Rendezvous With a Stranger (5 page)

      
He’s breathing harder.
 
Robby’s hot.
 
I can almost feel his erection pulse before me, smell the aroma and taste the salty brine of male stuff on the skin.

      
“Unnnnn, ahhhhh,” the guttural cry emerges, fueled from that somewhere between his legs where he’s shot his sticky cum all over his thighs and hand … and there’s no one to lick it clean.

      
“Say you love me, Robby.”

      
“Oh, I do,” he pants, breathless.

      
“And she’s there, isn’t she?”

      
“In bed.”

      
“My bed.”

      
“Oh, Lynnie.”

      
“It’s okay, Robby, I’m having my fun on the side too.”

      
“You are?”

      
“And right now I’m going to sleep.
 
Sweet dreams.”

      
I hang the phone in the cradle and turn in my mind to the picture of the stranger reaching out to me and taking me away again.
 
I cum, panting as hard as Robby was panting, with as much force and even more desire.
 
I hope this will let me sleep.
 
Papers, or no papers to grade, I go to bed.

      
Just as the lights go out in the room and I’m feasting in the darkness and the hint of my dreams, the phone rings.
 
Ah, I moan to myself, Robby’s going to spoil it.
 
I’m sure he’s wide-awake enough to remember what I said.

      
“Hello,” I answer.

      
“Ellen,” the stranger’s voice is plainly unmistakable.

      
Instantly, I’m wide-awake.
 
Shuddering nervously, I sit up in bed.
 
I’m looking toward the window, sure he’s staring into the bedroom and my nakedness from somewhere outside.

      
“You have my number?”

      
“And more than that.
 
I’ve been watching you, Ellen Laurey.
 
I think it’s time we met again.”

      
“Where?” I’m not sure whether to be anxious or relieved.

      
“I’ll let you know.”

      
“And that’s all?”
 
I’m desperate for more.
 

      
“Sweet dreams,” he says.
 
The phone clicks in my ear as surely as it must have clicked rudely in Robby’s a half hour ago.
 
Instant karma …

      
For two weeks I wait.
 
Assuming that the stranger’s midnight call is a ploy to unsettle me, I attempt to live my life calmly until he resurfaces again.
 
But I’m looking constantly—around every corner, down each street I walk, in all the shady haunts where a madman could hide until he pounces on his unsuspecting prey—waiting to find him ready to abscond with me into his world.
 

      
I give little thought to Robby, even though we fuck like sex-hungry adolescents when we’re together.
 
Unlike the weekend filled with love, the next with him is more subdued, silently rendered—poised and polite, almost sunny by day.
 
But we say little when we’re in bed.
 
I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk about Chelsea and the revelation I made over the phone.
 
He held his breath all weekend wondering if I’d mention the tart he screws during the week and allows access to my house.
 
I’m happy to let him linger in his fear, while I gratefully use his body in the dark, thinking about the stranger while my husband’s dick rents my pussy.
 
His lips are still good down below.
 
Not even his fear takes away his lust and his ability to comb my small insides with his tongue.
 
His hands under my ass grasp raw flesh he’s gently warmed with spanks from his firm hand. My snatch is like fresh fruit to his taste, like a juicy apricot that spurts as he moves on delicate skin.
 
He’s not lost his genius for sucking my clitoris, or taking it in his teeth and shaking his head like a dog would shake a bone.
 
All the while he has me with my groin clutched to his face I forget Chelsea, content to give him more memories of me in this bed than he has of her.
 
But I’m not forgetting my longhaired stranger.
 
Eyes open, eyes closed, it’s all the same.
 
He’s in my head, sometimes so close I think he’s sitting beside the bed coolly watching Robby and I with a keen eye.
 
When I lurch with an orgasmic spasm, going frenzied on Robby’s tongue, it’s only that face of strength and wisdom in my mind’s eye.
 
Without realizing what I’m doing I’m holding on to the headboard of the bed with arms above me, hands fused to the cold iron—as though he has me bound.
 
Not Robby, no, but the nameless man in my fantasies.
 

