Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Four

Mister McIntyre’s Secret
Part Four

There was a line and it had been crossed.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew how I looked, how I acted. I was his puppy dog, his whipping post, his girl Friday. I swooned around him, I knew I did that. For all my dedication and obedience I got a pat on the head, not even on the butt. I was sexless on his eyes, but at the same time he took advantage of my attraction to him. I was alright with that. In fact it made me work harder. I wasn’t doing it to win his heart or get a kiss. I served Mister McIntyre because I wanted to and it made me happy and he deserved it.

This was something else though, something new and of scared me more than all the secrets, all the waiting and all the frustration. My heart had given up racing. There was a new fear and it was slow and methodical.

He didn’t call me into his offce for the rest of the day. He came back from lunch and as he opened his door I could see the little bit of pink on his desk.

He went to a meeting and had a drink with a client. When he came back he didn’t even look at be as he walked inside. His face was as irreadable as ever. I was sitting like a death row inmate. The calm of inevadable doom had come over me.

At five he came out I the office holding his jacket, his briefcase and my diary. He placed the book on my desk and looked down at me.

“Interesting. I wonder what Jung would say.” his eyes were on me and I was frozen.

“Finish it.”

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I tired again and it was only a croak.

“I don’t rem-”

“Make it up, then. Just finish it.”

He put his hat on and slipped his arm into his jacket.

“You’re a pretty girl, Abigail. It’s too bad you don’t have much luck with love.” his smile was small, but enough to hurt.

“But you certainly do have a healthy imagination.”

*

I didn’t cry on the train. I opened the book and looked through the pages wondering what he’d read, wondering what he skipped. I wondered how much of me he knew. Fingering my silly words, my Catholic school script. His shadow now loomed over my first date and my first kiss. The awkward shyness that kept me home on Friday nights and the dirty thoughts that made my hands creep under my sheets at night or up my skirt…

A flash of dark ink caught my attention. It was on the next to last page I wrote in.

There I was in Mister McIntyre’s office, my skirt pulled up and my hand pressed tightly in-between my pantyhose and body. Soaking wet from his eyes on me, rubbing myself fast, hoping not to get caught, maybe hoping to get caught. When it came it was so hard I nearly fell down.

And then in his dark bold print, the kind he uses to add an addendum to a contract, he wrote:

Interesting. I’ll have to try and hurry back from lunch from now on.

He knew. I wasn’t his mousy little secretary anymore. Well, I was but I was something else too. A dirty little pervert. I wanted to cry, I wanted to quit, I wanted to crawl into a hole and never leave.

In my stomach this poison shame was bubbling up, but the whole time it was mixed with something else. All the time I was clenching my fists and barely aware of the ache. Arousal and shame so tied together I didn’t know where one started and the other began. So bad in so many ways.

What would come that morning? Would he laugh at me or punish me or scratch some fraction of the itch that was always there when he was around? What would I see when I looked up at those piercing eyes?

At home I forgot to eat dinner. I threw myself on the bed and look out my pen and opened my diary, which suddenly felt new and electric and frightening. I put my pen down on the page where I’d left off. I waited, I tried to remember. I couldn’t really write what happened in my dream, could I? Now that I knew he would read it. Now that I knew every dark fantasy would be exposed to him.

I had to try. I closed my eyes and pictured the hotel room. Marcy with her bratty little grin. Mister MacIntyre walking towards me, taking the rope. He was going to wipe that smile off her face. I’d watch and help. I’d be good and do what he told me to do, to the letter. Marcy wouldn’t. That’s why he was tying her down.

My hands were on my body as I remembered. The weight of the day had made me weak, but hungry. My breasts were sore under my bra, I got out of bed and pulled off my shirt and skirt and underthings. Naked, I laid back down, I went back to the diary where I hadn’t added anything to the dream but a blue dot where my pen rested. I laid back down and rubbed the soreness from my neck, smoothed the little lines my brassiere left under my breasts.

My nipples were so sensitive I almost couldn’t touch them. So much arousal and fear all day. My body was so primed, pulled so tight the lightest touch was almost painful. I imagined being on Mister McIntyre’s big chair, naked. When my fingers trailed down to the soft hairs between my legs I was scared to touch. It was like a cold drink after a day in the desert.

Then the warm wet welcome, the familiarity of my body as well as the shame. It wouldn’t take long. I was already climbing. I could finish the story when I was done, free of the burden of all this desire.

*

The sun hurt my eyes. My cheek stung. I awoke to find the edge of my diary resting on my face, the hard cardboard digging into my skin.

Morning? I looked at the clock and it read 8:20am. I rubbed my eyes knowing it was lying. 7:20am. I went to the livingroom, naked, and saw the same on the clock on the wall.

Panic. I didn’t finish it. I was late for work. I would be even later if I try and write something. I would try and write something on the train, but what if I couldn’t? I’d never been late in my entire life. How did this happen?

I picked up the phone on the wall in the kitchen. Some part of my brain had taken over. Damage control. I called the head of the secretarial pool.

“Hi Margie… It’s Abigail. I’m not feeling well, I’m sorry for the late notice but I can’t come in today.”

Margie was nice as always. She laughed because it was the first time I’d ever called in sick. She said she was glad I was human like every one else.

The idea of a whole day alone in the apartment was horrifying. My roommate Eloise was a dental assistant and she would be out all day. Even more terrifying was the image of Mister McIntyre coming in to see some temp from the steno pool at my desk. Someone who wouldn’t know how to take care of him the way I do. Plus he would know I failed. I really failed him for the first time.

With that I tumbled back into bed and cried.

The doorbell rang a little after eleven. When I sat up I knew it was him. I knew it without a doubt. I’d failed him, I’d called in sick when I wasn’t, I was a dirty girl who fingered herself in his office. I wasn’t even pretty enough to be his slut. I was just a mess. A servant who had outlived her usefulness and become pathetic.

I was still naked. I found a nightgown and slipped it on. I ran to the door and stood in front of it. The bell rang again and again.

My hand on the knob, turning, slowly, this was it. He would be in my apartment. He would fire me or fuck me or slap me. I don’t know which I was more afraid of.

And then the strangest thing happened. I opened the door and saw a black dressed, black gloved, perfectly manicured Marcy Elizabeth Spencer-Peterson.

Next Chapter

Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Three

Mister McIntyre’s Secret
Part Three

April 19th, 1964

Half asleep, rolling around in my worn white sheets. The clock says I have a half an hour before I have to get up. My heart is already starting because of a half remembered dream.

In the dream there is a large lavish hotel room. Rich crimson and gold wallpaper, a huge bed, gilded chairs and lavish mirrors. Mister McIntyre is standing in front of the largest mirror straightening his tie. He is in his black suit, the one he wears to big meetings. His shirt is harsh white and he is wearing his cornflower blue tie. He is freshly shaven, his hair is parted neatly and slick. You can count the comb lines.

Marcy Peterson, his mistress, is walking out of the washroom. A slinky low cut black dress. Her black hair long and silk soft falling over her shoulders.

He towers over her. He stand almost six foot five and she, like me, is just over five feet tall. He leans in and they kiss, at first tenderly and then his hand is in her hair, pulling her back so he can kiss her neck hungrily. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure.

