Best of Best Women's Erotica (15 page)

They must have had sex since Monterey—that's four months ago—but she can't remember it. Mostly now they do it late
at night, right before sleep, but it's not on a schedule like practically everything else. Neither is it very predictable, tied to watching the Playboy Channel or
Real Sex
on HBO; lately they don't watch those shows much anyway. If you asked Katherine, she'd probably say she doesn't really notice, nor does she notice being turned on, wanting sex, thinking about it very often. There was a time when she lived in almost constant arousal, but that was years ago. She and Mike had just met; she was so much younger then. She's always too busy now, tired all the time, except when they get away for a few days. And they haven't had time to leave town since that weekend in Monterey. Katherine's a lawyer; Mike's software company will go public early next year. And if you asked Katherine whether her friends have more sex than she and Mike, she'd probably tell you not much—everybody's so busy now. Everyone has to concentrate on reaching for the brass ring. How else could you afford a house with a garden, two cars, the basics?

Katherine masturbates sometimes after Mike has fallen asleep. Lines of code lull him into light snoring, while Katherine's legal cases keep her awake. She goes over arguments, making mental checklists of every point she'll have to hit when she's in court the next day. She considers this productive time, until she has it organized in her mind—then the arguments begin to repeat themselves and she's so wound up over them she can't nod off. When she gets to this point, she pulls her vibrator out of the nightstand. It's one of those quiet vibrators, barely audible—even though Mike sleeps right next to her, once his breath has evened and slowed she won't wake him.

If you asked her, Katherine would admit that this proximity feels erotic: a little illicit but comfortable too, like the comfort of being with him while they weed or watch glowing aquarium
fish in companionable silence. She sometimes slows down her breath to match the rhythm of his, a lingering synchronicity within which they are alive, alone, together—it doesn't matter that he's not conscious of her; it calms her down. Her climax, when it comes, drifts up on her gradually, and its power always surprises her.

Sometimes she gently places herself against him: pressing against his back when he's turned away from her, or reaching out with just her toes to make contact with his soft-furred calf. It's funny that she doesn't necessarily think of making love with him during these times, but in a way she
is
making love with him. If you asked her, Katherine would say that Mike knows she's doing it, knows it in his sleep. (When she first developed this habit she used to ask him if he had dreamed about anything in particular, but he could never call up sexual dreams. Or if he knew, he never said so.) Katherine respects Mike's sleep too much to thrash or buck, and really this is more about her own tension than about passion. And a tension-tamer orgasm can be quiet, an implosion that rocks her to sleep without rocking her world.

She wakes up refreshed the next morning and goes to court.

 

Mike has his own private time a couple of days a week, after Katherine leaves for the courthouse. He works a flex schedule, a perk of having stayed at his job for over five years, and two days a week he works at home. He's just as efficient at the home office as at the one downtown, even though this one overlooks his and Katherine's garden. In fact, he's
more
efficient at home, getting at least as much work done in less time. He takes one if not two breaks to jack off, the first in the still-rumpled bedclothes right after Katherine leaves (she accepts without question that Mike will make the bed on the days he stays home).

The first one is his favorite, especially because the bed still
smells faintly of Katherine; he buries his nose in the pillow and lets the scent keep him company as he strokes himself hard. It's his way of keeping her comfortably close, even though she's already halfway to work by the time he begins. He takes plenty of time, a slow hand-over-hand on his cock while his mind wanders; he's in no hurry. His eyes closed, usually, he drifts through a lifetime's worth of mental images until he finds the one that sends a jolt of heat through his cock, maybe makes it jump a little in his hand. That's the one he'll use, embellishing it into a fully fleshed-out fantasy. If you asked him, he'd say he doesn't feel that he guides the fantasy. He feels like he's along for the ride, almost like the folio of erotic images riffling inside his brain has a life of its own, each separate image, in fact, a separate reality that he's simply stumbled into the way Captain Kirk is thrust into a new dimension if his crew doesn't set the transporter controls just right.

