Sunday, December 4, 2011
(Free Read) Fallen
A twisted little tale from many moons ago. I think roughly 2007. This is my version of a blog at the moment.
by Sommer Marsden
The day has been awful. People vying for my attention, throwing problems at me. This consultant did this, that consultant neglected to do that. I have played the mediator, kept my cool, been the lone grownup in a roomful of intellectual five-year-olds. I am done.
The house is dark and quiet as it always is. Empty. I am the only breathing thing that inhabits it. Beyond that it is stuffed full of books and music. Art and comfortable things. A warm cozy coffin of loneliness.
I pour myself a glass of Shiraz and kick my shoes off in the middle of the dining room. It doesn't matter that they're in the middle of the floor. No one will trip over them. I can navigate my domain in the dark and know where I have left my debris and detritus. There is no one else here to be courteous for. Not even a cat.
The tiny automatic night-light has come on in the kitchen, giving off a subtle glow to guide me. I switch on my laptop without turning the overhead on. For this, I like the ghostly blue light given off by the screen. I like to be shielded and cloaked when I delve into this part of myself. It is easier to accept in surreal light than in the cold, clinical penetration of the ceiling fixture.
As the computer hums and comes to life, I reach under my silk blouse and unhook my bra. I go through the mystical dance that women have mastered, pulling it off without removing my top. I drop it on the floor by the stove and take a sip of wine. Once upon a time, I would have lit a cigarette. Somehow I have managed to kick this particular addiction. Not the one that truly needs to be eradicated, but it is a start. I sit at the table and wait for the computer to tell me it is ready.
I hold my breath until I am nearly dizzy and finally it is ready. I plug in my password and pull up the Internet. From there it is simply a matter of plugging in the address: www.Kindred.com. The logo lights up the screen: WHERE LIKE-MINDED PEOPLE COME TO CONNECT. My account comes up and prompts me for a password. The password flies off my fingertips like electricity. Beau. Not hard to remember.
I have six messages waiting. I haven't checked in three days. I'm rather proud of this. I have been trying to hold off the urge. Save it for the days like this one. The days where I need...comfort. Where I need something to anchor me to earth so that I will not fly off the planet and shatter into a million little pieces.
I begin my ritual. It must be done before I can open the folder marked NEW MESSAGES. I read my ad.
SWF seeks interested man. Must be roughly 5' 10", nearly black hair, blue eyes. Between 180-190 lbs. Married, single, attached -- irrelevant. Must answer to Beau regardless of given name. No attachment expected. Instruction will be given. If interested contact December71@kindred.com.
It's all there as I ran it. It always is. The ritual is in the fact that I must make absolutely certain that my terms are clear. That they know, without a doubt, what I want, what I need, what I expect. It is there and I suck in a deep breath that feels like sunshine. Good. I click on the link to retrieve my new messages and read them.
The first four are useless. Men who have ignored almost completely my physical demands and/or what is spelled out so clearly. I delete them with a sigh. The fifth has potential. He's attached a picture. His real name is William. He's the right height. The right weight. His hair is a little too light, his eyes not a bright enough blue, but I don't delete him. So far, he is the closest.
I say a little prayer that I don't even realize I'm reciting until I hit the link for the last message. His name is Brian and he is the closest I have come in a very long while. Months to be exact. His hair is the same shade of dark chocolate, his eyes a sparkling blue shot with striations of green. The head shot is up close and the excellent quality of the digital photograph shows all of this clearly. I fight a rolling wave of nausea and take a steadying sip of wine. My hands are shaking and I try to steady them. I realize it is pointless and set my glass down on the table. I stare at Brian and then click RESPOND. I e-mail him my approval, a date, a time, a location and his instructions. His online indicator is glowing and within minutes I hear the melodious tinkle of a new message. I click it. He has responded:
December, I look forward to it. I'll be there.
I study the signature. A fierce buzzing excitement unfurls in my stomach and even though I know it is false I sink into it. I let it light me up from the inside, loosen my limbs, release the tension in my shoulders and my neck. A complete imposter, that signature, but one I welcome like an old lover looking for nothing more than a quick fuck. I let that one word use me up and spit me out. Then I shut down the computer.