He picks her up and carries her to the bed. Standing over her he takes off his jacket and folds it neatly on the night stand. He then methodically rolls up his sleeves exposing his muscular hairy arms. He loosens and removes his tie, she sits up on the bed eagerly wanting more of his lips but he pushes her down.

Picking up the phone he presses one button and I answer.

“Yes, sir?”

“Abigail I’m going to need some rope.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

There I was at the door, dressed in my mousy brown skirt and my beige top with my hair in a ponytail and my glasses falling off my nose. Two thick coils of rope in my hands.

That’s what I had written in my diary that morning on the train into work. That’s what I had went to finish at lunch when Mister McIntyre came in. I left my sandwich on my desk and slipped my diary back into my drawer. Mister McIntyre called me in to take a letter. When we were finished he sat back in his hair and made a little steeple with his fingers the way he did and he rocked there and looked at me.

“I’d really prefer if business acquaintances didn’t call the office.”

I swallowed hard. Stupid heart revving up again. I wished he didn’t look at me like that. That examining look that makes it so I can’t move, but I can’t stay still. Deer in headlights doesn’t even start to explain it.

“You handled it well, though I’d prefer if you didn’t use anyone name on the phone. You never who is walking by.”

“I’m so sorry, sir. I will never happen again.” I wanted to crawl away. I wanted to cry. I wanted to get on my knees… on over his knees.

He cleared his throat. “You did fine, I’m just explaining the protocol for the future. You always exceed my expectations Abby.” and with that he turned around and looked out his window, the sign that I was dismissed.

I turned, scampered out, but just before I closed the door his voice pulled me back.

“What was that you were writing?”

Fear, icy and numbing my fingers on the doorknob.

“Sir?”

“You were writing something as I came in, what was it?”

Lie. Make up anything. But I knew I couldn’t. I can’t lie to Mister McIntyre. I wouldn’t. He’d probably see through it anyhow.

“Nothing, sir. Just my diary. I… write in-” he cut off my mumbling.

“Speak up, Abby.”

“My diary, sir. I write in it at lunch sometimes.”

He considered this.

“What were you writing today?”

The panic was in my throat and I couldn’t speak. I felt like I was alone in an alley with a gang of thieves. No where to run.

“Just… a stupid thing. A dream. It was nothing-”

He cut me off again.

“Dreams can be very interesting, Abby. Haven’t you heard of the work of Jung?”

I didn’t know what to say. I just begged that this was the end of the conversation.

“Bring it in here. Leave it on my desk. I want to see what kind of dreams you are having.”

“Sir?”

He didn’t say anything. There was silence. There was more silence. I looked up and his eyes were on mine. I almost never look him in the eyes and the power of that icy blue made me let go of the door knob.

“Bring it into my office and leave it on my desk.” he said, standing up and picking up his hat.

“I’ll read it when I get back from lunch.”

He walked towards me. His body suddenly close. He slipped past me, his chest brushing against me, the smell of him, the hugeness of him. Then he was gone. My legs were shaking so much I almost couldn’t sit down. The blood was draining from my body. I was starting to hyperventilate.

I wanted to go home, but I knew I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. There was only one thing to do, it wasn’t even a choice. I would put my little pink and purple striped diary on his desk. I would put it there and it would sit there on his big dark wood desk next to his fancy pens and his big black telephone and all of his newspapers and business things. My heart and my dirty thoughts just waiting.

And so I held my book to my chest and marched in feeling naked. I put it down and my eyes stung. I walked out and closed the door and sat back at my desk.

And then I waited.

Next Chapter

Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Two

Mister McIntyre’s Secret
Part Two

Deep breath.

It’s 11:45 and that means that Mister McIntyre is… he is in his meeting. He is in his hotel room right now. He is doing things, things that make me bite my lip just thinking about. How am I supposed to work? How am I supposed to act like nothing is going on. Right now at the Pierre Hotel he is fucking her. Right now he is doing it. Are they naked? Does he take off his socks? Does he make noise?

“Want to go to lunch with us Abigail?”

It’s Paula and Regina. Nice girls, but I’m nervous that someone will call. Something might happen. I have to guard the secrets.

“Oh, no thanks, I brought my lunch.”

They shrugged and giggled to each other. Whispering some little joke. Who cares what they think. Paula had a nose like a pig and her boss was that drunk Mister Grifford. Regina was nice enough, but she wasn’t very bright.

The phone ring and I took a deep breath before I picked it up.

“Fitzgerald Investment Group, Mister McIntyre’s office.”

Silence on the line. A sigh. More silence.

“Douglas McIntyre’s office, may I help you?” I said, a little louder.

“Hello. You’re the secretary, right?”

I knew it was her. I never heard her voice, but I knew. My heart was racing again. One of his secrets come to life with a real voice. Talking to me.

“Y.. yes. This is Abigail. How can I help you?”

There was a low chuckle.

“He’s not in, is he?” her voice was velvet. It made her jealous.

“N.. no. May I ask who’s calling?”

A long pause.

“You know who’s calling. I’m not going to be able to make my appointment and I don’t have the hotel’s number handy.”

Marcy Peterson. Daughter of a client. The spoiled brat.

“I’ll um, I’ll find Mister McIntyre and let him know… Miss Peterson.” my voice lowering to a whisper.

Another chuckle.

“My, but you are the good secretary.” her honey sarcastic voice purred with the trappings of a rich Connecticut accent. “I suppose you schedule all of Mister McIntyre’s affairs.”

I just sort of let out a little meep. What can you say to that? Secrets are supposed to be secret. Notes in the calendar. Instructions from Mister McIntyre. They aren’t supposed to call.

“I.. I’ll let him know, Ma’am.”

“How old are you… Abby isn’t it?”

I should have just hung up. Would that be rude? People walked by my desk and I wondered what they thought. I was holding on to the phone with both hands. I tried to calm down. Put one hand on the desk. Tried to act like this was just another phone call.

“Twenty-two, ma’am.”

“Well, just a little thing. From your voice I would have said twenty at most. Is it embarrassing? Knowing where your boss goes at lunch? He told me once you were very trustworthy and obedient to the last. It made you sound like a puppy.”

My mouth opened but no words came out. He talked about me? What did he say? He actually sat there with his mistress and said “That Abigail is an obedient secretary.”?

“I try my best.” I squeaked.

She hung up. I numbly dialed the hotel.

“Mister Jefferson, room 732, please.”

It rang several times. My heart can’t take this. It never seems to slow down. It’s no wonder I go home and fall asleep.

“Yes?” his slow deep voice.

“Um, it’s um… your 11:30 appointment had to cancel, sir.”

“She called the office?” he sounded concerned.

“Yes sir.”

“That’s…” he trailed off. “I’ll be back in the office in 15 minutes.”

Back to his office, straighten things up. Make sure everything it set for his meeting. Make sure he has his notes.

Standing in his office with the door closed the day finally got to me. He would be back any minute. Pulling up my skirt and reaching down my panties I am soaked through and through. How do I get this bad? How do I let myself get this worked up?

One hand on his desk and one hand in the tight constraints of my panties and pantyhose. Fast fast. He might come back. Fast his footsteps will be in the hallway any minute. Those gray blue eyes, that chiseled chin, those huge hands. I bet his hands are twice the size of mine. His fingers twice as thick.

Rubbing and rubbing, but I am quiet as a mouse. I would be quiet if he needed me to come into his office. I wouldn’t say a word if he bent me over his desk. I’d be his. His anything. I’d never cancel.

