb against my tongue as
she came.
 "Yeah....now, I'm cumming...." I knew the event had arrived and I felt
Kristen shudder, heard a gasp, but nothing I would consider a scream. She
sagged back down against the bed, and ran her hands through my hair.
 "Don't stop...more...please...." I hadn't really thought of stopping, and
now redirected my efforts by thrusting my tongue in and out of her. I
grabbed her ass and rolled us over so she was now on top, pussy planted
firmly on my face. She moved to kneel above me and I lifted my head,
maintaining the contact.
 "Fuck yes, I'm going to cum again soon...." she almost yelled. She began to
drive her hips up and down, riding my face in sexual fury. Thirty seconds
later I heard what was definitely a scream. Though the sound died in the air
quickly, I hoped it had not died too quickly. When Kristen finally rolled
off me and lay on the bed, those breasts heaving, a thin film of sweat
highlighting their movement, her pussy damp and swollen, I was not at all
surprised to discover my cock literally aching with hunger for her.
 After what seemed like a long time, she had finally regained her breath,
and reached for my cock.
 "Your turn now," she smiled, and bent her head down to take me in her
mouth.
 "No," I said, perhaps a bit too urgently.
 "I want to," she replied, a bit confused.
 "I can't wait...I have to fuck you."
 I was over anxious, and she liked that. She liked my impatience, my
craving, my desperation. Another supplicant to her considerable charms and
talents. She smiled at me as she lay back on the bed, dragging me with her
by the cock.
 "Do it," she said, "fuck me..."
 I knew from that first gut wrenching penetration that I would not last long
in this initial round. However difficult it might have been only having to
deal with the wet, warm embrace of Kristen's pussy; her "bedside manner"
made matters tortuously impossible. The woman spoke incessantly. That body,
that skill, that dialogue...the woman was a poster child for premature
ejaculation. She should have come with a warning label.
 "Does this feel good? Do you like this? Do you like being buried in my
cunt?" she hissed at me. "I can feel every inch of you inside me, fuck me
harder...make me cum again." I slammed into her, varying the tempo
cautiously trying everything to maintain some control. But control was not
something Kristen was interested in. She didn't want me to hold back, she
wanted me undone. She wanted me helpless to control my desire, my lust, for
her. I had little time, or inclination however, to consider my status as
trophy to this 25 year old travel agent with the porno film body and the
junior prom face.
 "God yessssssss, I'm close....cum with me, I want to feel you unloading in
me....pump me...faster...faster!!"
 I tried, I honestly tried, but Kristen's orgasm was my undoing. I'm not too
proud to admit it. What do you expect? It was the way her head tossed
frenetically, hair flying wildly; it was the way the muscles and tendons
stood out on her throat; it was the wailing scream torn from her open mouth;
it was the way her lavender nails dug into my shoulder blades; it was the
way her hips convulsed against mine and her pussy snapped around my
hair-trigger cock like a rubber band. It was all of that, and it was the
sound of her voice.
 "Shit....now, I'm cumming now....cum with me...fuck YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!"
 My orgasm almost blinded me. I felt the recoil in my testicles, the
lurching of my cock inside Kristen. I could almost hear my cum splattering
the walls of her pussy. I may have screamed for all I knew.

 We lay afterwards talking, filling in the empty spaces.
 "I thought you were the one who couldn't talk about 'stuff'," I said,
teasing her. "You seemed pretty eloquent to me."
 "I get into it...and things just come out..." she replied, almost shyly.
"Men don't like to talk back though..." I pulled her closer to me and kissed
her forehead, pushing her hair back. We settled back into silence.
 "Why did you stop playing the piano?" she asked, a quiet, contemplative
tone in her voice. I didn't have a substantial answer for her. I never had a
substantial  answer to that question.
 "I didn't stop," I answered, "I only stopped doing it in front of other
people."
 She was the one who brought up Cary. She told me that Cary thought the
world of me. She went as far as to teasingly contend that Cary had a "crush"
on me. She said this while reaching between my legs, awakening anything that
might have been slumbering there. There was something about the mention of
Cary's name while Kristen fondled my cock that had a visible libidinous
effect. I grew hard in Kristen's hand. I rolled over on top of her, kissing
her firmly, and fingering her pussy. She was already wet, aroused by my
arousal.