When I go to bed, I relax into phantom arms. Let my mind fill in the blanks of what is missing and make it a reality. A brief reality. However, it is an illusion that would allow me to bridge the world of consciousness and the world of dreams. Once asleep, the arms that hold me will be much more solid. The words whispered in my ear, clearly audible. Until morning. When the alarm sounds. Then they will simply vanish back into the ether where they live.
My boot heels clack militaristically as I make my way to the hotel. The streets are full of Christmas shoppers, rabid drivers, rowdy kids. Downtown at Christmas time. Heaven and Hell. So much to see. So many spectacles. Yet, so much sadness as well. The homeless, the beggars, the hookers trying to look like everyone else while hawking their services on the corners. I step over a used hypodermic needle as I enter The Charles. One of the oldest hotels in these parts. Smack dab in the middle of crime central these days, but still managing to maintain its old fashioned, genteel facade.
The desk clerk gives me a once-over and decides I'm not a working girl trying to use the hotel for seedy sex. He graces me with his most practiced smile and gives me a, "Yes, ma'am. How can I help you?"
"I have a reservation for room 213. Just overnight. Quick business stop," I say, not sure if I am elaborating on my reservation for him or for myself.
"Ms." I correct in my best snippety bitch voice. There is no reason for me to reserve the room under a false name. I am not married. I am free to do what I please. Where I please. It occurs to me that I don't know if Brian is married or not. Then it occurs to me that I really don't care. It will only be a few hours out of his life. If he is married it's his problem. His choice. My role in his life is brief and burning hot. Like a flare that goes down to nothing but a thick streamer of smoke as it dies. He can deal with the guilt himself, if there is any.
"Right, Ms. Sorry, Ms. Dunn. Your guest has already gone up. We gave him his key card as instructed."
"Colleague," I correct the poor boy again. "And what was his name again?" I ask, just a light catch in my voice. This is the true test. Of my selection. Of my illusion. "I don't want to embarrass myself and not know. We've never met."
The young man who is really no more than a boy checks his computer. "I have that I should only allow a Beau into the room. When he arrived he said his name was Beau. No last name. He wouldn't give one. Is this correct?" he asks by rote as he has been taught.
A spectacular flood of oxygen floods my lungs as I allow myself to draw air. "That is correct," I whisper. Then I clear my throat as he eyes me warily. I cough and smile. "Yes," I say louder this time, "that's it. Beau. Thank you."
He nods and hands me my key card. As I make my way to the bank of elevators, I can feel his eyes on my back. I keep my posture straight, my walk confident. Let him think whatever the fuck he wants. He is of no concern to me now.
The door to 213 looks like all the others. I pause to admire its anonymous beauty for a moment before I know it is time to enter. When I do knock it is way too loud, way too harsh. Nerves. Fear. I feel twisted.
He opens the door and my heart slams in my chest. I breathe him in with my lungs, soak him into my pores. He is perfect. Hair exactly the right sinful shade of nearly black. Blue eyes bright and vibrant. Intense but humorous, as if he's just heard a really good joke. His build is dead on, shoulders and chest broad. Even his stance is correct and although I know it is a fluke, I revel in it.
I scan his soft denim shirt and faded button-fly jeans. Just to my specifications. Exactly as I demanded. I take in his dirty work boots and with a sigh, I let my gaze drop to his hands. A few nicks, a few scratches, a slight stain of oil or dirt under his fingernails. Enough to show even the casual observer that these are working hands. The intimate observer knows that these are talented hands.
I breathe out his name, "Beau." Half question, half joyful prayer of thanks to the Heavens.
He approaches me, stretches his arm out to me, past me and shuts the door. He takes both my hands in his and I feel the warm, sinister slide of fluid from my body. That's it. It has begun. He begins the litany so clearly spelled out to him in the e-mail.
"December, I'm so sorry. So sorry, baby. I was wrong. So very wrong. I want you, sweetheart. Love you. Not her. Never her. Just you. Always you."
And he drops to his knees, working the delicate buckles on the straps of my heels. At my feet he continues the stream of words. "Love you. Only you. Lift your foot, sweetheart."
I do. He removes the shoe, tosses it aside gently. Kisses my foot, the cleavage between my toes, through my stockings. I feel my nipples tighten, my head falls back on its own and I let it. The sound that escapes me is hopeful.
