Tide's Ebb (4 page)

Is something wrong? Oh, God, I’m dying!
She felt dizzy. The braying of the donkeys, the taste of disappointment... Marianna’s life as she knew it was over. She sat down on a park bench and wept.

Screech did, in fact, live downtown. Marianna had been to his apartment before—a small one-bedroom blocks away from the accounting firm where Screech worked as the IT guy.  The doorman still recognized her. Impressive, since it had been ages since Marianna had come here. Even in her current state of dishevelment, Marianna’s beauty was clearly unforgettable.

Screech answered the door in a velvet smoking jacket. His neck was thin, and his clavicles jutted out of the top of the jacket.

“Screech, I’ve had such a bad day…”

He embraced her.

“What has Bradley done to you?”

What was she supposed to say? How could she properly convey the gruesome images in her head? Her body convulsed with a sob, and she drew him near. His wiry frame did not—and could never—give her the same comfort as being surrounded by the arms of a more virile man. But his muscles were lean and tight, and she could feel the energy in his slightly quivering body. It was like being next to a gerbil with a fast heartbeat, somehow warm and comforting.

“Come into the bedroom.”

It was a small, somewhat spare room. The walls were white, but adorned with two framed prints of Monet’s water lilies. It was hot. Screech always kept his apartment practically sweltering. The bed dominated the room—it was a king-sized bed, in a room where a twin would have been adequate. It was covered by some sort of fake bear skin comforter, which exuded Pier 1 elegance.

“Lie down,” Screech commanded her. For a small, beta male, he could be surprisingly vibrant when he was close to what he wanted.  Marianna felt herself getting flushed. She luxuriated in the soft texture of the faux fur comforter.  She closed her eyes. She knew it was better not to look—that it was better just to feel what she was about to feel.

She felt Screech’s hands on her thighs underneath her pencil skirt. Screech somehow was inching the hem upwards. It was skin-tight around the middle of her thighs. Screech hooked his thumbs under it, lifted Marianna’s legs off of the bed and pushed the skirt all the way to her waist.  Somehow, after everything, she could relax. She felt the moist gazebo between her thighs respond to Screech’s touch. Screech stopped for a moment to caress Marianna’s undergarments before he pulled them down, revealing the naked flower of her femininity before his gaze.  

He pulled back, and she felt her hips tilt towards him. Straddling her, Screech leaned down and kissed her belly softly. Marianna started to hold her breath. Screech moved slowly downward, flicking his tongue lightly against her hip bones and gliding towards her inner thighs. When, at last, he kissed her most sensitive part, Marianna exhaled.

Screech was consistent in all things. His tongue was pleasingly textured—rough, but perfectly controlled, perfectly rhythmic. He performed his task with gusto, each mouthful bringing her closer to the edge of pure ecstasy. Marianna felt pressure build within her. She thrust her hips forward, harder into Screech’s lips.  

“Ooooh… Screeeech!”

She quickly reached her peak, a sudden release of all tension, followed by the long rolling waves of a high tide of pleasure. Screech smiled at another job well done. Marianna’s body was pulsating for several minutes afterward, loose and languid, all of the tension of the day melting away.

And then the best feeling of all, given the circumstances: nothing...

Marianna didn’t go to work the next day. She stayed snuggled under the fake bear skin comforter until noon. Then she dragged herself up. She looked out Screech’s window to the city below, staring vacantly, like a self-indulgent heroine from a vampire romance novel.  

How can I live with this shame? I can’t tell anyone.

She went back to bed. When she woke up again, it was dark. There was a bowl of chicken soup next to the bed—it was cold to the touch, but it warmed Marianna to know that Screech had thought of her.

Her phone rang suddenly. Marianna’s ring tone was an adaptation of “Party in the USA” played on a glockenspiel. It was meant to be both festive and soothing. But it was also loud and startled Marianna.

Who’s calling now?

“Hello?”

The voice on the other line was gruff, yet still high-pitched: “Marianna, do you know that, last night, a brief went out to the Southern District of New York with quotation marks that weren’t curly?”