 "I love the feel of your fingers in me," she whispered. I continued to work
at her pussy and clit.
 "Is it true," I spoke softly in her ear, "do you suppose, that no one can
do you like you do yourself?"
 I saw her smile in response, "Maybe," she said, "but you're doing all right
for runner-up." As I moved my finger in and around her, she took my wrist in
her and guided me.
 "Bite my nipple," she demanded, and I followed instructions as she moved my
hand across her clit more rapidly. Her nipple seemed to grow harder in my
mouth as her legs snapped shut, pinning my hand between her thighs. Her eyes
closed again, her mouth opened again. God, I loved watching Kristen cum.
 "Fuck me from behind...I love that..." she gasped.
 I scrambled to do as I was told. Sexual obedience is one of my strong
suits.  Slicing into her effortlessly, I felt now like I could fuck this
supremely fuckable woman forever. The momentum had somehow changed. Now she
lay at my mercy, as I had lain at her mercy earlier. I abhor the concept of
sex being about control. I believe that is how we get ourselves in the most
irretractable, and indefensible trouble. I did not want to control Kristen,
necessarily. I wanted Kristen to be without control. Payback? Maybe. Cary?
Maybe. Me? Maybe. But who cared. Kristen was shaking in orgasm again. I
watched the cheeks of her ass clench tight, saw her grasp the pillow in
orgasmic seizure. I ran my hands over her backside and down the backs of her
thighs, watching her cum.
 She let herself drop to the bed, exhausted. I ran my tongue up along her
spine, biting gently at her shoulders. She was panting for breath as she
rolled over to face me. I licked at her throat and rubbed her shoulders. I
slid my cock along the outside of her pussy and over her stomach. As she
reached down to take me in her hand, I rolled us over so she now lay on top
of me, covering me. She inserted my deliriously hard cock in the place it
most wanted to be. Now it was I who drove my hips up off the bed, lifting
her light body with each lunge.
 "Fuck, this feels good," she moaned. I increased the pace, holding onto her
hip with one hand to ensure I wouldn't actually throw her off of me. I
pushed my other hand to where we were joined, feeling my shaft as it
alternately became exposed then engulfed by Kristen's pistoning hips. I lay
still, allowing her to control the pace, and ran my fingers firmly over her
clit as she bounced on top of me.
 "Do you like this? Is this good" she teased, quickening her pace.
 "Christ yesss," I moaned back to her.
 "Tell me what you....fuck...what you like."
 "I love seeing you on top of me. I love watching you fuck me," I managed to
wheeze out.
 "Keep going...please," she pleaded. I rallied my resources.
 "I fucking love this body," I said, running a hand roughly over her
bouncing tit. "I love the way your tits sway and move, I love the way your
ass feels crashing down on me." She was moving alarmingly fast and furious
now. "And I'm going to love watching you cum all over my hard cock, right
before I plaster your pussy with all...." I never got to finish
 "Yeahhhh, just like that, keep doing that," she grunted. "I'm cumming
again, FUCKKKKKK, OHHHHHH GODDDDDDD!" She slammed her body down on mine and
froze there, grabbing my wrist, pulling my hand tighter to her trembling
clit. Though her ass was firmly planted on the top of my thighs, her upper
body lurched and undulated on me. I watched her ample breasts bounce and
sway in the sweet agony of her climax. Those lavender fingernails dug into
my chest as she shivered through the final stages of her release. That was
more than enough for me.
 "Kris...I'm going to cum," I gasped, grabbing her ass and driving myself
into her again, violently.
 "Tell me when," she pleaded, her face almost expressionless, her rapt
attention on me and my pre-orgasmic flight plan.
 "Coming soon..." I managed to croak out before Kristen dismounted me. She
quickly moved down my body and took my cock into her mouth, sliding her lips
up and down my trembling shaft. I heard her mouth come off me and could feel
her fist around my length.
 "Come for me...come on my tits," Kristen said as she took my shaft and laid
it within her cleavage. I looked down to see my cock trapped in the valley
of her breasts. I saw the way she used one hand to wrap her tit around me,
the nipple hard and welcoming. Her tongue shot out to swipe at the head of
my prick and then swirled around her upper lip, and thick, heavy ropes of my
cum layered her chest. She laughed victoriously as the paste rolled down the
upper slopes of her tits, collecting on her nipples and dropping down onto
my stomach.