My fist on his hard wood desk as I come and come.

Go to the bathroom. Don’t look up at anyone. Wash my hands, fix my lipstick.

Breath Abigail. Breath.

I’m at my desk just as he gets in.

“Abby, I’m going to need some lunch. Turkey Club. Get yourself…” he stopped, examining me as he got to his door.

“You look a little flushed, everything alright?”

I squirm. His eyes on me. He is looking me over. What can he see?

“Oh, I’m alright.” I laugh awkwardly.

Next Chapter

Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part One

Sitting at my desk before he gets to the office I cross my legs and watch helplessly as they bounce nervously.

Every Monday it’s the same. I don’t know why. I get in early, sort the mail, clean things up, change my typewriter ribbon. When it hits 8:45 I start shaking a little. I have to concentrate on not biting my lower lip or I’ll mess up my lipstick.

I keep a little check list under my typewriter on a little board so I can slide it out and look at it. Make sure his glasses are clean, make sure his desk is organized. Garbage can empty. Check the bulbs in his lamps. Dust his globe and book shelf. I get the special coffee he likes and keep it in a thermos. If he isn’t in by 10 I go get some more so it will be hot and fresh for him. I have to guard the milk I keep in the refrigerator, Mister McIntyre doesn’t like cream. The Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times on his desk. He reads the New York Times on the train.

By 8:55 my heart is racing. I have to dab my forehead. My legs are bouncing so much I’m going to wear a hole in my stockings.

When he comes in, he is charging down the hall. I can hear him. No one else walks that fast in here. I see his silhouette outside the frosted glass door and then he’s walking towards me. I don’t know where to look. I straighten paper. I fix my pencils. If I look up at those blue eyes I’ll explode or, even worse, blush.

“Abby,” he says in that deep voice. I see his chin, I see his lips.

“Good morning, sir,” I hate my voice. I hate my voice. I sound like a little girl.

He is wearing his charcoal gray suit with a white shirt and a navy tie.

“Eleven o’clock with the Richardson people. Lunch at one with the Morgan Stanley people. Nothing else until the four o’clock review with Mister Donaldson, sir.”

He is looking through the mail as I tell him this from memory. He throws away half the mail. I can smell his aftershave and lingering cigarette smoke. He has a little red nick on his chin from shaving. I want to lick it.

Why am I like this? I’m getting wet just from him standing over me. I’ve been here for four months and I’m still like this. It’s actually getting worse. Do other girls think about there bosses like this? I’m 22 and he’s 38. He’s married to the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen; plus- well- Mister McIntyre has secrets. I would never tell. I can keep secrets. It’s important that Mister McIntyre knows that. I’m his secretary and I would never divulge any of his information to anyone. Except my diary.

He is hovering closer. He takes a step nearer and looks around.

“Abby,” he clears his throat. He was using his conspiratorial whisper. “See if you can move the Morgan thing to two and the Richardson thing to 10. Matt Richardson is staying at the Roosevelt, tell him I can swing by and we can do it in the restaurant there.”

He leaned in even closer, his mouth inches from my ear. I was trying to breath. Just kiss me. Kiss my neck. I’ll do anything you want, Mister McIntyre. Please, sir. Please.

“Call up… the Pierre. Get me that room I get. You know. Tell them it is for Mister Jefferson, they will know what you mean. I’ll be there from 11 to 12:30.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then he was gone. His door closed. I would wait 10 minutes and then bring him his coffee.

I only saw her once. The girl he takes to the Pierre. He pays cash at the desk for the room. She’s my age, dark hair. She has a stupid face, but those lips. So full and always perfectly painted red. She looks mean, bitter and bratty. Maybe that’s what he likes. I wonder what they do in there. I mean, I know what they do- I just wonder how it goes. Does he get there first or does she? Does he just pull up her dress? Is he rough or gentle?

My legs are closed so tight under my desk. My fists clenched. I have to stop thinking about this.

He’s rough. I bet Mister McIntyre is rough. I bet he pushes her down on the bed or maybe against the wall. I bet he slaps her around if her bratty mouth goes off. I bet he rips her panties off; if she wears any that little slut.

Is it big? Oh god, I have to stop thinking about this. Is it thick and hard? Does she suck it? Does it hurt her when he-

“Abby? Is there a problem with the coffee?” he says through the intercom.

“One moment, sir.”

I’m out of my seat like a shot. I’m dizzy as I get the milk from the break room. Find a mug for him. Get the thermos. Just a splash of milk. My eyes sting. I’m so stupid. I was daydreaming and I forgot.

I fan my eyes. Stop it. Don’t cry. Put on a happy face and bring it in to him.

Composed. Deep breath. I open the door. I bring in the coffee. He doesn’t look up at me, he just picks it up and sips it.

I’m stupid.

I make the calls. I have to fight to change the times but it all works out.

“Sir? Your schedule is all set for the day. Just the way you wanted it.”

Silence. My heart racing again.

“Thank you, Abby.”

I try not to smile. I feel like I am blushing again. Oh, Mister McIntyre.

Next Chapter

Barista

Jack was addicted. It was something he needed to admit to himself. It was something he needed help with. It was something that was part of him.

“Gimme a quad shot cappuccino, very dry, non-fat milk.”

He stood at the counter digging deep into the pockets of his jeans trying to get another fifty cents. It was a costly habit, four shots of espresso with a little steamed milk was five bucks.

Behind him a line of well dressed people tried to summon the psychic power needed to destroy him. He was holding up the line, therefor holding up their caffeine intake. This was a dangerous thing.

“Don’t worry, you come in every day like three times. I think I can overlook fifty cents.” the girl with the thick glasses and the tight shirt behind the counter said with a smile.

Blond, bright green eyes, a nose ring. She was very cute, but a little to skinny and bubbly for Jack’s taste. He smiled and handed her his deficient funds.

“Quad non fat cap, dry!” she barked over to the barista.

There were many coffee houses in Jack’s neighborhood. Among them roughly half were of the corporate chain variety, whose coffee and politics left bad tastes in his mouth. A few of the privately owned ones were run by hippy scenester types and tended to be heavy on ambiance and light on coffee brewing know how. Then there was The Coffee House. It was a little out of the way, but it was hard core. There were only a few tables and there was no internet access or jazz music. They served coffee here, hot and strong and good. This wasn’t some diner brew, this was deep rich earthy Columbians and Sumatras and powerful orgasmic Blue Mountains along with their very own extremely potent espresso blend which Jack had been slowly replacing his body’s water supply with. Though, there was another reason he came to this particular place.

As he walked away from the cashier and passed the small stack of burlap bags that held rich-smelling beautifully oily beans he saw the two towers of silvery coppery power that made the brew. Behind one of these steaming whistling machines was a woman.

Her hair was a short jet black bob, pulled back severely into a pony tail. She wore dark rimmed glasses and dark matte red lipstick. Her lips were huge, so big and pouting the they almost made the scowl she gave everyone sexual just because of their lusciousness. Her hands were large and strong. She worked those machines. She owned them.

As Jack watched she wiped one metal nozzle with a damp cloth while pounding a large metal handled portafilter against the counter. She moved fast, her fingers adept and economic in their movements. She tapped out the used grounds, wiped the filter and then brought it up to a huge grinder which whirled and roared and then filled her filter with exactly enough coffee. She pressed the fine as powder grounds into the metal filter with the bumper and then twisted the filter into the giant espresso machine.