“Sam! Oh my God!” Marianna’s throat tightened—U Penn Jason had probably fucked things up again.  “I can’t apologize enough. I’ll be right in.”

“What is wrong with you? You get paid $200,000 a year. You need to get the curly quotation marks right. You
know
what the judge will do to us when he sees those straight quotation marks. And whatever the judge does to
us
, I will do to
you
. That is all.” The phone clicked, and the call was done.  

Marianna glanced at her Blackberry—she had slept for
two days
! She tensed up in the big comfy bed. She had to get to work. She threw on her two-day old clothes and rushed off to catch a train to midtown. Upon arriving at the office, she wasted no time on pleasantries or being admired by Tye, the mail boy. Instead, she attacked her briefs, fixing Harvard commas, finding straight quotation marks and generally doing the hard, substantive work that constitutes the practice of law in a prestigious international law firm.

This pattern repeated itself the next day. Nothing escaped her attention at work. Afterwards she came back to Screech’s, and he had food waiting for her. And then she was his dinner—a task that he approached with a gourmand’s delight, as if her femininity had three stars from Michelin. Which, Marianna thought, it probably would, if Michelin rated vaginas.

The next few days were indistinguishable.
This
was comfortable—at least when she didn’t think too much. There was a rythym and logic to being devoured by work during the day and being devoured by Screech at night. And some part of Marianna looked forward each night to Screech’s lusty ministrations.

After about a week, boxes of her clothes arrived at Screech’s. She didn’t know how Bradley knew where to send them, but it was an unpleasant reminder. It
made
her relive that fateful day. Even Marianna’s Louboutins felt dirty, knowing that Bradley had touched them.

In the midst of all this, she also remembered Bradley’s arms—so broad and larger than Screech’s thin torso. Bradley’s arms around her shoulders felt better than Screech’s hands pulling on her thighs. After everything, how could that be? It was too much to think about.

And indeed, whenever Marianna thought about Bradley, the breath again escaped her lungs.

“You want to go to dinner next Saturday?”

It had been nearly three months since the incident, and Marianna had stayed with Screech every night. But although he pleasured her as much as any woman could be pleasured, they had never gone on anything resembling a date. Which was fine with Marianna.

So she surprised herself by blurting out “
Oooh,
can we go to Dorsia?”

“Baaaa-by, anything you want.”

Her nose wrinkled in disgust at the use of the petname. She hadn’t thought about the consequences because Dorsia was Dorsia. It was only the best restaurant in New York. She doubted that an IT guy could get a reservation there. But if he could, it would be worth letting Screech think they had a future together.

“Well, I’m going to have a special surprise for you there.”

Marianna cringed.
Why
, Marianna thought,
does Screech have to have a special surprise?
Would this ruin their unspoken agreement? Why, in short, couldn’t Screech just stick to oral sex and moral support?

But over the week, Marianna’s excitement began to build. Dorsia was prestigious. But more importantly, it had been a long time since Marianna felt beautiful. She had never gone this long without excessive attention from men, and this disturbed her.  So when Saturday night arrived, Marianna banished her misgivings. She was ready to go all out.

It took her hours to get ready. Marianna absent-mindedly sang a pop song about hand grenades, which was her favorite song, as she finished primping in the bathroom. Her dress for the evening was a shimmering floor-length red Pamela Rolland with a scooped back. Marianna admired herself in the mirror. Her breasts were as pert as ever, her hips round and inviting. She looked
gorgeous
. She walked out to the living room, where Screech was pacing back and forth, iPhone in hand.

“Screech?”

Screech was playing Angry Birds, but he stopped in his tracks, as if startled while masturbating.  “Marianna…” he paused.

“Yes, Screech?”

Somehow words failed him.  

Of course, Marianna knew that she was impossibly alluring, but Screech’s reaction was gratifying. It was at least five minutes (and a quick trip to the bathroom to jerk off) before Screech could compose himself enough to speak or put on his shoes.