 She pounced up to kiss me, rubbing her cum and sweat slick chest against
mine.
 "Me and my 'hooters', we get them all eventually," she smirked proudly, but
with good humor.
 "Consider me 'gotten'," I said.

 We had taken a shower together, hands never far from one another. Kristen's
body and a bar of soap was an engaging combination. We lay together
afterwards, enjoying how our moist skin cooled in the night air.
My arousal came mostly as a result of my complicity with Cary. I had no idea
whether the sound of our lovemaking passed through the fashionable windows
of Matt and Cary Salasmore, though I hoped they had. Cary wanted Matt to
hear, but I wanted Cary to hear. I couldn't escape the notion that Cary was
here with me. Her awareness, her designs, her intentions made her a
component. That's what  got to me. That is why, even after my second orgasm,
I still felt the stirring, felt the nagging hunger. I thought of Cary
listening to us, of Cary's "girl talk" with Kristen tomorrow, of Cary's
bathing suit and green knit dress, I thought of Cary's breast beneath the
frigidity of the ice cube, and I felt myself hardening. I rolled over to
straddle Kristen's waist and show her my most recent erection.
 "I can't believe you," she groaned with exasperation, but she had pride at
stake too. So we fucked again, this time slowly, languorously, tortuously,
for what seemed like hours.
 "I've got to stop," Kristen finally whimpered, "I'm too worn out...can you
cum for me?"
 I thrust harder, eyes closed, muscles tensed. "I want to kiss you" I heard
Cary's voice in my ear, and I unleashed another torrent of desire into the
young woman beneath me.

 I was waiting. It only took two days. I answered the knock at the door, and
Cary stood there. I invited her in...again.
 "Thanks for the dinner party the other night," I said.
 "Oh, thank you," she responded with a sly grin.
 "Everything work out the way you wanted it to?" I asked.
 "Couldn't have been better, neither could you have been better...from what
I hear. I just had lunch with your busty girlfriend Kristen."
 "My 'girlfriend'!? Was she wearing that Varsity letter jacket I gave her?
So...? What's the verdict?" I asked.
 "Well, according to Kristen, you're the fuck of the century. Do you want to
break the news to Matt, or should I?"
 "You better, I'll be too busy basking in the ego-glow of my own greatness."
 "Incidentally, you're the only man ever to decline the 'tit-fuck'
invitation. Congratulations."
 "Intrigued?" I asked.
 "I have to admit I am, yes."
 "Good. You see, self-depravation and discipline can yield desirable
results," I answered. Cary let my response hang in the air, not ignored, but
not addressed either.
 "Well, I know how you are in bed, tell me, how is she?"
 "Quite accomplished, one might even say, a 'virtuoso'...and very
enthusiastic."
 "C'mon...dish the details."
 "What do you want Cary, a scouting report? Looking to add to your
repertoire?"
 "Hey, I need to get something out of this," she said, "I wouldn't have gone
through all the trouble of setting you up with one of the Seven Wonders of
the Sexual World if I knew you were going to abruptly suffer a case of
lockjaw."
 Maybe I was tiring of the game, maybe my frustration was emerging, maybe I
felt an emotional affection now for Kristen, a loyalty of my own. For
whatever reason, for the first time I felt annoyed, even angry, with Cary.
 "You know Cary, who do you hold responsible for your husband's
infidelities? The women he sleeps with or the man who sleeps with them?
Kristen's not exclusively at fault here; or do you see Matt as the helpless
victim of the evil seductress travel agent?"
 "Or the agile waitress, or the alluring commodities trader, or the flexible
airline stewardess, or the accommodating sales clerk, or the nubile co-ed
....?" Cary spit out venomously.
 "Why don't you just talk to your goddamned husband?" My voice louder than I
probably wanted it to be.
 "It would be too humiliating," she yelled back. I had never seen her lose
her temper. "Do I look like the type of woman who should have to 'ask' her
husband to be faithful!?" She wrapped her arms around herself in defense.