She wore an argyle sweater of dark green and burgundy. It was a low v cut sweater that showed her whole-milk colored cleavage which was sprinkled with freckles like a dusting of cinnamon on a foamy drink.

She sloshed some milk into a large metal cup and then slipped the steam nozzle into the cold milk. The steam screamed as it hit the cold milk. Beads of moisture condensed on her cleavage. Jack was erect as he watched it.

The espresso came in spurts, thick rich crema dark against the white porcelain shot glass. She worked both machines now. Two shot from one, two shots from the other, then all of them into a huge bowl-like latte mug. She followed it with the steamed milk and topped it off with a large helping of foam.

“Skin quad cap.” she shouted, thinking the owner of said drink was waiting at a table. She was shouting the drink order right into Jack’s face.

“That’s me.” he said, trying desperately not to look at her cleavage and succeeding only because he was hypnotized by her eyes which where chocolate and honey brown, deep and rich like a dark roast.

She scowled at him as he took the drink. Jack knowing she had contempt for most patrons and squirming a little under her powerful gaze. He picked up his coffee and sat in a chair by the window. It was the same thing every day.

*

The art showing was not something Jack particularly wanted to go to, but friends being friends they pushed, and since somehow Proust alone on a Saturday night seemed a little to depressing even for him, Jack went. It was in a somewhat rough part of town in a brownstone in the middle of a long block.

Sometimes these art things were fun and sometimes not so much. The minute Jack entered the brownstone and walked to the open door he knew this was going to be the latter. First of all it was quiet. There was a lot of whispering, a lot of people leaning into each other while holding glasses of whine and whispering. Jack never exactly understood why some showings were boisterous and cheerful and some were reverent and hushed.

Like most recent art school graduate showings it was trying to do a lot of things at the same time and failing at almost all of them. There were mixed media pieces, little televisions showing this or that. A lawnmower sat in the middle of the white walled livingroom. It was painted with zebra stripes and had an arrow sticking out of it.

Jack searched the crowd, looking for his friends and found something he didn’t expect. The barista.

She was dressed in a white button up blouse and a black skirt, looking far more sophisticated than her coffee serving alter ego, but she still wore the same scowl. Jack picked up a glass of red wine and downed it with a gulp and decided it was far too good of a coincidence to waste.

He walked over and stood next to her, looking at the same painting she was gazing at. It was an abstract maze of words and cartoon faces. Those large dark red lips were pouting, though Jack wasn’t sure if it was with scorn or thought.

“You work in the The Coffee House, right?” he said, maintaining his concentration on her.

She looked at him in a way that made him feel small and disgusting.

“Oh.” she said, half to herself, “You’re that guy.” then she looked back at the painting.

“That guy?” he asked with a chuckle.

“That guy who comes in every day and orders the same thing and stares at my tits.”

There are a variety of reactions one could have to this sort of aggressive answer. Jack wasn’t sure what most of them were but his was to basically stand there with his mouth open.

“So what are you doing here?” she said just as casually.

“I… my friends said this might be interesting.” he mumbled. “And I don’t do that.”

“Do what?” she asked with a smirk.

“Stare at your tits.”

“You’ve never looked at my tits when you got coffee at my shop?” she asked, eyebrows arched as she sort of leaned into the painting, causing him to get drawn into the two open buttons of her shirt.

“I…” he coughed. “I mean, people look at things, it’s not like I was staring, but you are tall and I may have-”

“Shh!” scolded a bald guy with a beard.

Jack felt very out of his element.

“Why do you come in every day, are you stalking me?” she asked in a quiet voice which forced him to walk a little closer.

“No, I live a couple blocks away and it’s a good place to study.” Jack said trying to get some control of the conversation. She was snide and sarcastic and basically all the things he usually was in a conversation. This left him w

eaponless.

“You have quite the ego, don’t you. Thinking I was there looking at you and stalking you. People drink coffee. Your tits aren’t that nice-” his voice went a little louder and he was again chided.

“Hey, sorry.” said a woman holding a tray of glasses. “Do you mind keeping it down in the art area?” pretension and self importance dripping from her thin lips.

The barista walked away from the painting and Jack followed.

They were standing in front of a coat rack covered in christmas lights. She took a red wine off a tray and sipped it, then making a face of disgust, put it back down.

“Do you like art?” he asked half heartedly.

“Not particularly.”

“Are you a student?”

She rolled her eyes. “Perpetually.”

“What do you study?”

“Art.” Her voice was flat.

She turned on him. “Are you trying to pick me up?” she said as if she suddenly realized it and was incensed.

“I… no.. I mean.” Jack was usually a lot better at this, but this girl seemed randomly aggressive.

She scoffed, a smile flickered, a challenging smile.

“Let me guess, you’re a graduate student.” Her tone was flat again and mocking.

“What’s your name?” he tried to turn the conversation.

“Jane.”

“Jack.”

“Is that your real name?”

“No.”

“Yeah, there are no real Jacks.”

“Shh.” said someone in the distance. Jane casually walked out of the apartment into the hallway. Jack followed.

“Did I piss you off or something? Do you not like how I order my drink everyday?”

She eyed him. The hallway was echoey and humid. She walked to the stairs.

“You’re just that guy I see every day who looks at me but never has the balls to say hello. Another lame graduate student. What is it? Let me guess, philosophy?”

“No.” he said with distain.

“Literature? Literary Theory?”

Jack didn’t say anything.

“Oh god, you’re one of those assholes who sits around mentally masturbating and deconstructing Joyce.”

He didn’t know why or how but suddenly he was kissing her. They were on the stairs and as she spoke someone looked out of the art showing and glared at them for making noise. Jack moved in as Jane whispered her hatred for his life’s work and then the next thing he knew his lips were on those big soft red lips. And it shut her up.

“Well, we can’t all go for hands-on applied science of art history.”

She was stewing, she looked like she might hit him.

“Fuck this. This show is stupid, I shouldn’t have come.” She turned and walked up the stairs. Jack wasn’t sure where she was going but he followed her.

On the second floor there was a narrow hall and two rows of doors. Jane got a set of keys out and opened the old door. 2B.

*

He kissed her against the wall. Her hands on his hips and her knee in his groin.

She bit his bottom lip as he pulled away and cut her eyes at him.

“I don’t like you.” she said as flatly as she could.

Jack smiled, licking his lips. “I don’t mind.”

She untangled herself from him and threw her keys on a coffee table. The apartment was tiny and a mess of books and indian rugs. She sat down on a beat up red couch and didn’t look at him. Jack sat down next to her and kissed her neck. She turned and kissed him once, Jack kissed her deeply and she let herself slip into his kiss before pushing him away again.

“You should go, this wasn’t a good idea.”

He moved in again, his hand on her knee slipping up her skirt as he kissed her neck. She gasped and put her hands on his collar, pushing him away, but holding on to the fabric of his shirt.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she said a little breathlessly again his ear, her warm soft lips brushing against it as she spoke.

“I’m trying to fuck you.” he growled, as she clamped her legs shut on his hand.

It was hot there, between her thick thighs. It felt unusual with the softness of her skin and the roughness of the fishnets she was wearing. Jack felt with the tips of his fingers where the stockings ended in lace and were clipped to garters. The image made him groan. Fuck, he liked her style.