      
A wordless weekend gives way to a dreary Monday morning’s ride back to the city.
 
Rain has replaced the sunshine, the dew and the brisk scent of morning.
 
The bright leaves of autumn begin to loom bedraggled and gloomy, too tired to remain hanging on tired limbs.
 
The days of the season are dwindling away and I’m thinking I’ll never see my stranger again.
 
I wonder how a man’s passion can stand such long gaps in pleasure.
 
But then, of course, I’m assuming that I’m his only lover.
 
I might be one in a serial string of women duped by his unique power to attract them.
 
How many more has he taken into back alleys and screwed?

      
Classes go well, all this so easy for me, getting inside the minds of my students. If I could only do as well with men—certain men, the ones I love and the others that consume me with lust.

      
Walking home from campus at the end of the day, there’s a prickly feeling crawling up my back.
 
For an instant I think two eyes are boring into me.
 
I instantly assume it’s
those
eyes.
 
I turn about to smile at him, but there’s no one but a sullen kid of fifteen with black spiked hair and a black goatee.
 
Am I going crazy?

      
Passing by Fellini’s deli, I remember him taking me out the back door into the alley, the last time we were together.
 
Just before I cross the street to Isaac’s building, I think I spot him inside the entrance, but he disappears like a phantom on a dark night.
 
Chilled by the thought of him, I hold off crossing the street, thinking he’ll be inside, hiding behind the door.
 
And then, because I’m feeling so silly, I finally bolt across the street and push my way inside the building.
 
There’s a full elevator when I enter, unusual for this small apartment house, but it appears that one of the neighbors is having a party.
 
These five are already drinking beer.
 
I smile wishing I could join them.
 
When the crowd exits at the third floor, I think I’m alone, then suddenly, I’m face to face with a man who’s seemed to have materialized out of nowhere.
 
My stranger.

      
“Ellen Laurey,” he smiles as he stops the elevator between the third and fourth floor.
 

      
I pin myself to the back of the stalled metal box, and stare blankly.
 
While I remain passive on the outside, there’s a wild party going on inside me as the sweep of his energy grabs hold of me in many dear places.
 

      
“Open your blouse,” he instructs, with a voice that’s almost kind.

      
I have a hard time with the command, feeling the gnawing agitation of tingling thighs and a belly about to spasm.
 
He waits and I pause longer.
 
But the stranger’s being patient.
 
I finally move, taking each button of my shirt and letting it slip through the small hole.
 
He sees a lacy bra underneath, cupping each full breast in black.

      
“And the bra,” he adds.

      
“Do you want me naked?” I ask.

      
“No,” he shakes his head.
 
“Just do as I say.”
 

      
The more he speaks, the less uneasy I become. Compliance is easier. The bra with a front clasp opens without much effort and the twin spheres swing free. Their pinkish/yellow surface glimmers in the glow of the small lights overhead and I can smell the morning aroma of my perfume as though it has been waiting for the right moment to emerge from hiding. I follow the gaze from the stranger’s face to two nipples that clench tightly from the remaining trace of cool air in this closed compartment.

      
“Kiss them,” he says staring.
 
I see a sheen of sweat begin to glow on my skin.
 
Lifting each breast to my mouth, my kiss is as tender as I imagine his would be.
 
Furtively watching his expression, I move from one breast to the next and back and forth as if I’m making love to my body.
 
He must see my lust, but his face remains unchanged.
 
I see only the power that resides in him, some infinite expanse of reserve behind the vibrancy that pulses at his essence.
 

      
“Are you wearing panties?” he asks.

      
I shake my head no; just stockings and garters and a wet thatch of hair at the middle.
 

      
“Good.
 
Lift your skirt and masturbate.”

      
I twitter nervously.
 
My hand trembles.
 
But as the skirt crawls up my thigh, I have my hand where it’s hot so quickly, I should blush at my anxiousness.
 
I think he’s forecast the truth about me and is merely pointing out his knowledge so I’ll understand how easy I am to figure.
 

      
He watches me play, and I’m instantly within myself, going straight to the finish line—the climax just simple strokes away.
 
