His name was Fraus, which sounded German. He was dreamy and handsome; he was different. He carried an air of the genteel — a lost prince — yet his first kiss had shown her a robust and very fervid passion. The kiss had taken her, and that’s what Becky wanted. To be taken.
At the Map room they’d talked about poetry, which he seemed to know a lot about. His favorites were Shelley, Jarrell, and Seymour. But Becky didn’t dare tell him that she was a poet — he might ask to see her work. He had rather short black hair, slightly mussed, which added to the image of the lost prince. His body must be magnificent beneath the tailored Italian suit. And he must have money — which always helped. The suit looked expensive, and he’d thought nothing of ordering a bottle of Perrier-Jouet for $145. “Like sipping rainbows,” he’d said. Strange, though, that he’d consumed none himself.
Her attraction to this man had put a caul around them, closing out the Map Room’s din. Fraus gestured his words with periodic touches. He told her with his hands what he wanted, and Becky liked that too. His hands transcended words — they told her he needed to touch.
Of course he’d agreed to the “nightcap” at her place. Becky maintained her front, letting him in, locking the door, getting the drinks. She chatted about her job as he surveyed her abode. But that was where the game ended.
They broke at the same time, sensing each other. His kiss was first delicate, then explosive. His big hand gripped the back of her head, and his mouth devoured hers. A great finesse enabled him to continue kissing her as he stripped her right there in the living room, shedding his own garments alternately.
All he left on were her stockings.
The brashness of his desire excited her. When the door closes, the masks come off. The closed door left them to be what they really were: night creatures pursuing their own lusts. What was wrong with that? This was the new century, the age of assertions, and she could tell, stripped bare by a perfect stranger, that her little lost prince was a very assertive man. She was already thinking of the poem she would write: “The Lost Prince.”
His flesh felt hot and firm. He was as beautiful as she’d expected. His tongue invaded her mouth, pursued her lips and teeth. She liked it when he placed her hand on his testicles, which felt large as eggs. She rubbed them gently, held them as coveted prizes as his mouth sucked her tongue. She felt steamy, light. Her horniness began to trample her — she felt drenched in herself.
They kissed and touched and fondled their way to the bedroom. His penis throbbed between their pressed bellies; his large hand parted her buttocks and squeezed. A finger slipped into her sex from behind, and that was about all she could take. His attentions focused her awareness of herself to a pinpoint, which filled her head with dirty pictures. Do anything you want to me, she thought.
He lay her down on the bed. She fought not to fidget; she needed this beautiful human thing on her right now, and in her. But he just stood there. Looking at her.
“Turn off the lights,” she whispered.
“No, please.” His gaze traipsed down. His erect penis throbbed as if counting off seconds. “You’re beautiful. I want to see you.”
Why was he so hesitant? Was he worried about protection? Becky ordinarily insisted upon it — she even had a box of condoms in her nightstand for the inconsiderate assholes who didn’t bring their own. But in a moment she saw she was wrong…
It wasn’t hesitation at all. Somehow, she sensed that very openly. He wasn’t hesitating, he was pondering. He was pondering her.
He leaned over and stripped her stockings off.
Now her desire imbued every nerve. Suddenly Becky wasn’t concerned about anything, not protection or morality, what he was like or what he thought of her, not her job, her friends, her future. She felt drugged with her own lust, and the need which itched at the passage between her legs.
He stood before her in the light, a stocking in each hand.
“May I tie you?” he asked.
She extended her arms, crucifixion on the bed.
“Yes, you may,” she said.
Chapter 13
The darkness damped the room to perfect silence. Her lover, unknown as yet, slid beside her into bed.
Veronica gasped, in passion.
His hand gently molded the contours of her breasts, then slid to her sex. It touched her with such precision she thought she might come at once; the hand seemed to know her. A blurred face lowered, lips touched her lips and kissed. The room’s dark hid her lover’s face like a veil.
What’s…happening? she thought lamely. A tightness spired at her loins like an overtorqued spring. The hand continued to play with the tender groove of her sex, investigating.
Who was this man in her bed? Veronica moaned, short of breath. Marzen, she concluded. Or Gilles. She pulled the naked figure atop her, felt a warm, hardened penis slide across her belly. Her nipples swelled up so much they ached; she felt the veins beat in her breasts. She sensed an earthy purgation, the preliminary release of feelings that demanded to be loosed. “Who are you?” She panted, adjusting herself. She felt frenzied, desperate to be penetrated.
“Darling,” whispered the voice.
Now Veronica gasped, in shock. A cloud passed, letting moonlight fall into the room. She knew the voice, she knew it was all wrong, all impossible. The moonlight now revealed his face.
Jack’s.
Impossible.
Yet it was him. She looked up and saw beyond doubt the face of the man she used to love. His long hair hung down in strings. The clean sweat of passion made his flesh shine, and his big forlorn eyes gazed directly back into hers.
It was. It was Jack.
“Oh, Veronica…”
She felt locked in heat and incomprehension. Jack reached down, put the end of his penis into her vulva.
“Jack, I—”
“I still love you,” he cut off.
He eased into her and slowly began to thrust. The feel of the entry, and its immediacy, robbed her voice. It robbed her sensibilities too. At once she didn’t care that this could not be explained. She was with Jack now, and he was making love to her. That’s all she needed to know.
His thrusts gained rhythm. She looked down and saw his penis appearing and disappearing into her flesh below the tuft of fur. Her impending orgasm seemed to chase her, cutting distance.
“Do you remember?” he asked. The strings of his long hair dangled. He seemed sad.
“What, Jack?”
“Do you remember when we were together, what it was like?”
Her voice shredded the word. “Yes.”
“Do you remember the plans we made?”
Veronica couldn’t speak now; her throat felt shivered shut. It was true. They’d made lots of plans — all ashes now. Suddenly tears welled and blurred with memory like blood in water.
He leaned down, still slowly stroking. He licked the tears out of her eyes. “What happened? Why did it all fall apart?”
The question crushed her. She could never answer it.
“We could have it all back again,” he whispered like a plea. “We could start over. It would be better this time, I promise.”
What could she say, even if she could not speak?
His head drooped between his shoulders. The deep sadness darkened his words. “We were meant to be together.”
The same sadness beat into her with his thrusts.
“Sweetheart,” he began to whimper. Soon his thrusts raced. Their loins slapped. He collapsed onto her as he came, shivering. She could feel the repeated, hot spurts.