The fact that she hadn’t punched him let him know that this was going to go all the way as long as Jack played it right.

Jack kissed her neck and dragged his bottom lip acoss her skin, then he sucked on her earlobe and bit at the flesh.

“I’m not going to fuck you.” she growled into his cheek.

His hand moved further up her leg, he felt heat radiating from between her thighs.

“I know. I’m going to fuck you.” His fingers touched the edge of her panty leg. He traced that elastic edge as he traced his bite marks on her neck with his tongue. As the very tip of his finger slipped under the fabric her breath caught and her grip on his shirt loosened.

“You feel awfully wet for someone who doesn’t like this.”

She was past listening, his words were just little thorns that made the itch his fingers were so close to scratching more deliciously unbearable.

He brushed his lips across her cheek, edging near her full lips. The vivid dark red of her lipstick matte, slightly smudged, perfect. He nearly caught her with a kiss, but she turned her head. His finger moved in, feeling smoothness where there should be coarse hair. Another predilection he had carried out by this girl. Another reason to want her. He rubbed there, never quite in the right place, cupping her sex and petting her but not quite slipping his finger in. It was almost too much and yet just enough to keep her on the edge.

He moved in again, his bottom lip almost catching hers. She moaned into his cheek and the sound made his cock throb painfully.

“Take your panties off for me.” he whispered in her ear.

One finger slid between her wet lips. She was one of those girls who got soaking wet. Sopping wet. He watched the pleasure take over. He edged around her clit, tracing around it, feeling its firmness under the soft folds of her hood.

“Fuck you.” she spat.

The dark laugh came from the very bottom of his stomach and spilled out. He laughed right against her neck as his finger slipped into unbearably tight wetness.

Jack knew that sigh, that moan. Some girls like to have their clit played with for hours, some girls like to have a tongue torturing them for days, but Jane wanted cock. She wanted a big thick cock to fuck her, that was the only thing that would get her off.

Jack pushed her away from him roughly. He flipped her over on the couch and pushed her head down so she was on her hand and knees with her ass in front of him. He pushed up her skirt and then pulled his zipper down and pulled out his cock.

She was groaning and hissing about it, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Jack rubbed his cock against her pantie covered sex, he could feel the split of her lips through the soaking wet satin. She pushed her ass back at him.

“Take your panties off for me.”

She scoffed first, but then pushed back against him and made a desperate little squeal of frustration. Her hands came up and back. Her thumbs hooked the sides of her panties. There was a beat, a pause and she pulled them down. Not all the way down but just to her knees. Then she pushed back, trying to impale herself on his hard cock.

Jack rubbed the head of his cock on the same spot now that it was naked. He looked down at obscenely pink lips against his hard reddening cock.

“Ask me to fuck you.”

She turned her head and those eyes were full of hate and want and fire. Her hands flew back and she tried to pull her panties back up but he grabbed her hands and held them behind her back.

“Fuck you. You’re the one who started this. I’m not asking you for anything.” she hissed

, her cheek pressed against the couch.

Jack rocked against her, the head of his cock just barely pushing into her wetness. She let out gasps with each little push.

“Pl… you fucking asshole. Just…” another whine, another gasp, another curse.

“Please what?” his voice was more and more gravelly. The little chuckles darker and darker.

“Just… please…” her voice was quieter, almost inaudible. Then a long sigh.

“Just fuck me.”

It wasn’t really what he wanted. He wanted her to beg, but he knew it was enough and he couldn’t hold back any longer.

He spit on his hand and worked his cock up and down, then rubbed it between the wetness of her lips. When he pushed his cock in, finally, it was almost painfully pleasurable. He let out a loud groan.

“Put your hands on my ass.” she said, not even looking back at him.

He did, squeezing both cheeks and starting to fuck her for real.

Sometimes it took time to work up a real rhythm. Sometimes you had to figure the other person out, get the angle right. Jane was wet and just right and Jack sank his fingers into the softness of her big ass and pounded into her. It was a normal fuck, this was hard and fast and the couch was moving.

“Oh holy fucking shit.” she said, letting out a string of curses mixed with moans. Her hands were on the arm of the couch as she was rode harder.

Jack reached up and put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back into each thrust. His other hand snaked up into her hair.

“Fuck me harder.” she said looking back with the same fire. “Come on. Is that all you got? Really fuck me.”

He grabbed her hips hard and pounded into her. Hard fast slapping over and over. She let go of the arm of the chair and let out a little howl. He felt her legs tighten, her cunt clenching on him as a moan built into a wail.

She pulled away suddenly and pulled off her panties. Jack grabbed all the pillows on the couch and threw them across the room. They pulled at their shirts, needing more contact. She half ripped off her bra and he was on her, sucking her nipples, biting her neck and finally kissing her plump lips. Their faces were covered in lipstick. And then he was inside of her again, this time on top.

She was three times as wet now. She wrapped her legs around him as he fucked her. Her hands were around him and then her nails were digging into his back. He was thrusting slow and hard, but building.

Suddenly the world was spinning. Jack didn’t know how but he was on the floor and the barista was on top of him, her neat black bob now half sticking to her face.

Her hands on his wrists she turned and twisted her hips trying to get the right angle and then when his cock finally slipped back into her she purred and looked down at him.

“Want to come bad, hm?”

Jack bucked his hips, but she was not a tiny girl. Plus there was the fact that he wanted to see where this was going.

“It’s only fair.” he said low and gravelly.

She moved her hips up and then down a little, sort of bouncing up and down on him. The pleasure was like a punch it was so potent. Jack tried to maintain control at least enough to watch her bit her own lip and moan.

Jane opened her shirt completely, button by button. She continued to flex her legs causing her to go up and down on him with a slow steady rhythm. She pulled off her shirt and the bra which was hanging off her waist. She locked her eyes with him as she cupped her breasts and let her fingers pull at her own nipples which were surprisingly dark for her pale skin and large with fat nipples that were hard points.

Jack put his hands on her hips and bucked his hips again. She wasn’t stopping him now. Her eyes closed and she moved up and down a little faster, with Jack bucking up to meet her. She pulled roughly on one nipple which her other hand went down to her wet pussy. Jack could dully feel her rubbing her self as he slipped again and again into her. Suddenly she was gasping and her fucking lost its momentum. Jack took hold of her hips and kept fucking her from underneath her. She was lost as her fingers moved on her clit and nipple. Jack watched, feeling his orgasm building faster and faster.

She was going crazy on top of him, whimpering and rolling her hips. He tried desperately to keep fucking, keep the rhythm.

“Come. Come on. Fucking come inside of me.” she was practically yelling.

And then the building for so long finally hit its end and Jack exploded. He wasn’t sure what he said, but it was loud. She rode him through it and kept on riding him until he was limp and weak and then she fell on top of him, her hair clinging to his face and her lips on his as they panted.

Fiction – The Wrong Smith Girl

They broke up on the train.

Trains push his memories to the surface. All the trips into the country as a child. All the trees passing by, leaves changing to red and gold.

The city fades fast, faster then you can imagine. It is so small compared to the stretches of country to the Jersey Shore, to Upstate, to Boston and Maryland and DC.

Looking at Maggie, he could see her fighting her childhood memories. At least he wanted to think she was fighting them, hoping they were there to be fought. She had her nose in a notebook, making a list of things to do.