"Don't I suffer enough indignity here, living this life. Isn't it enough I
have to listen to the inane babbling of those around me, 'oh, our youngest
is now at so and so Country Day School, it's very prestigious you know; we
just can't decide whether to buy the Lexus or lease; do come over after
tennis on Sunday for brie and chardonay, it will be smashing...Jay and Daisy
Gatsby will be there.' This is how I spend my time! This is what goes on
with my days! And now you want me to say 'please honey, you know it hurts my
feelings when you let the college girl working as a secretarial temp blow
you in the executive bathroom, so please try to hide it a little better from
now on, okay?"
 "Maybe he does it because he can...because there are no repercussions...no
objections," I offered.
 "As pathetic as it might seem to you, this is all I have. This facade is
all I am. I'm not good at anything else. I'm not a 'genius' or a 'prodigy',
I'm not 'brilliant' or 'talented' at anything. I'm Emma Bovary without the
financial problems. I don't suppose you'd understand that, would you, Mr.
Lincoln Center? Or maybe that's why you quit and ran away, because you're
not as good as everyone thinks you are..." This was meant to hurt me. It
didn't really.
 "Cary...we don't have to be about what we do," I said as softly as I could,
"sometimes its enough to be about how we do it." She froze there a moment
then turned, slowly, away from me.
 "I'm not about being anything." she said. What was wrong with her voice? It
sounded different. I saw her shoulders rise a little and listened.
 "I used to think: tomorrow. Tomorrow things will be better, I'll be
better," she said. "But tomorrow doesn't matter. I am where I am, where I
will always be. I never thought...life would be this short." I saw her
shiver slightly, and figured out what was wrong with her voice. As
unimaginable as it was to my rational mind, as uncharacteristic as it
seemed, Cary was crying. I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her to
face me.
 I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to somehow provide solace, make her feel
better. I should have said that everything would be all right, that she
would find herself someday, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after tomorrow. I
should have listed all her good qualities, all her potential. But I didn't
say any of that. For some reason I looked into her eyes and said the first
thing that came into my head.
 "Maybe the problem isn't that life's short. Sometimes, the way we live
makes life too long."
 Cary looked back at me for a second, eyes wide, then I watched. Her lower
lip and jaw trembled, quivering in desperation, trying to maintain some
balance. I had said the wrong thing. She burst into tears, sobbing
uncontrollably. But perhaps I had not said the wrong thing, for as she
lowered the fortress walls behind which she had been so long protected and
isolated, she finally gave expression to the unspeakable sadness, the
exhausting burden of grief. She wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me
to her tightly, as she wept. I held her, silently standing with her, witness
to the display of fragility. I know this is dangerous to admit, to myself or
anyone else, but it broke my heart. Seeing Cary cry broke my heart.

 For the next two weeks, she seemed to disappear, as I must have disappeared
in the perceptions of record executives, agents, and audiences. She didn't
come by, I didn't see her in the yard, on the patio, in the driveway. I gave
thought to creating some contrivance, an excuse to knock on her door. But
though I thought about her constantly, I decided it best to just leave her
be. I know being a recluse is hard goddamned work. One could use a little
cooperation.
 A weather pattern without conscience gripped the area; the heat index
approaching Tony Gwynn's batting average. Local news reported seven deaths
as a result of the record breaking heat. The power company, in an alarming
display of naivete, asked us please to reduce electrical consumption by not
running the air-conditioning. We smirked and turned the dials to 10, causing
brown outs all over the state. I moved my room air conditioner from the
bedroom to the third floor and worked on my symphony 20 hours a day. I was
close, I could feel it. The heat and humidity continued to build as I
unraveled the chaos of measures 70 through 110 of the third movement. It's
mystery fell apart in my hands like a dry dandelion. In 72 hours, I reworked
the entire movement, bassoons and timpani now pushed the viola variations
forward, higher woodwinds now a frozen rope, impenetrable and unyielding as
violins chased it, mirroring its every move. I was writing the music about
something now. I was writing the music about agony and desire. I was writing
the music about lack of identity, in an identity driven world. I was writing
the music about seeing something you want, and trying to reach it. The
finale to the fourth movement was broken glass and jet engines. It screamed
like the human heart. It wept like the human heart. It spoke to a woman who
was better than what she had become. When I listened to the playback and
heard my voice making arguments I could not dispute, I knew I was done. It
was 6:15 on a Thursday morning. I printed out the rest of the score. I found
a felt tip pen and wrote "THE EMMA SYMPHONY" on top of the first page. I
shut down the machines, and fell asleep.