If he stops me before that, I’ll regret it, but I will stop.
 
There’s no other choice in the matter since he’s in charge.
 
Until he does halt my play, however, I’m getting myself off right here.

      
The toying is desperate, the flushed veins of my pubis are full, at floodstage.
 
I can’t get enough of my fingers and this man’s eyes.
 
The connection between them is obvious, so uncanny I think he’s doing magic tricks with my pussy.
 
The blood-filled clit is ripping at me, so I rub it hard, right at the edge beside the swelling sensitive end.
 
The hurt’s crazy with even the simplest touch.
 
My hips jerk like a whore enticing a john on the street.
 
They play for the stranger’s eyes and they play for me, luring me on.

      
I close my eyes because I can’t stand to look at his anymore, there’s enough sensation in me for a dozen orgasms.
 
More is torture.
 

      
Maddening, seizing, spiking jolts bolt sharply. Feeling as if I’ve been shocked, the climax breaks free, though I struggle from one wondrous burst of fire to the next, knowing that as intense as this is I’m still holding back some of the raw fire. I finally fall back in a thoughtless bliss, drifting to wherever my mind goes to repair.

      
Shattering my peace, the elevator jerks back to life.
 
Going down, not up, I’m quick to realize that we’ll be in the lobby in seconds.
 
Letting my skirt drop back around my hips, I quickly put on my blouse and then run my fingers through my tangled hair.

      
“You obviously don’t have enough sex in your life, Ellen Laurey,” the stranger whispers in my ear as the elevator doors open.

      
With that comment he leaves me gasping for a fresh breath of air as the stifling box reappears at the main floor.
 
I’m joined by two men waiting for a ride to the top of the building.
 
They look at me oddly.
 
With them so close, I can’t collapse properly until I’m back in Isaac’s safe nest.
 
Stepping from the elevator, I only realize when I exit that I’m still holding my bra in my hand.
 
I smile to myself amused by the embarrassing oversight.

      
All I think of all night is the scent of the elevator as I walked out, the body heat and the musk of a woman lingering in the air. The last whiff is one memory that won’t leave me until my hand can play at my crotch again and bring another orgasm to life, fueled by the stranger’s fire.
 
I sleep well.

g

      
The stranger’s at the bus stop the next day when I plan to take a trip downtown.
 
I’m surprised to see him again so soon.
 
As I get on at 16
^th
Street, he silently follows me inside as though he doesn’t know me.
 
Sitting behind me, I feel his eyes at my back until we’re nearly at my stop.
 
Then he leans over my shoulder and whispers, “I’ll buy you lunch.”

      
With the day as wet as the ones before, we have to move fast to get out of the rain that starts just as we exit to the street.
 
While we hurry, he takes my arm and I’m led up a side street to the old haufbrau.
 
At least I’ll be able to breathe in this familiar tavern.
 

      
He orders for me and I sip the beer that lands beside my hands. I’d be drinking wine if it were my choice, but it’s not.

      
“How many times did you get off last night?” he asks once the waitress leaves.
 

      
“Twice.”

      
“That’s all?”

      
“I fell asleep during the third and I almost came again in the middle of the night, but I was exhausted.”

      
He accepts my statements matter-of-factly and moves on.

      
“I’ll have to bind you soon,” he says.
 
“It appears your desire for that exceeds all others.”

      
I’m shocked.
 
“How would you know that?” I ask.

      
“Does it matter?”

      
“Maybe?”

      
“Doesn’t being bound arouse you, or have I been misinformed?” He sounds as if he has spies infiltrating my life.
 
Regardless of the source of his information, he burrows inside me, raising that storehouse of sexual need he plundered the day before.
 
I see no end to his discoveries of my precious secrets.
 

      
“I have no clue what I need,” I answer honestly.
 
“You’ve already done things to me that I never believed I’d submit to.”

      
“The pleasure doesn’t suit you?” he asks.

      
“I haven’t said I wasn’t pleasured,” I reply.

      
“Then, I’ll do my best to shock you,” he says.