They were going to Maggie’s parents’ house because Maggie’s father was sick. He had a heart attack, but it looked like he was going to be alright. She had a big Irish family and it was expected that a good daughter would come home in a time like this. So Maggie and her boyfriend Jack got on a train from New York to Virginia.

Maggie and Jack had been living together for three years. They had been dating for four and known each other since college six years ago. She was going for her BA in Fine Arts and he was going for his Masters in English back then.

She had their life planned out. She had a good steady job and he did freelance work. They had a nice apartment, which he loved, but she wanted to move out to the country soon. She wanted to get married, but he hadn’t asked her yet. She had plans and he wasn’t playing along. She didn’t break up with him because she had already put too much time into him. He didn’t break up with her because he was lazy and didn’t like confrontation.

There was something about the trip that started pushing Jack’s buttons from the start. They were taking the train out to her parents’ house and there was this air of expectance. She expected him to go, to be excited, to ask her to marry him, to want kids, to want a better job… but none of that was going to happen and both of them were starting to realize it.

A third of the way there after arguing over signing another lease for the apartment she said “If you don’t want to grow as a couple then maybe we should just break up.”

It wasn’t a threat, it was something that people said in the heat of the moment, but it just pushed Jack over the edge.

“Yeah. We should. This relationship is a joke. You don’t love me; you just need someone to help you afford a mortgage.”

And she cracked. She cried. There was no putting things back together.

For the next hour they agreed on things. Jack would be nice for the three day weekend with Maggie’s parents. They would take care of the breakup when they got back. And then like a switch when they got to their stop Maggie fixed her makeup and was back to herself.

*

They entered the big old house just after 4pm. It was an old southern house with white pillars outside and a big porch and a huge white door.

They entered to find silence and emptiness. Walking up the staircase they came to a long hall. Pictures hung along the walls, old school pictures of Maggie and her sisters Molly and Megan. Three smiling girls with white skin and black hair and matching skirts and sweaters. Three princesses at Halloween. Three girls on horses.

Jack followed Maggie as she navigated pass a dozen doors and finally found her old room. Jack was a stranger in this place. He was not a Smith.

Maggie’s room was white walled, filled with 2-foot boxes in one corner, an uncomfortable looking bed made up with yellow sheets and a pink and yellow quilt. One wall was all white bookshelves, but they were only a quarter filled. On one wall hung a large framed sketch of Maggie. He remembered her sitting in front of the mirror, sketching herself for her final project in still life, back in college.

In that frame was Maggie, the girl. Quiet in class, but boisterous when she was excited. Level headed, list making, but deep down an artist. Deep down filled with the same curiosity that Jack was filled with. Curiosity about books, history, art… and sex. The more he remembered their college years the more he realized that the Maggie he knew was gone.

When did she start longing for mediocre satisfaction? When did she stop needing to explore and started needing a bigger house, a better job, some mythical security she constantly talked about. When did she put her paints and her charcoal and her pads and canvas in her parents’ basement to go untouched?

The same time she started thinking of sex as a duty and rolling her eyes at the mere mention of sexual adventure. Sex was just relieving them both of some energy or maybe a way for her to get him to leave her alone so she could get enough sleep to wake up at 5 in the morning to jog.

She sighed and put her bags down.

“Listen, you can stay here. I will go to the hospital. Then everyone will come back for dinner. I know you don’t want to be here… but let’s just do this and then we can get back and…” she just trailed off. A horn honked outside and she looked out the window.

“That’s my aunt. Unpack, ok?”

Jack nodded. “I like your family. This weekend will be fine. Go check on your father, make sure he is alright.”

She looked at him, unsure if a hug was still ok. Then she just turned around and left.

*

He unpacked, he looked around. He ended up on the bed, drifting off into a nap. The train ride, the fight, all of it melted away.

When he awoke in darkness. He could hear people downstairs and smell the warm homey smells of chicken and potatoes.

He saw movement, the door opened and closed.

“Hey. You ok? Sorry I fell asleep… the fight and everything…”

“I don’t think your talking to the right Smith girl, mister.”

The light came on and that’s when he found out Maggie’s little sister grew up.

She was Maggie, but different. Shorter, but only slightly. Bustier, a little more hip, a little more ass. Same nose, same ears, fuller lips. Her eyes were blue, while Maggie’s where green.

“Molly.”

“That’s me.”

The last time he saw her it was about four years ago, she had just turned fifteen. Sitting up fully he couldn’t quiet comprehend that it was the same person. Molly the Mole, skinned knee tomboy who made gagging sounds if she saw him kissing her sister.

The first thing he noticed was a red and black nautical star tattoo between her neck and her breasts, half hidden by her white cotton tank top. Half perfect black and red ink on her white skin, half dark shadow under the thin cotton.

“Nice ink.”

She squirmed under his eyes. “Thanks.” Her arms came up and she folded them over her breasts. She was trying not to smile.

“So you two having a fight?”

“Um. No. Not really. Just an argument. Sort of.” He knew he had to look away from her, but he couldn’t. It was like looking at all the missing parts of Maggie, melted into a younger curvier tighter form. He walked over to the window and looked out at the greens and the grays.

She came into the room and walked to the bookshelf, looking at the remaining books, letting her finger drift over the spines.

“I was wondering what you would look like now,” she said. He could hear the smile in her voice.

“Oh? Do I look different?”

He looked over to her and she nodded. “You look old, but basically the same. You look better with your hair short. Your hair looked pretty dumb long. Plus those glasses are better, the dark frames. You’re still ugly, though.” There was the smile, the wicked brat smile. In those eyes was pure curiosity.

“I always thought you had
a crush on me.”

She let out a laugh, but she blushed.

“You wish.” she said, but eyed him and smiled.

He looked at her from the side now. It was like a lecture on the effects of puberty. At fifteen she was all legs and arms and wild nervous energy. At nineteen she was all hips and tits and calm sultry sex.

He noticed other tattoos, one on her wrist, this one just a black star. He could see the shadow of something on her back, it was large and not one of those little designs girls get right at their tailbone, this was long and it came up from around her butt to the middle of her back.

He stood up and moved closer to her, slowly and she tensed. She was still facing the books, pretending not to be curious about what he was going to do next. He walked behind her, moved closer until he was two feet away. He looked at the books, he looked at her neck, he looked at her eye as she turned her head to look at him.

“You got a tattoo on your back, too?”

She nodded, still facing her body away from him, but looking at him from over her shoulder.

He moved in and put his hands on her waist. She froze. He touched the edges of her thin shirt.

“Can I see?”

She swallowed and nodded. Their eyes met. Curiosity, lust.

He pulled up her shirt slowly and saw that there where two jet black f-hole, like the ones on a violin or cello. It was a lot of ink, a lot of time. He touched the edge of it and he could feel raised scarred skin.

Her back was smooth and her ass curved out from just below his hand.

“Wow. You got all this done in the last year?”

She moved forward, pulling her shirt out of his grip.

“Yeah. I was dating a tattoo artist for a while.”

He took her hand and looked at the tattoo on her wrist.

“Did they hurt?”

She smile. “That’s the best part.”

A voice from downstairs said “Kids… dinner.”

*

Dinner was huge and southern. Jack had forgotten that people ate like that. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes, greens and a million other things. Everyone was so busy catching up with Maggie and Molly, who had been off at Art School and also with Maggie’s older sister who had just had twins that no one really bothered talking to Jack, which was just the way he liked it.