 I awoke in the late afternoon. Looking out my window towards Cary's house,
I saw nothing. But I glanced at the sky and saw the atmosphere in a very bad
mood. I grew up in Indiana, this was a sky I recognized, a sky with bad
intentions. I turned on the television to hear that both tornado and severe
thunder storm warnings were in effect for the vicinity. No one knew when or
where the storms would begin, only that weather with this much vengeance
would be something to remember.
 Perhaps it is my boyhood years, but I have an affinity for heavy weather. I
might very well have been a storm chaser had not so many people told me
"...here, play this music." I watched the storm disembark, watched it fall
from heaven to earth and land like an angry, expelled deity. I listened to
its overture, the distant thunder that moved quickly through darkening skies
on gusts of wind. Then the rain, sheets of water that devoured rain gutters
and street sewer grates. The lightning was perfect. The electricity was
knocked out at 8:45 PM. You could feel the temperature drop 20 degrees.
 There was only one thing that I, being me, could do. I went to the
Steinway. I went to the Steinway and played. Glenn Gould used to practice
pieces while running a vacuum cleaner to cloak the sound of the piano.
Without hearing the music he claimed he was better able to feel the music. I
felt like that somewhat as I played beneath the sound of the torrential
downpour coming through the open third floor window. I finished and sat with
my hands still resting on the keys. The rain sounded like applause. The
lightning reminded me of flashbulbs.
 "I owe you an apology." I turned quickly, startled by her voice. She was
standing on the stairs, arms folded in front of her, leaning against the
wall. "You are as good as everyone says you are."
 "I'm glad you came back," was all I said to her, sliding around on the
piano bench to sit facing her. She was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt ,
her hair, and the shirt were wet from the rain. She came over and set next
to me on the piano bench. We just sat there for awhile, not saying anything.
 "I talked to Matt tonight," Cary said finally, "he's in San Francisco, I
tried to tell him...tried to say those things...those things we talked
about...he said we would work it out when he got home."
 "Are you going to work it out?" I asked
 "I don't know...I didn't talk to him to save the marriage, I just did it
for me...you know?" she said, turning her head to look at me. I looked back.
 "Good for you Cary...good for you." I smiled. She smiled back. She took a
deep breath and changed the subject.
 "You know, I've never heard you play until tonight. Not in person, I mean.
Pretty impressive Maestro."
 "It's a living...or at least it was" I said.
 "What about you? Are you going to 'work things out'?" she asked.
 "Oh...I haven't been here trying to save a career...I just did it for me."
She saw me wink at her and she laughed. Then we were quiet again. She put
her head on my shoulder, and I was gripped by the poignancy of that gesture.
 "Is there any good in trying to figure things out?" she asked.
 "Sometimes," I said, "but it's hard work."
 She lifted her head from my shoulder, looked into my face for a moment,
then kissed me. The kiss wasn't light this time. This time wasn't a game.
This wasn't flirting, or manipulating, or puppeteering. This time we were
serious. Was I catching her in a moment of weakness? To this day, I don't
think so. If anyone was being caught in a moment of weakness, it was I.
 "I missed you," she said.
 "I missed you too."
 "I would like very much," she said, almost demurely, "to make love to you."
 "That's it." I asked, "that's the best you can do? No witty barbs, no
sardonic tongue in cheek irony?"
 "I don't feel like it tonight," she said distantly.
 "I would very much like you to make love to me," I said.
 She moved from her position beside me and pulled her t-shirt out of her
jeans and over her head. I watched it all, as in slow motion, and loved the
way her raised arms tightened her breasts against her chest and the material
of her bra seemed to inhale. She straddled my hips sitting on my lap. I
noticed that she seemed to be gently grinding herself down on to me. She
felt me harden almost immediately.
 "I surmise that after all you've seen of me I'm no longer too perfect to
fuck," she said.
 "No. Too perfect not to fuck." I said and kissed her again, forcefully,
sliding my hands over her back and under the strap of her bra. I pulled her
tightly to me and felt her nipples harden, pressing against my chest. This
was no longer an amusement. This was the arm of craving, the sweet
complicity of rescue.