He moves to the other foot. "I don't think I can live without you. Come back to me. I'm begging." He kisses my other foot, the humid heat from between his lips slipping under the vulnerable material of my hose.
Strong hands, Beau's hands, run up my calves. He pushes his thumbs against the muscles, places his forehead against my pelvis. His breath invades me through my thin dress. "December."
For just a second I hear the slight inflection when he says my name. The inflection that is wrong. All wrong. A black shadow of realization flares up in my mind and it mocks me. It's not him. It will never be him. Leave now. Save yourself. Save your soul. It's not him...
But he says it again, "December," and he sighs it this time. It is said so that I can push that shadow away. Leave it whispering to nothing but itself. I run my hands through his hair, watch his bowed head as his hands travel higher. They slide over my thighs and my knees feel as if they won't support me anymore. His fingers push past the top of my stockings to feel the naked skin underneath and I actually sag a bit. I steady myself with a hand on my head as he kisses my pubis through my dress.
I'm not sure if I say "Beau" out loud or just in my head. But I say it with some part of me, lips or soul. That much I'm sure of.
His hands push up past the garter straps and cup my bottom. He stands, quickly lifting me up and against him in one giant movement and I gasp. He carries me to the bed, despite the fact that we are roughly the same height. We could, in fact, be brother and sister to the untrained eye. He doesn't drop me or bounce me or lower me roughly as most men would. No, he lowers me slowly, carefully, and drapes his body over mine. His lips crush against mine, warm and tasting slightly of mint. I open my mouth without preamble and suck his tongue into my recesses. Tasting the mint and the darker, male taste that is just him.
He plunges his hands into my hair, works circles on my scalp with the pads of his fingers. His lips slide down my neck, the skin pebbling in delight with the sensation. His tongue traces the contours of my collarbone and I arch up against him without thinking. Push my hips against his, feel the wonderful slide of his already hard cock along the seam of my labia. I'm wet, I know that, but when I feel the blunt erection nudge at me, I feel a fresh seep of fluid drench my panties. I am ready and yet I want to stay right here.
"Beautiful. You are. It's true. So wrong. I was so wrong." He undoes the tie of my dress and lays it wide open around me. It is a brilliant dress. A wraparound. Much like a bathrobe, once you have freed the knot, it can be little more than a memory if you choose. I had chosen. So had Beau.
I'm exposed and I shiver. Nothing separates my flesh from his but a black scrap of a bra, a tiny thong and the garter and hose. I am both anxious to see them go and a little scared. My ever-present thoughts remind me that the quicker this progresses, the quicker it will end. But he's in no hurry, that much is evident. I send up another tiny prayer of thanks. I have been given a gift and I want to enjoy it. Even the fact that his eyes have just a hint of the wrong slant does not affect me too much. A momentary blip of panic on the radar and then it is gone. He is kneeling between my spread legs and lazily undoing the clasps that keep the black thigh highs up. They make tiny sounds of protest as he releases them.
"I love these. I really do. It's almost a shame to take them off. But I will. I don't want anything there. Nothing between us."
This was not in the script, but I am far enough gone that I appreciate his ad-libbing. They are words Beau would have said, so I suck them into my body and hold them close. He pulls the hose off one at a time as if he is unwrapping a gift and enjoys the suspense. I lift my hips as he tugs the garter down over my skin. I hear them hit the carpet like feathers falling from the sky. He bends to kiss the triangle of black fabric that shields me from his lips. Again, the moisture invades the fabric like a wraith. So warm, his lips, his breath, his forehead on my belly. I begin to murmur and don't care what I am saying. They are just words. This is an act. I surrender. I willingly give myself over to the illusion as his tongue nudges up under the fabric and strokes my skin with a lick like a flame.
He tugs the thong even as he kisses along the waistband, branding my skin and making me squirm. I rise up to accommodate him and lose that meager shield, too. It joins the fray on elegant cream carpet. "Just you. I should never have left. Not for her. Just you..." he mutters, parting my now swollen lips with his tongue. He masterfully sucks my clit into his mouth and I give a little cry.