Molly watched him though. Watched him like a cat watches a bird. It was a very different look then the fifteen year old awkward kid gave him four years ago.

When it was over Maggie said goodnight to all and went upstairs with Jack, got undressed without looking at him and then went to bed.

Jack laid there, uncomfortable because of the small bed and not really wanting to be too close to Maggie. He found himself thinking of Molly every time he closed his eyes. The way she looked in that white tank top, tough and sexy. He wanted to know what those tattoos looked like up close. What it felt like to trace them with his tongue.

Thoughts like that and the moonlight coming in from the window kept him up half the night. It seemed like only minutes, but the next time he opened his eyes it was morning. He awoke to feel the familiar sensation of Maggie next to him. He had turned around to face her in the night and now he was spooning her, with his arm around her.

She felt warm, she smelt good. Her ass against him made him stir inside. Without really realizing, his hand came up to cup her breast. It was such a natural thing.

She sighed and pushes his arm away.

“Yeah, right.” She said with disgust.

She sat up and climbed over him.

“Go back to bed, I’m taking a shower. Everyone is going to go to church in an hour. I know you don’t want to do that, so I’ll probably see you at lunch.”

She looked him in the eyes.

“Shave, ok?”

He nodded. He was still hard under the warm sheets. Memories, warm blanket comfort and the smell of her hair on the pillow made his mind swim. If he just relaxed he could fall back asleep. And then there was nothing.

*

He awoke to the sound of the door closing.

The room was too bright, the sun coming in through the half opened curtains. He was groggy, as only waking up from oversleeping can make you. The room was a dull white blur, then the blinds were closed and the curtains pulled shut so that the light filtered through the rust colored fabric, making the room dull yellow and red.

Then Maggie slipped into bed. Her arms around him, her lips on his neck. He pushed her hair back and kissed her. Her lips felt soft, there was some sweet lip gloss… and then he opened his eyes wider and saw who was really in bed with him.

There was Molly. There was Molly in her white tank top.

“Hello mister bedhead.”

He tried to comprehend what was going on.

Then Molly’s lips are on his again and he got the rush of the taste of a new mouth. Then Molly, squirming and turning around, and her soft round ass is against him. His arms are around her and they’re spooning. His mouth is on her neck and his hands are on her hips.

It is an interesting thing when you are so used to one person’s body, your hands remember where to go on them, your body understands how you are supposed to fit together, but now he was lost in this new geography. Her lips were too hot and soft, her kisses were too rough, her breasts too big, too heavy, too perfect.

Her hips flared out, giving him something to really hold on to when he pulled her against him. Her ass was soft and cool and when he hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and pulled them down, he slipped right between her cheeks and it was perfection.

*******

She moved her head back as he moved forward and he was lost in her kiss again. She arched her whole body against him and her lips were on his ear, sucking, then biting, then whispering.

“Do you want to fuck me?”

Jack grunted and pulled at her hips roughly. His cock touching wetness and heat as it rubbed between her legs.

“You have to say it. I like to hear it.”

Her voice was steady, but wanton. It was new, not the silent simple sex Jack was used to. Jack liked this.

“Damn,” he groaned into her neck. “I want to fuck you… so badly.”

His hand squeezed her breast once more and then moved down to between her legs. He groaned again when he felt smoothness where he expected coarse hair. Then his fingers felt wet heat. Silk softness, perfect folds that made him growl.

As his finger passed over her lips and one finger slipped into her she pushed her ass back against him.

“I want you to go down on me.” She gasped, pushing his hand away and laying on her back.

Jack looked down at her, her face was red and a red blush ran down her neck and on her chest where his unshaven face rubbed against her. He went to push her shirt off, but instead smiled.

“Take off your shirt. I want to see your tits.”

She smiled wickedly and pulled off her shirt and then unhooked her bra and took that off.

He saw that red and black star on her chest and lower down another tattoo… a heart on fire with a gold crown above it, right over her heart.

He moved until he was kneeling between her open legs, then he moved down and kissed her neck again, then traced his tongue around the slightly raised thick black lines of each tattoo on her chest. She arched her hips and her breath caught.

He kissed down her chest and stomach until he got between her legs. By now she was growling and purring.

One lick and he was addicted. Her body moved like a snake as he licked at her and she whined and gasped.

“More.. fuck. Make me come.”

He licked her lips teasing and bit the tight skin of her thigh, then he moved in circling her clit and flicking it and he moved one hand up to slip one finger into her.
r />That was all it took. Fucking her with his finger and licking her made her body buck and made her grab the pillow behind her and squeeze it as she came hard.

Jack sat up, watching her come down from her amazing orgasm. He had never seen a woman come that hard. Maggie took a half an hour of work.. sometimes even a vibrator.

She smiled and looked into his eyes and then turned to look at the clock.

“Fuck, we only have 20 more minutes…”

She pushed him away and stood up, looking at him wickedly.

“I guess I got to make you come fast… stand up.”

He did and she kissed him hard, licking his bottom lip and tasting herself on him.

“What gets you off? You want to fuck me from behind? Want me to get on top and ride you? I want to make you get off hard.” She said all these things into his ear as she reached down and gripped his cock tightly.

Really, he didn’t even know. He was so used to getting what ever sad sex Maggie would give him he didn’t know what he really want. He had never been with someone so forward.

“You like that this is dirty? That my sister could come home any minute?” She whispered, jerking him off.

He gasped.

“You like that I am fucking 10 years younger then you?”

He grunted.

“You want me to be a little girl for you? I can bend over and you can fuck me?”

She turned in a flash and kneeled down, taking the head of his cock in her mouth. She sucked and licked around the head. Then she sucked half of his cock.

“Fuck yes.”

All thought disappeared. She broke every rule her sister set in bed. She was like a wet, writhing, perfect id of sex.

She stood up and then leaned over the bed, sticking her ass up in the air.

“Come on… fuck me… fuck me… fuck your little slut”

And then he was looking down at her back with the tattoos that looked like a cello and she was groaning and then he was inside of her. And it was tight wet perfection.

“Fuck me.” She whispered it over and over, like a mantra.

It took seconds for him to come. It was the most violent, mind numbing, powerful orgasm he could remember. He almost fell down, his knees went so weak.

He collapsed on the bed, hardly aware that she had laid down and started fingering herself.

“Fuck…”

Jack turned and weakly kissed her nipple, wanting her to get off one more time.

“Bite it hard.” She begged.

He bit it, reaching up and squeezing her other tit. Then he moved up to her ear and whispered.

“Come for me…”

And she came, loud against him.

And that’s when the door opened.

END

Summer Sleeps in Winter Orbit

ssiwo

It had been three weeks and Mars High Orbit still just felt wrong. The sensors all checked out. Gravity was right, air mix was good, temperature was fine. Still something undefinable felt off. Maybe it was the fact that Mars was such an industrial world, not bound by the same rules that made Earth’s various orbital unions so clean and beautiful. Mars orbit was riddled with riffraff trade ships, derelict stations, various debris that formed a sort of muddy ring around the once red planet.

His name was Baker and he had another three weeks to wait until Mars was in the right position for him to start back towards Earth. Orbiting Mars was like being in one of those month long winters in cities near Earth’s poles he read about. He could quite shake the feeling of being cold, no matter how much he fiddled with the environmental controls.