For half an hour twice a week Mike drifts in and out of dreams that take him to all sorts of places, sometimes even out of himself. When his orgasm comes it almost always swells up like music at the climax of a movie, the place in the plot where you're supposed to just give yourself over to the story, cry if it tells you to, or clench your fists in fear. When he's done he almost always writes code for two or three solid hours before even thinking of making himself some lunch. When the weather permits he takes his sandwich out into the garden.

He doesn't always take a masturbation break in the afternoon. Sometimes he's on a roll and wants nothing more than to work—Katherine comes home at six or seven and finds him still at it, though on those days he falls asleep really early. But once every week or two he gives himself an hour or two to surf the Net.

He has his favorite sites bookmarked. On the Net he always travels with a tour guide, the sensibility of all his favorite webmasters leading him into cul-de-sacs of sexual possibility he hadn't even known existed. Katherine uses the Net for email and shopping at
Amazon.com
—for her it's just a handy extension of the local mall—but Mike goes to the bad neighborhoods and stays there as long as he can.

He thinks about going in and never coming out. Only his work ethic stops him from spending all day in this perpetual peepshow. If he overindulges, he knows, he could get his telecommuting privileges yanked, so he doles out his Web visits, perks he allows himself when he's done a good afternoon's work.

In Mike's mind there's no infidelity in exploring chatrooms and cybersex sites as long as he stops before Katherine gets home, as long as she's busy doing something else. He's never told her about it but he doesn't think she'd mind, as long as he gets his work done and their marriage doesn't suffer. For all he knows, she has her own favorite bookmarks on her computer at the office. He wouldn't mind that; it's just play, nothing real. Virtual.

 

It isn't often that Katherine comes home early. Once in a while she can get out at midafternoon on Friday, usually because she and Mike have decided to go up to the wine country or to a spa weekend. In the eighteen months Mike's been working at home, she's never arrived home before 5:30.

He makes sure he's zipped up by then, either back at work on his code or in the kitchen starting dinner. They often cook together, and sometimes Mike has dinner waiting when she has to work late. She pages him and dials
7:30
—he knows that's when to expect her. He doesn't even call back unless he needs
to ask her to swing by the store for bread or a bottle of wine. They shop on Saturdays, though, so usually everything he needs is waiting in the kitchen. Mike likes to cook. So does she, though she rarely makes dinner by herself.

Today, though, the judge continues Katherine's case because a prosecution witness didn't show up. She's out of the courtroom at noon. She usually eats with the rest of her team on court days, so they go around the corner to the little Italian place. It's so close to the courthouse that Katherine almost always recognizes most of the diners—judges, other attorneys, people from the jury pool.

She's working with Marla today, the newest member of the practice. Marla's just-married, still trying to balance an intense work life with being in love. She's never late, but Katherine has seen her come to work breathy and flushed—if you asked her, Katherine would say she remembers those newlywed days when once in the morning and once at night wasn't enough, when she and Mike would sometimes skip dinner because they were on each other the minute they got home, when once Mike even got them a motel room at noon.

Marla fishes around in her purse and shows off the set of cufflinks she's gotten Bill for Valentine's Day. They're porcelain ovals with tiny pictures painted on them: one has a bottle of champagne, one a cancan girl with her ruffled skirts thrown high. “Wine, women, and song!” says Marla gaily. “And I got him a really good bottle of French champagne, and I'm taking him to see
Cabaret.
Katherine, what are you doing with Mike?”

Katherine hasn't planned anything special with Mike because she's forgotten that today is Valentine's Day. Jesus, wasn't it just Christmas?

“Ummm, just a really nice dinner and some private time.”
This is the best Katherine can come up with without notice, but it satisfies Marla, who has very few brain cells to spare for thinking about Katherine and Mike. She's probably too busy imagining the way she'll tug Bill into an alley when they leave the theater, and give him a sneaky hand job right there in public, Katherine thinks, only a little sniffy about Marla's single-minded focus. You're only young once.