 She stood up, a little breathless, and unzipped her jeans. She slid them,
together with the white panties she wore, down the sweep of those sculpted
legs. She moved quickly to stand in front of me, now totally naked, while I
remained fully clothed. Finally given the opportunity, I reveled in the
excruciating beauty of Cary's body so close to my own. I took inventory,
running my fingertips over every inch of exposed flesh I could reach. I
cupped her firm breast in my hand as she leaned over me, the weight of it
resting in my palm as my other hand felt her shoulders, stroked the side of
her face, and traveled the sleek lines of her ribcage. My ardor matched only
by my thoroughness. Her hair was still damp and I breathed the moisture in,
wanting to fill my lungs with the scent of it, with the feel of it. I sought
to drown in the rainwater that had drenched her on her way to my house, on
her way to my room, on her way to my affection for her.
 I gasped when I felt Cary's hand on my skin, her fingers on my chest, her
palm on my stomach. She had reached down to unbutton and unzip my pants. I
pushed them down my hips, mirroring her earlier choreography. I sat back
down on the piano bench, my hard cock standing up eagerly up for her. She
saw my arousal and smiled before resuming her position, straddling my thighs
and lowering her hips onto me. She grabbed my cock in one hand and placed
her pussy over it. In one languorous motion she slid down, swallowing me
deep inside of her. I groaned ecstatically, and her hands slammed down on
the keyboard behind me. I never stopped to think about what might have been
the root note in that cacophonous chord, suffice it to say it was atonal.
 I was almost afraid to move. I could feel the semen churn in my testicles
already. Cary drew my face to her breasts, I tongued her hard nipples, and
sucked at her breasts as she ground herself on top of me. My hands gripped
her slim waist on either side as her movements became more rapid, more
frantic. There were no screams. There were no pornographic invectives. There
was only a trembling in her hips, a flexing of her muscles, a firm grip in
her hands, and an expression of conveyance in the line of her jaw, in the
flutter of her closed eyelids, and in the quiver of her slightly parted
lips. It was the sexiest, most compelling sight I had ever witnessed. Not in
its performance, but in its performer.
 "I'm sorry Cary....I can't....I can't...hold back..." I stammered. She
looked down at me, smiling.
 "I don't want you to hold back. I'm tired of holding back."
 I squeezed the flesh at her waist with one hand, and the flesh of her upper
thigh with the other and let go, looking into her face the entire time,
forcing my eyes to remain open. A ball wrenching spasm gripped me and fired
gouts of cum into her. She seemed momentarily startled by the force of my
expulsion, then the face of grace again, as my orgasm triggered another for
her. We jerked there together, both bewildered and assuaged by the force of
our deliverance.

 We walked down a floor to the bedroom, leaving our clothing, leaving our
respective poses behind. I watched her walk in front of me. She move so
fluidly, so gracefully, almost without effort. I was hard again by the time
we reached the bedroom. I grabbed out for her suddenly as we reached the
bed, pulling her back to me by the hips. She yelped in surprise before
murmuring approval as she felt my excited cock cushioned against her ass.
She ground back against it briefly, making me moan, before extricating
herself from my hold, turning around and gliding back on to the bed. Her
arms opened, welcoming me to her. I descended upon her, hungrier than ever.
I felt her body yield beneath my weight, and my cock slid into her again
without guidance from hand or manipulation. Her arms wrapped around me, I
moved my legs to the outside of her hips and covered her like a blanket. I
tried desperately to consume her, to bury her beneath me. I couldn't get
close enough to her. My position clamped her legs together, somehow pushing
her pussy tighter against my screaming cock.
 "Oh Godddddd," she murmured quietly, almost whispering, and I felt the
walls of her pussy grip me again in the slap of orgasm. She held me tightly
in her arms a she heaved in pleasure. When it was over she relaxed her hold
on me, sunk into the mattress and started laughing. The laugh was full of
who she was, who she wanted to be, how she wanted to feel.
 "Christ..." she laughed, "I'm not sure how to handle this." It was good to
see her happy. It warmed me. I know that sounds stupid. It warmed me. I
almost laughed myself.
 "You're more than I can handle too." I said through my suffused comfort of
being with her. We were both laughing together now. She raised her hand to
her forehead, and I kissed at her fingers, and the back of her hand.