As much as he hated the orbit, he couldn’t go down to Mars to sleep anyhow. Too expensive, too foreign, too crowded, too scary. His little ship was his home, anyway. His womb, his world. 90 meters long by 10 meters wide, split into three even 30 by 10 meter sections. Control and Engineering in the front, Sleep and Entertainment in the middle, and in the back was Food and Medical as well as Waste.

It was in that aft section that “she” waited.

A few weeks ago his boxy vessel was connected to a half a kilometer chain of cargo freights. Things that couldn’t go through a hyperspace jump and things from people who couldn’t afford one of the big freight companies’ prices. Heavy metals for complex scientific work, art, wine, even a few tons of pressurized coffee beans. Shipping them all from Earth to Mars got him enough credit for supplies that will last him two years. It also bought her.

She came in a cheap tank. The material was like those big bottles of water he got when he was in flight school. Perfectly smooth, very strong, but it gave if you pressed on it. Totally transparent. Soft blue lights on the top and bottom, even during night cycle. Red alphanumerics on the top on the tank that read 96:24. Ninety six hours to go.

The tank was warm, 38°C, which was just a little over his own body temperature. He liked to watch her float and he leaned against the warm plastic at night. Two weeks ago it was just a tank full of cloudy liquid. Then a little tadpole looking thing floating dead center. Then an embryo, a fetus, all the cycles of pre-life, just like the holos in school. After 100 hours she looked about four or five. She would age faster as it went on, rushing towards her preprogrammed maturity.

Some nights he would wake and the weight of loneliness would feel like it was crushing him and he would curl up at the base of the tank and sing the old songs from the mining colonies he heard his mother sing when he was a child. Corporate hymns that read were once religious, when such a thing was allowed. The words had changed a thousand times.

It had been years since he’d had a real conversation with someone. He’d been going hard on the trade routes from the mining colonies in the Asteroid Belt where he was born to Mars and to Earth. He had to fly a company rig for about four years when he made enough to get his own ship.

It was a hard life out there. He was always waiting. Waiting for planets to line up so he could fly the millions of kilometers between them. Waiting for people to load up his ship. Waiting to figure out where he would go next.

At T-10 hours she looked like she was in her early teens. Her hair floating around her in a little curtain of dark brown. Age was such a malleable thing now. He didn’t want a child, but he didn’t want to wait much longer. Either way she was really only a month old.

As the clock ticked down, Baker spent all of his time back there, watching. It wasn’t a thing anymore, it wasn’t a little girl either. She was in her mid teens now, her breasts forming. Her areolas brown circles tipped in little nipples. The cleft of her sex pulling his eyes down every time he looked at her. Shame had disappeared some time after his first interplanetary flight. Time and loneliness killed shame first.

The reality of it was coming on. Soon she would be there, warm and his.

At 30 minutes her eyes opened and she watched him. She had a peaceful smile. She moved her fingers experimentally and stretched as much as she could in the confines of her tank. He touched the plastic and she touched the place where his hand was on the plastic. Her hair floated around, shoulder length and as long as it would ever grow. She reminded him of a holo he watched as a kid of a mermaid.

*

She was not Harriet Boyer-Chung. She was not an astro-navigator. She did not have three lovely children who grew up into fine people and went off to have beautiful children of there own.

She was not Harriet Boyer-Chung, but she did have her memories. Well, some of them. The images and sounds and recollections were held back by the thinnest membrane deep inside of her. It was like accessing some external device, some psychological peripheral. There was this silent spinning latency when she thought of the memories of the person who she was not, but there was no real time delay, just some strange internal temporal adjustment, just some imagined nanosecond of jet leg.

If she wasn’t Harriet, then who was she?

In the first days questions came and went in her head. Some were answered by her half remembered other life, some were answered by some internal compass that told her what was true. She knew she was still unborn. She knew she was in a tank. She knew she was being grown for someone. She knew all this in the way children knew about the tooth fairy. It was something that she believed with all of her heart, but would feel a lot better about once she actually got some evidence.

Later, things came to her. She remembered that she knew languages, it was like imagining a door and then opening it to find a whole other room of your house that you had forgot about. Basic Eastern, Basic Western, Miner Common and a wealth of High Orbit creoles and trade pidgins. It was all there, but not quite “there” yet. It was like knowing all the rules of baseball, but never having actually held a ball.

When the clock inside of her started swelling, making her heart beat fast, making her face flush, she knew the next step was coming soon. Her breath came quick, taking in the water around her, which was still rich with vitamins. She felt warmth in her face and then saw white, red and finally gray. Then, there in front of her was her man. It was the easter bunny, santa clause, an angel. It was proof that it all wasn’t just a prolonged dream.

When he put his hand on the glass, she touched it with hers, feeling the warmth through the thin wall of plastic.

When the pain started, when the amniotic fluid with its little nano helpers and vitamins and soothing drugs finally became nothing but water, she panicked. Her lungs weren’t able to get as much oxygen from the liquid now and soon it would drown her.

*

What came next was an odd mix of things. It was part birth, part opening a present on Christmas morning and part wedding night. He couldn’t wait for the tank to drain. It was only water now anyhow. He pulled at the bottom of the plastic tank when the clock ticked down to zero. The water spilled out onto the floor of the aft section. It pooled around his feet for a moment before circling down the drain in the center of the room, the manufactured gravity pulling it towards the ships center like a tiny black hole.

She came slipping out of the bottom of the tank with the water and Baker knelt to catch her. She turned to face the floor and coughed wetly, spitting water and fluid from her lungs and then she took deep gulps of air.

She clung to him like a wet and frightened cat, shivering and naked. He wiped the hair away from her face and she stared at him. Her eyes were huge and gray. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She instinctively held on to him, slipping her naked arms around him and hugging him tightly. He hugged her back.

He didn’t know why, but he felt some dam in him break. He started to cry against her and they cradled each other on the the wet floor of the ship.

He wouldn’t be alone anymore.

He closed his eyes for a second and thought about the room, the hardware in his head he told the ship to turn the heat up 10 degrees. He turned down the humidity and he felt a hot dry breeze float over their wet bodies.

When they finally parted, she looked into his eyes and smiled. Her smile was so full of joy and her eyes were shining with curiosity and hope, he had to laugh. And then she kissed him.  A soft kiss on his lips, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. He closed his eyes and kissed her back. She tasted like nothing he could explain. Like skin after a hot shower; clean and new and perfect.

*

She was in the arms of the one who she was for. The one who meant everything. His arms were warm and his body was solid. She looked into his eyes and he looked huge, intelligent, strong. He held her as she shivered and then as he cradled her the world grew less cold and then warm. He smiled and she started to relax.

“Is this my life?” she wondered, her heart swelling. “In his arms, with a warm breeze on my body.” She couldn’t imagine anything better. Harriet’s memories, behind their invisible curtain didn’t show any happiness greater. The girl felt the warmth flowing through the ship and saw, in half opaque memories, summer days and sun kissed beaches.

She wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell him everything, but her mouth didn’t know how yet. Her head, knew, but her lips couldn’t yet form the words. She just looked at him, his gray eyes, his stubbly face, his large expressive mouth and she smiled. And then she was moved forward, pushed by pure instinct and then his lips were on hers and the world became nothing but the taste of him and new swirling warmth inside of her.

end transmission