Still, with the afternoon suddenly free, Katherine decides to give Mike a Valentine's Day surprise. He's probably forgotten it too—he's been just as busy as she has—but thank goodness it's a holiday that lends itself to last-minute planning. Katherine detours by Real Foods on the way home, picks up a good wine, some big prawns for scampi, a couple of cuts of filet mignon. On the way to the register she passes the bakery and adds a little chocolate cake to her basket.
Strawberries too,
she thinks,
if they're any good yet.
The store has a heap of huge ruby berries that look like they were grown in the Garden of Eden. And right next to the flowers stands a card display. She picks one that looks like a handmade Martha Stewart crafts project, a slightly-out-of-focus heart against a sapphire-blue background, blank so she can customize its message. She stops at the coffee shop downstairs for a latte and writes
Dearest Michael, you are the heart in my garden. All my love, Kath.

She thinks about using the pager—
3:30
—but decides against it, decides instead to slip in and surprise him. If she can get into the kitchen via the back door, she might be able to start dinner quietly without interrupting his work. She parks the Mercedes a couple of houses down from theirs.

Her grandparents' house and garden were in Idaho: at this time of year the garden would be cut back and mulched, maybe even buried under a drift of snow. Katherine loves living in
California because even in February the garden blooms with life. The roses are finally gone but the pink ladies, tulips, and irises are starting; in the corner calla lilies burst whitely out of a clutch of huge green leaves. When she picks them she always includes one of those big leaves in the vase; otherwise the sculptural, curved callas almost don't look like flowers.

Passing the window of the room in which Mike works, she glimpses him, so riveted to the screen that he doesn't see her.
Must be on a roll,
she thinks, but then she sees that he is moving in a way that she wouldn't expect to see from a man writing code. Though his body is partly obscured behind the desk and monitor, it almost looks as if he is masturbating.

Katherine noiselessly lets herself into the house and heaps her shopping bags onto the kitchen work island. She lays the store-bought roses carefully on top, drops her purse and briefcase beside them, slips off her shoes. She makes it to the door of Mike's office without being heard.

He's on a roll, all right: onscreen Katherine sees not lines of code but a tiny movie looping repeatedly, a naked man in a blindfold lying on his back, a woman in a shiny black catsuit—it looks like it's made of rubber—crouching over him. The suit encases her body completely, except for her crotch, which is naked, shaved bare, and she engulfs the man's hard, upstanding cock over and over with the shockingly exposed pussy—at least, Katherine finds it shocking, but not in a bad way, more like a shock to the system, cold water in the face, waking her up to feelings she barely remembers.

Clearly, Mike has not forgotten anything. His hand pumps his cock rhythmically, eyes riveted on the miniature tableau as the catsuited woman thrusts down and down and down. He times his hand strokes to the woman's down thrusts, just as
Katherine herself times her late-night strokes to Mike's slow and even breaths.

If you asked her why she isn't upset, discovering him like this, she might tell you it's like her own late-night forays, only so much hotter: she's never seen Mike jack off in the daylight; she hasn't seen his cock this hard in years; she's erotically attuned to his deep breaths from all those nights lying next to him, vibrator or no vibrator; she's fascinated by the tiny couple on the screen, smaller than Barbie and Ken; and the fact that Mike finds them so compelling makes her pussy wet. That her pussy is wet in the middle of the afternoon is such a welcome surprise that all she can do for a minute is touch herself through her fine cotton stockings, the black fabric clinging to her almost as tightly as the tiny woman's shiny catsuit. Katherine's mind spins, looking for a way to incorporate this unexpected scene into her surprise Valentine's Day celebration. Silently she begins to unbutton her gray rayon suit.

Mike's erotic reverie has advanced him so close to orgasm that when he feels a hand stroke his thigh and replace his own hand on his cock, it could easily be a part of the virtual connection he's having with the woman onscreen. For a second he doesn't even look to see who is holding him. Then he recognizes Katherine's hand, a touch he knows almost as well as his own, and sure enough, when he glances away from the screen, she is crouched beside him. She wears nothing but her black bra, which snugly cups her breasts, and her black tights.