 Cary regained herself, looking at me, the trace of a smile on her lips.
 "It's just that...that...it's you...you know?" She was more serious now. "I
don't do this...I've never...I...."
 "It's okay," I whispered, placing my forefinger on her lips, "I know. I
understand..." I said, quieting her.
 "Everything about this," she said, gesturing around her, "is so...simple,
so easy."
 "It  makes sense?" I offered.
 "Yes...exactly. It makes perfect sense," she said, and kissed the side of
my face. I lay there with my granite like cock in the sweetest pussy I'd
ever felt, part of the most fabulous body I had ever seen anywhere; and what
I noticed most was how soft her cheek felt against my own. Her hips shifted
delicately, reminding me of my own need. I started to move myself in and out
of her again. She picked up the rhythm quickly, coupled in synchronicity we
had created in recognition of moments, a product of time and place, the age
of discovery.
 My movements became more urgent, racing against my own selfishness. I
thrust into her more forcefully wanting to see her come again before I,
inevitably, surrendered to my feelings for her. I raised myself, now
kneeling between her splayed thighs, and pulled her onto me by the hips. A
trickle of sweat had formed between her breasts, despite the coolness of the
room after the storm. I shifted the position of my hands so I could lift
Cary's upper body towards me. She followed my lead, wrapped her legs around
my hips and ass, crossing them at the ankles and allowed herself to be
lifted towards me. This position, yet another embrace, allowed me to lick at
the sweat between her breasts, feeling the soft cushion of her breasts
against my face. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pummeled herself up
and down my shaft. I slid my hands down to ass, supporting her weight in
them.
 "Mmmmmmm, yesss," she sighed, "again...again..."
 I felt her arms and legs tighten around me, and I returned the embrace,
squeezing her as tightly to me as I could. I threw my hips at her one more
time. I felt the muscles in her ass clench and poured myself into her
plaintively.
 "God Cary...." I bit down on a strand of her hair that had flown into my
mouth as I suffered the amnesia of orgasm. There goes another symphony, as
Balzac might have said. Conscious, deliberate thought abandoned to the
searing relief and mind numbing pleasure of firing my cum into Cary. Very
far in the distance I could hear her groaning. It was loud enough for me to
hear, and that was all that mattered. She shivered and whimpered in my arms,
as if chilled. I thought of wanting to warm her as I continued to throb out
fluids. All strength expended, we tumbled to the bed, deliriously exhausted.
Through the distance I heard Cary laughing again, happy again. She ground
her hips against me, my cock still buried in her. I shivered...it had
nothing to do with temperature.

 I awoke to sunshine in the bedroom and turned to see Cary looking at me,
resting her head in her hand, an elbow planted on the mattress.
 "Hi." she said, smiling at me.
 "Hi. What time is it?"
 "I don't know. The power is still out." I looked at the clock to see
flashing digits verify what Cary had said. She bent forward and kissed my
cheek.
 "I have to go," she said.
 "I know."
 She got out of bed and I watched her walk out of the room. I remember
watching her walk into her house from the pool the day this all started. I
heard her moving up the stairs to the third floor, where all this had
started, to retrieve the clothes we had left there. I threw on some clothes
and waited at the bottom of the stairs for her to come down.

 We walked to the door together. The storm had left debris all over. Tree
branches littered the lawns, broken telephone and power lines curled across
the street. Apocalypse in suburbia. Cary started to leave then stopped,
turning back to me. She put her hands on either side of my face and kissed
me. It was a long kiss, and I kissed her back, wanting to say so much in
that one shared moment. When she left, I watched her walk home through the
wreckage and I thought of what lay within that kiss. There was tenderness
and affection, but there was honesty too, integrity and dignity. For all
Cary's manipulative sexual game playing, both with herself and others, for
all the angst and emptiness she expressed through biting sarcasm and wit,
she was genuine, she was for real. I felt, in that moment, that Cary always
told me the truth. And if one such as she could ever find herself with one
such as I, that all affectation would drop away, and nothing else would
remain but the naked kiss that lay beneath.




All comments and criticisms enthusiastically and gratefully welcomed and
appreciated.
dvflorence@excite.com





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