His words haunt me, though. He should not be saying them at this point. It is all wrong. Even as my body goes fluid and pushes against him seeking more from his mouth, his tongue, my mind is filling in her name. Her face. Her. The one who was chosen over me. I cringe a little and he continues the words that I have given him. My cunt is responding to his mouth, that tightening that tells me I am working my way up to an orgasm. I'm not just seeping now but gushing and the great wide pain in my chest from her face in my mind sweetens that pleasure just a little.
"Not her," he says again as he pushes his tongue into my weeping body.
"Shush, Beau, shush," I say, half crying. Clawing desperately at the wall of reality that is beginning to loom over me. Back. I need to get back into the illusion. "Shush," I say with a little more grit in my voice and I push my palm against the top of his head a little too hard. To make my point.
He never stops lapping at me or drinking me in. In fact, he plunges two fingers into my cunt and I arch up with a cry despite my frustration. But he has taken the hint and remains quiet. Playing me perfectly with beautiful long fingers. Talented hands. He strokes my engorged G-spot. No words from his lips, just appreciative sounds. Worshipful sounds. With those, I plunge headfirst into the bright colors that blossom behind my eyes. I come around his fingers, body splayed as if in agony.
I take a deep breath. Wrapped snugly back in illusion, I watch him withdraw his fingers from me and bring them to his lips and lick them clean. I grab the top button of his jeans as I watch and tug brutally. The remaining buttons give up with a soft pulling sound. I have his cock in my hand before he can react. As soon as I grab him, stroke him, his eyes grow hooded and dark and he looms up over me almost maliciously. I open my legs, guide him into my body and take his first thrust with a small grunt of pleasure. He rocks into me greedily and the slide of my silk dress still under me is a gentle caress.
It all melts away. The pain. The frustration. The loss. Grief. Anger. Sadness. I feel it falling away from me like old bark off of a beautiful tree. I move up to take him deeper and in my mind I see this memory played out hundreds of times. Hundreds of moments stolen and claimed with him. Beautiful memories, so fragile yet hearty. Tempered glass. White gold. Seemingly soft or breakable, but indestructible.
His breath grows louder in my ear, hot on my neck. I wrap my legs around his waist, tilt my hips higher in an attempt to pull his cock further into my body. As far as it will go. He clutches my ass, hands hot and wide. Strong. He pulls me up to meet him until I cannot tell who is in charge. Who is taking who. I don't care.
I gather around him. My muscles bunching, clinging, pulling at him as my body coils under impending orgasm. He pulls the innocent bra cups down and latches onto one nipple. He paints his tongue around the tip until I feel like screaming. And I do. But just a little. He moves to the other. A nip, a bite, enough to pull me tighter and I feel as if I might simply burst apart.
I clutch at him, thrash at him, bite his neck and hiss his name, though in my soul, I know it isn't his name. I bite him again and hear him roar. A primitive sound as he empties into me and it allows me to give in. I come with a sob. Spent and exhausted. Pleasured and tortured.
"Over here," I say to him and drop my dress to the floor. I pull back the covers and I pull him around me. Wrap him around me. Place him just so and make sure the tableau is correct. The sheets are draped just the right way and I am lying as I remember lying so long ago. "Now sleep," I say as if he can on command. But he does. He drifts off rather quickly. I lie awake for a long time and remember. I try to recapture that last night. And when I drift off, the arms around me are very real and very warm. They are also imposters much like his signature. At that point, I do not care.
When dawn comes he gets up quietly. His courtesy is almost funny. He was told to leave at dawn and he is. He gathers his clothes and I listen. I keep my eyes closed, pretending to sleep. I hear him get dressed and then he surprises me by dropping a reverent kiss on my forehead. I almost open my eyes but don't. I don't want to see the look on his face. I don't know what it will be. I am afraid it will be disgust, or worse, pity.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be him for you," he says and my throat seizes up. I stay still. The door clicks softly as he leaves.
I wrap the sheets around me tightly. A cotton cocoon that I will stay in until checkout time. As always, the tears begin. They burn a hot penitent trail down my cheeks and puddle under my face on the pillow. I begin my prayers. Secrets that I keep from myself and whatever is running the universe. They spill out of me like poison. I say I'm sorry. I have done it again. I ask for forgiveness. A fallen angel trying to reunite with her god.
Until the next Beau shows up in my account.